London (29 page)

“I agree.”

“Very well then. Suppose now, Henri, that you need that money badly. He offers to settle for less than he owes. Do you take it?”

“I might have to.”

“Indeed you might. And now, do you not agree, he has made money out of you? Therefore, because of the debt he owed, he was stronger.”

“It will depend on whether he wants to do business with me again,” Henri said.

Silversleeves shook his head. “No. It will depend on many things,” he replied. “On timing, on whether you need each other, on other opportunities, on who has more powerful friends. It is a question of hidden balances. Just like this game of chess.” He paused deliberately. “Always remember this, Henri. Men trade for profit. They are driven by greed. But debt is about fear, and fear is stronger than greed. The true power, the weapon that defeats all others, is debt. Fools search for gold. The wise man studies debt. That is the key to all business.” He smiled, then reached out his hand again. “Checkmate.”

But Silversleeves’s mind was on a greater game, the game in which debt would be a weapon and which he had been secretly playing for the last twenty-five years against Becket, the merchant of Caen. In this game, he was about to make a devastating move. Leofric the Saxon was going to serve his purpose very well. He had only a little longer to wait. Then there was the Dane. The great, red-bearded lout who had insulted him that day. Barnikel had been peripheral to the game, a mere pawn, but he could be fitted in. The plan would take care of Barnikel quite beautifully, so perfect was its hidden symmetry.

He was still smiling when Henri stood up, went to the window and called to him excitedly: “Father, look! There’s something in the sky.”

In the last hour the clouds had cleared to reveal a cold, hard winter night of stars, in the midst of which was now a most extraordinary sight.

Silently it hung in the sky, its tail stretching behind it in a long fan. All over Europe, from Ireland to Russia, from the islands of Scotland to the rocky shores of Greece, men looked up at the great, bearded star in horror and wondered what it meant.

The appearance of Halley’s Comet in January 1066 is well recorded in the chronicles of the time. It was universally agreed that it must be a portent of ill omen, of some disaster that was about to befall mankind. In the island of England especially, threatened from so many sides, they had good reason to be afraid.

The boy with the white patch in his light brown hair gazed up at the great comet with fascination. His name was Alfred, after the great king. He was fourteen, and he had just taken a decision that infuriated his father and filled his mother with grief. He felt her nudge him now.

“You oughtn’t to go. That star’s a sign, Alfred. You stay put.”

He chuckled and his blue eyes twinkled. “You really think that God Almighty sent that star to warn me, Mother? You think He wants the whole world to look up and say, ‘Ah, that’s God warning young Alfred not to go to London’?”

“You never know.”

He kissed her. She was a warm, simple woman and he loved her. But he had made up his mind. “You and Father will be fine. He’s already got one son to help in the smithy. There’s nothing for me around here.”

The harsh light from Halley’s Comet illuminated a pleasant scene. Here, in the flat, low-lying landscape twenty miles west of London, the Thames meandered through lush meadows and fields that now gleamed frostily in the starlight. A mile or two upstream lay the village of Windsor, a royal estate; nearby, a hill jutted over the stream like a watchtower, the only prominent feature in that placid landscape. These delightful surroundings had been the family’s home ever since good King Alfred’s reign, when they had fled there from the woods north of London to escape the marauding Vikings. It was a decision they had never regretted, for the land was rich, the living good.

One other factor made their lives pleasant. As the boy’s father always reminded him: “We can go to the king himself if we want justice. Never forget, Alfred, that we are free.”

This was crucial. By now, the organization of the Anglo-Saxon countryside was broadly similar to the rest of north-western Europe. The land was divided into county shires, each with a shire reeve – the sheriff – who collected the king’s taxes and oversaw justice. Each shire was divided into hundreds, each hundred containing numerous estates. These were in the hands of thanes or lesser landowners, who, like the lords of Continental manors, held their own courts over their peasants.

But when it came to the peasantry, Anglo-Saxon England was a special case. While, in general, European peasants were either serfs or free, in England it was far more complex. There was a bewildering variety of legal statuses. Some peasants were slaves, mere chattels. Others were serfs, tied to the land and subject to a lord. Still others were free, paying rent only. Some were half free but paid rent, or free but owed particular services, and there were many other categories in between. Nor, of course, were men fixed in their positions. A serf could become free, or a freeman, too poor to pay his rent and taxes, descend into servitude. The resulting kaleidoscope pattern, as court records show, was often bewildering.

