Sarum (125 page)
Authors: Edward Rutherfurd
“Concerns you,” Wilson called over his shoulder. “You’d better stay.”
Eustace felt less confident of his mission every second. In the silent moments that followed, Wilson ate a salted tongue.
“I have a daughter, Isabella,” he began at last.
He did not dwell on her beauty, although, since neither father nor son spoke a word, it was hard to know whether they fully appreciated it or not. But he did explain, firmly and at some length, her ancestry. He also explained the position of the Godfrey family now, as he saw it, and here, several times, Wilson interrupted him.
“You were in the Gascon trade?”
“Yes. I still hope to resume it.”
Wilson shook his head.
“No good.”
“Talbot’s expedition to Bordeaux failed, but many of the Gascons like English rule.” This was true. “We may yet live to see a king of England crowned king of France again.”
Here Wilson halted with the salted tongue only half way to his lips.
“Hope not. With France as well it makes the king too powerful.” This was a view many men in Parliament had formed in the early years of the present king’s reign: the English squires and merchants had no wish for a powerful half-foreign king whom they could not control. “Gascony’s finished anyway,” Wilson remarked, to close the subject.
But when Godfrey outlined his own connections to the bishops, to the royal house, and his intention that his son should stand for parliament, Wilson finally stopped eating, and leaned back in his chair, his hard, narrow-set eyes staring at him in curiosity and wonder, that Eustace mistook for admiration.
“You need money for such fine connections,” he said at last.
Godfrey inclined his head in acknowledgement.
“I’ve got money,” Wilson remarked pleasantly. “No connections.”
The irony of this remark was lost on Eustace. Wilson’s trading connections would have made him gasp if he had been capable of understanding them. There were the part shares in the two-masted ships that set out from the western port of Bristol for the trading emporiums of Spain and Portugal. There were his extensive connections in London. Above all, there was the huge business of import and export which Robert oversaw at Southampton. While the old wool business of Winchester had declined, the sophisticated cloth business of Salisbury had burgeoned through the ever-growing southern port. The great convoys of Italian galleys that visited Flanders and London never failed to call there and take up huge quantities of the Salisbury rays he still dealt in. And from these and other traders Robert bought silks and satin velvets, pepper, cinnamon, ginger, even oranges from the warm Mediterranean and sent them to his father at Sarum. There was almost nothing Wilson did not have a hand in that was profitable. It was these southern markets, especially the Italian connection through Southampton, that had allowed Salisbury to outstrip most other cities in England. But of the details of these crucial businesses, poor Godfrey was largely ignorant.
Thinking that he had impressed Wilson he came straight to his concluding point.
“With help, my son can raise the family to new heights. And I can assure you that I shall secure him a good marriage. I propose that your son Robert should make an alliance with Isabella that could be useful to both our families.”
He had brought himself to say the last words in a tone that suggested he was prepared to regard the lowly Wilson family on a par with his own; he was proud of this piece of diplomacy.
Now he looked at them both expectantly.
The small, hard man in the chair appeared to be thinking, but he did not speak. What of Robert himself though, Godfrey wondered – what did the young man for whom he had proposed this fine alliance make of it all?
Like his father, Robert was thin and sallow, but his face was a little broader and more oval-shaped. He wore his hair in the fashionable manner, covering only the top of his head and cut in a circular fringe above the ears, below which his head and face were immaculately clean shaven. He did not move from the corner but, in the half shadow, his face seemed to be expressionless.
Robert Wilson seldom spoke. Though he was twenty-one, he might have been twice that age; there was no hint of youth about him. Even as a boy, he had always held himself severely and, some suspected scornfully, apart from the other children. No one had ever seen him indulge in any amusement. Indeed, Eustace suddenly realised, he knew very little about the young man except that he was reputed to be a highly respected businessman already and that, as John Wilson’s heir, he must have a large fortune. If he spoke little, his dark brown eyes took in everything, and if his face never gave any hint of what he was thinking, John Wilson was obviously impressed with his ability, for he now trusted him with the Southampton business entirely.