About their own status, however, the family of young Alfred was very clear. Apart from that brief and long-forgotten interlude when their ancestor Offa had been a slave of Cerdic the merchant, they had been free. True, they were only modest cottagers; their land was just the tiny smallholding known as a farthing. “But we pay a money rent, in silver pennies,” Alfred’s father could truly claim. “We don’t labour for the lord like serfs.”

Like every free man in the land, therefore, young Alfred proudly wore in his belt the symbol of his treasured status: a fine new dagger.

Since his grandfather’s day, the family had been the village smiths. By the age of seven, Alfred could shoe a horse. By twelve he could swing the hammers nearly as well as his older brother. “You don’t have to be big and strong,” his father told his sons. “Skill is what matters. Let your tools do the work for you.” And Alfred learned well. The fact that, like his grandfather, he had the family’s webbed fingers did not seem to trouble him. At the age of fourteen, he was as good as his brother who was two years older.

“But there isn’t work for two smiths in this village,” he pointed out. “I’ve tried all the villages around – Windsor, Eton, even as far as Hampton. There’s nothing. So,” he declared proudly, “I’m going to London.”

What did he know about London? Truth to tell, not much. Certainly he had never been there. But ever since he was little and had learned the family saying, “There’s buried gold in London,” the city had possessed a magic significance for him. “Is there really gold there?” he used to ask his parents.

It was no surprise, therefore, when his father scornfully remarked: “You think you’ll find buried gold, I suppose.”

Perhaps he would, he thought irritably. And when his mother timidly asked him when he meant to go, he suddenly felt inspired to answer: “Tomorrow morning.”

Perhaps the strange star was speaking to him after all.

By the approach of Easter 1066, the kingdom of England had become agitated. The Saxon fleet was being hastily prepared for sea patrol. The king had taken direct charge of it.

The reports were coming in daily. William, the bastard Duke of Normandy, was preparing to invade. Knights from all over Normandy and its neighbouring territories were flocking to him. “And worst of all,” Leofric informed Barnikel, “they say he has the Pope’s blessing.” Other adventurers – the Norsemen – were also threatening. The only question was when would the first blow be struck, and how?

Early one morning at this perilous time, when a cold night had left a frost upon the rutted streets, Barnikel the Dane was making his way from Leofric’s house to his own on the eastern hill.

He had just passed over the little stream that ran down between the twin hills, and which, since it came through the city’s northern wall, was now called the Walbrook, when he was arrested by a pitiful sight.

The lane lay along the line of the lower Roman thoroughfare. On his right, on the Walbrook’s eastern bank, the Roman Governor’s Palace had once stood, though the memory of its elegant courtyards was long gone now, covered by the German merchants’ wharf. Along the street where sentries once patrolled, there was now a line of stalls and workshops belonging to the candlemakers. Candlewick Street, they called it. Of imperial grandeur there was not a trace – except for one curious object.

Somehow, the old milestone marker that had stood by the palace gate had remained, like the obstinate stump of some ancient oak, rooted for nine hundred years or more in its place by the side of the street. And because they were vaguely aware that this familiar though mysterious object came from the city’s antiquity, the citizens referred to it, with some respect, as the London Stone.

It was beside the London Stone that Barnikel saw the pathetic little figure.

It was three days since Alfred had eaten. His filthy woollen cloak was wrapped tightly around him as he huddled by the Stone. His face was very pale. At the moment his feet were numb with cold. Later, if he could warm them somewhere, perhaps by a brazier, they would hurt.

The first month he had been in London, Alfred had been a young fellow seeking work, only he had found none and had no friends to sponsor him. By the second month he was cadging food. By the third, he was a vagrant. The people of London were not especially cruel, but vagrants threatened the community. Soon, he realized, someone would report him. For all he knew he would be dragged before the Hustings court, and then what? He did not know. So, as he heard the heavy footfall approaching him, he huddled even closer to the cold stone. Only when he was addressed did he look up, and saw, towering over him, the largest man he had ever beheld in his life.

“What is your name?”

Alfred told him.

“Where are you from?”

“Windsor.”

“What is your trade?”

Again, Alfred told him. Was he free? Yes. When had he last eaten? Had he yet stolen? No. Only one barleycake, which had fallen on the ground. The questions continued like a catechism until finally the huge red-bearded man gave a snort, though what it signified Alfred did not know.

“Get up.”

He did so. Then, unaccountably, he fell down. He shook his head and tried again, but once more his legs buckled. At that moment, more astonished than frightened, he felt the Dane’s massive arms lift him up and toss him over one shoulder as though he was a small sack of flour, while the big man began striding along the street towards the East Cheap, humming to himself.

Not long afterwards Alfred found himself in a large homestead with a steep wooden roof on the far side of the eastern hill. Better yet, he was in the hall, before a huge brazier, where a quiet, grey-haired, broad-faced woman was heating a big bowl of broth that smelt, to him, like all the good meals he had ever eaten.

While she was getting this broth, Alfred looked around the hall. Everything in it seemed huge, from the great oak chair to the stout oak doors, and on the wall hung a mighty two-handed battle-axe. The Dane was standing on the other side of the brazier, so that Alfred could not see him very well. By and by, he remarked: “We’ll feed you, my young friend, but then you must go home to where you came from. Do you understand?”

He had not liked to say anything, but since the Dane repeated his question, and since it seemed wrong to lie, he found the strength to shake his head.

“What! Are you defying me?”

It was a roar. Suddenly Alfred was afraid the huge Dane would change his mind and not feed him after all. Nevertheless, he found the courage to reply: “Not defying you, sir. But I’ll not go back.”

“You’ll starve. You’ll die. You know that?”

“I’ll get by.” He knew it was absurd, but there it was. “I’m not giving up, sir.”

This was met by such a loud shout that he feared the massive Viking was about to strike him, but nothing happened.

Now the woman was ladling the broth into a smaller bowl, and motioning him to draw up to the table. As he did so, he was aware of the huge fellow moving towards him.

“Well,” the deep voice demanded of his wife, “what do you think of him?”

“He’s a poor-looking thing,” she replied mildly.

“Yes. And yet,” Alfred heard him chuckle, “in this boy dwells the heart of a hero. You hear that? A mighty warrior.” With a great guffaw, he gave Alfred a clap on the back that almost sent him into the bowl of broth. “And do you know why? Because he won’t give up. He just told me. He means it. The little fellow won’t give up!”

His wife sighed. “Does this mean I have to keep him?”

“Why of course,” he cried. “Because, young Alfred,” he declared to the boy, “I have work for you to do.”

All that summer, the Saxon fleet cruised up and down the English Channel. There was only one raid, on the port of Sandwich in Kent, which was quickly beaten off. After that, nothing. Over the horizon, William the Norman was biding his time.

For young Alfred, however, despite this danger, these months became the happiest of his life.

He soon came to know the Dane’s family. Barnikel’s wife, though strict, was kindly; they had several married children, and the eighteen-year-old son who was to marry Leofric’s daughter still lived in the house. He was a stalwart, quiet version of his father and taught young Alfred how to tie sailors’ knots.

It seemed to amuse the Dane to take the country boy about with him. His house on the eastern hill overlooked the bare, grassy slopes where the ravens dwelt and was close to a Saxon church called All Hallows. Each morning he would stride down the lane to Billingsgate to inspect the little ships and their cargoes of wool, grain or fish. Alfred liked the wharf, with its bracing smell of fish, tar and riverweed. Even better, though, were the visits to the western hill where Leofric lived. Now he was no longer a vagrant, what a joy it was to wander from St Paul’s along the West Cheap, where each of the little lanes that came to meet it seemed to have its special trade – Fish Street and Bread Street, Wood Street and Milk Street, all the way to the Poultry at the far end – and hear the cries not only of the sellers of these products, but also of spicers, shoemakers, goldsmiths, furriers, quiltmakers, combmakers and dozens of others. Only one thing had surprised him, and this was the number of pigsties along the stalls. It was a feature of city life that he had not expected, but Barnikel explained: “The pigs eat up the rubbish and keep the place clean.”