For a moment, in the rather disconcerting silence, Godfrey wondered whether he had done the right thing. But he put the thought from him. The boy could not be so bad. Times were changing. His lovely Isabella must have a rich husband and there was an end to it.
Since no one spoke, and the fact he could not see Robert properly was beginning to irritate him, Godfrey suddenly called out:
“Well, Master Robert, what do you think?” It was an attempt at heartiness that sounded, he realised, rather forced.
In reply, Robert moved forward into the light so that Eustace could see his face. But instead of speaking, he only looked at his father inquiringly.
And now at last John Wilson was ready to give his opinion. He laid down his fork carefully on the table and pushed the plate away from him, resting his arms in the space it had occupied. When he spoke his voice was very quiet so that Godfrey had to lean forward slightly to hear it, but his soft words seemed to cut into the space between them like a knife.
“When the city of Salisbury lent the king money on the security of the customs dues of Southampton, the Bishop of Winchester tried to embezzle the dues and leave us out of pocket. Why should I have wanted his friendship?”
There had been some accusations of this kind in the past, Godfrey knew, but it seemed to him beside the point.
“He was on the king’s council,” he reminded the merchant. But Wilson seemed not to hear him.
“You talk of Parliament.” He spat a raisin seed from his mouth. “Parliament is useless. It only exists to vote taxes for the king, who should live off the revenues of his own estates. I’ve no interest in the king, his Council, or his Parliament.” At these words Godfrey was speechless. Still Wilson went on, in little more than a whisper now. “As for the Bishop of Sarum,” he remarked contemptuously, “all I know is that his servants start riots in the town and kill chickens.” Two years before, it was true, one of the bishop’s rent collectors had apparently had a fit of insanity and run through the townspeople’s gardens killing some poultry with a sword. It was an isolated incident, but Wilson went on with scorn: “The bishop’s servants are vipers and the bishop himself is a nuisance. I wish he’d get out. We don’t want him.”
It was the longest speech the merchant had taken the trouble to make for years. It exactly expressed the attitude of John Halle and many other merchants in the city, but it shocked Eustace Godfrey profoundly to hear the words so savagely spoken to his face.
Still Wilson had not finished. More than Godfrey realised, he himself represented long memories of feudal power and oppression that the Wilsons had resented for centuries and now, finding Eustace in his own power, the merchant could give vent to feelings he had brooded over all his life.
“I am a merchant; my grandfather was born a villein. I have no interest in your bishop, your magnate or your king. I hope they all kill each other in their wars – like they did last year at St Albans. Let them fight some more and die many more. As for your daughter, she’s got no money and we don’t want her.”
Having finished, he grabbed the plate with both hands, pulled it back towards him and without looking up again, continued to eat the remainder of the salted tongues. Robert did not move or speak, but looked at Godfrey with what might have been mild curiosity.
Shaking with fury, but utterly impotent, Eustace slowly rose and walked out of the room. He hoped his exit was dignified, but he was not sure.
It was a tribute to his remarkable persistence that after only half an hour, he was ready to try again.
His call this time was on Curtis the butcher. For Lizzie would certainly make an excellent bride for Oliver.
“She’s an heiress and she’s good-looking,” he had explained to Oliver, “and she isn’t spoken for yet.”
He arrived at nine o’clock at the butcher’s house and this time, chastened by the last meeting, stated his case more simply, though dwelling generously on his son’s attainments and prospects.
To his relief, he received a polite welcome. Indeed, the heavy-set butcher was attracted by the thought of marrying his daughter to a gentleman who, if fallen in the world, could still boast noble blood.
“He’s very little money,” Godfrey stated frankly.
“Wouldn’t matter. I’ve plenty,” Curtis replied. “The trouble is,” he confessed sadly, “you’ve come two hours too late. I promised her to Wilson’s boy this evening.”
Godfrey’s face fell. While he had been walking round the town waiting for him, the merchant dressed in black had been quietly stealing all his hopes away.
“I’d change my mind, even though he’s rich,” Curtis went on. “But,” he grimaced, “I daren’t annoy the spider.”
And so Eustace Godfrey returned to his house near the close, still empty-handed.
After Godfrey had left them, John Wilson and his son had not shifted their respective positions for some minutes.
The merchant had quietly finished his meal, his son silently watching him.
Only then did John Wilson speak.
“That man’s a fool.”
Something in Robert’s impassive face suggested that he agreed.
John Wilson took a raisin and chewed it thoughtfully.
“That girl, Lizzie Curtis, I got for you. She’s not stupid.” He glanced up. “Might be a bit of a handful though.”
And now Robert spoke.
“I’ll know how to handle her.” The words were said very quietly.
John Wilson looked at his son curiously.
“Think so?”
“Oh yes.” And for the first time that evening, his lips formed into a thin smile.
Wilson shrugged.
“Do what you like,” he remarked, and got up from the table.
The procession of keeping the Midsummer Watch, on St John’s Eve, was a magnificent affair. The houses were decorated, some with dozens of lamps hanging over their doorways, others with bundles of birch, or wreaths of lilies and St John’s wort.
At the head of the procession, riding on splendid horses, came the mayor and the council members magnificently dressed in long gowns of scarlet-coloured Salisbury ray. With them came the symbols of their Fraternity, a figure of St George followed by his dragon. It was only two centuries since St George had become a popular saint, but since then numerous societies had adopted him and he had even become the patron saint of England itself. There were cheers as the men carrying the figure shook it until the armour in which he was dressed clanked loudly.
Behind them came the members of the guilds: the butchers, saddlers, smiths, carpenters, barber surgeons, fullers, weavers, shoemakers: there were nearly forty guilds in all, each with its sign and its particular livery. At the head of the smiths two archers with their longbows proudly marched: Benedict Mason was one of them.
But the greatest sight of all was the rich and powerful Tailors’ Guild: for with them they brought the finest figure in the carnival: the Giant and his companion Hob-Nob.
The giant was huge – over twelve feet high and dressed in the magnificent robes of a proud merchant. His headgear was the height of fashion – a huge turban over a wide circular brim, with the free end of the cloth draped around his neck and hanging down his back. Below it, his big broad face gazed benevolently over the crowd. This handsome figure – pagan as he certainly was – represented the Tailors’ Patron, St Christopher. In front of him, bobbing wildly from one side of the street to the other, went the hobby horse, Hob-Nob. In the form of a small horse and carried by a single man, this comic figure not only cleared a path for the giant but made frequent attacks upon the crowd, snapping at any one within his reach, to the delight of the children. The giant was a treasure of the town: in storage he was carefully preserved from the attention of rats by bags of arsenic and, in perfect condition, he was brought out in all his towering splendour on the great feast days of the year.
As he saw the procession go round the town, Godfrey’s heart was heavy. His wife, his children too, were happy in the city, but he was not. He belonged to no guild; he would never be asked to join the seventy-two, nor did he wish to. It seemed to him he had no place in Sarum’s busy life he could call his own. Slowly he started to walk along the street while the procession stamped past. The minstrels, the pie-sellers, the boisterous apprentices and solemn seniors of the guild, all dressed – as the laws insisted – to suit their station: he walked silently past the rich pageant of the city that could not include him. At the corner of Blue Boar chequer he saw Michael Shockley and his family. The merchant was dressed in a tunic of dazzling green and red, his chest puffed out like a turkey cock. He had even donned a pair of magnificent shoes with toes so long that they had to be curved up and fastened to garters round his knees with golden chains. The following day, no doubt, he would be chosen to join the forty-eight; next year he would ride with the Council in a scarlet cloak. Godfrey avoided him.
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