Ironhand

by Hilary Green

  Piet sighed and shrugged. 'It is true. That is one the three castles William has ordered to be built around the city.'

  'To keep my people subjected to his rule.' Ranulph concluded, with bitter triumph.

  As the Waverider drew closer to the city the sail was lowered and the men took to the oars to manoeuvre her into the quay. Ranulph saw that here the river banks had been reinforced with a revetment of sturdy wooden stakes and along them were landing stages, backed by stone built warehouses and the wooden huts of the men and women who worked on the docks. Beyond were great houses and paved streets lined with shops and a glimpse of gardens where fruit trees were in blossom. More ships were tied up to fore and aft of the Waverider and there was a bustle of activity all along the wharf as cargoes were loaded and unloaded. There were men in furred gowns and others in ragged tunics or leather jerkins and clerks in black robes. There were stalls selling wine and loaves and live chickens, and from somewhere he could smell a scent that made his stomach rumble, the scent of roasting meat.

  The gangplank was lowered and a man in a long tunic of thick brown wool and a round cap trimmed with grey fur came aboard. He was followed by a clerk and two men in leather jerkins with swords in their belts. He and Piet conferred briefly and Piet handed over some money and the man left.

  'What was that for?' Ranulph asked.

  'The toll. Every ship mooring at these docks has to pay a toll, depending on its size and the type of cargo it carries.'

  Ranulph looked along the crowded dock. 'That must add up to a lot of money.'

  'Yes, indeed. So now you see why London is such a rich city.'

  'And it all goes into Norman pockets!'

  'Not all of it. When King William took the city he gave the burgesses concessions, which allowed them to keep much of the income from trade.'

  'Bribes!' Ranulph spat. 'No wonder they didn't fight!'

  'Isn't a wealthy, thriving city under a foreign ruler better than one laid waste by war?' Piet suggested.

  Ranulph gazed at him in disbelief and turned away. The language the official had spoken was Norman French, the language of the conquerors. That was enough for him. He understood it well enough. The abbot in charge of the monastery where he had grown up had been sent over from Normandy and all the monks had been required to speak French.

  Piet's voice recalled him. 'Come on, I've got a job for you. You told me you can write and you're good with figures. Grab that tablet and come with me.'

  The Waverider's cargo of Irish marten skins was unloaded and taken to a building on one of streets leading away from the docks. A stone wall enclosed a courtyard with galleries, in the shelter of which tables were set up where goods could be displayed. The skins were laid out and very soon potential buyers came to finger them and haggle over the price. Ranulph listened and when a deal was concluded he noted it on the tablet. By midday all the skins had been sold and Piet gave him leave to explore. He wandered round the courtyard, gazing in wonder at the various articles on display. There were thick furs from somewhere called Russ; wine from Gascony; and knives and daggers from Spain. The sights and scents bewitched him, speaking of an unknown, exotic world waiting to be discovered.

  A call from Piet brought him back to present reality. 'Hungry? Let's find something to eat.'

  Further along the wharf they came to the source of the appetizing smells that had been teasing Ranulph all day. The cookshop offered a range of cooked meats such as he had never seen before. There was beef and fowls of various sorts and joints of pork and sausages and vats of stew; and before long he was sinking his teeth into half a roast chicken.

  When their hunger was satisfied Piet said, 'You've been wearing the same clothes ever since I found you hiding at the back of that inn in Dublin. Let's find you something a bit more suitable for my clerk.'

  When they returned to the ship, Ranulph was wearing a warm woollen tunic, dyed blue, over a clean linen shirt and braies and sturdy hose. He carried a thick cloak of natural undyed wool and the whole outfit was completed by a small, round blue cap. What was more, they had visited a bath house and for the first time in many days he felt clean. As they walked, he became aware that some of the women they passed were looking at him and one, who seemed to know Piet, said, 'That's not your own lad, is it?'

  'No, no,' Piet answered. 'He's not mine.'

  'Didn't think he could be, with that angelic face.'

  Ranulph looked up at him. 'You have a son?'

  'Indeed I do, and two little daughters. You'll meet them soon enough.'

  He wanted to ask how and when, but at that moment Piet drew him to the side of the street, out of the way of a long train of pack mules carrying bulky bales. They were followed by two monks.

  Piet sighed. 'There goes the source of England's wealth. That's the merchandise that earns the real money.'

  'What is it?' Ranulph asked.

  'You don't know? Where did the monks who brought you up get their money from?'

  Ranulph considered. It was not a question he had ever asked himself. 'They owned land – land that was taken from the thanes and given to them.'

  'And what lived on that land?'

  'Sheep, mostly. Oh! That's wool in those bales?'

  'Yes, indeed. The most valuable thing this country produces.'

  'Are you going to buy some?'

  'I wish I could! But all the trade is controlled by the Staplers.'

  'Who are they?'

  'A company of merchants. The King has decreed that wool can only be traded through certain ports and it is all in the hands of this one company. It makes it easier for him to collect the taxes.'

  'And they won't sell to you?'

  'No. Only to their accredited colleagues. You can buy into the company, if you have the means, but it's far beyond my pocket.'

  'So what are you going to buy, to take back to Flanders?' Ranulph asked.

  'You'll see, tomorrow. There's plenty of choice, but none of it is as profitable as wool.'

  Next day Piet led Ranulph to a different courtyard. The atmosphere here was quieter and there none of the exotic perfumes he had smelt in the first one. Laid out on tables around the yard were pieces of fabric,whose colours gleamed and glittered in the sunlight.

  'Here, look at this,' Piet said, indicating one. 'Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?'

  Ranulph looked. The fabric was linen, but the surface was completely concealed by exquisite embroidery. He recognised the theme at once as the Garden of Eden, with the figures of Adam and Eve surrounded by depictions of birds and animals and flowers, all worked in vividly coloured thread, some of it wound with gold and decorated with gems. It stirred a memory.

  'The priests who conducted the services wore copes like this. I never wondered where it came from.'

  'Most of it is done in monasteries,' Piet said. 'It is called opus anglicanum because it is only in England that such work can be obtained. It fetches a high price in Flanders.'

  'For priests' vestments?'

  'And for altar cloths and other things. But some of it goes to the houses of rich merchants, as wall hangings, or smaller pieces as book covers.'

  'Are you going to buy some?'

  'If I can agree a price. Have you brought a tablet with you?'

  'Yes, here.'

  'Well, let's see what we can negotiate.'

  An hour or so later several pieces of embroidered fabric were being carefully wrapped, before being carried to the Waverider.

  Piet's next purchases were leather in the shape of cured hides for the leather workers of Bruges and by the time those dealings had been transacted he declared himself satisfied. With the Cornish tin, they had a full cargo and would sail the following morning.

  They did not sleep on the ship while in port but in one of the many inns that catered specifically for sailors. There was an eating room on the ground floor and above it was a big dormitory with rows of truckle beds laid with straw mattresses. After one night, Ranulph wished they were back on t
he ship. The straw accommodated not only himself but a host of biting creatures so that by the morning he was covered in itching sores. But that night he had more to worry about than the insects. Since Piet had bought him his new clothes he was aware that the attitude of the ship's crew had changed towards him. He understood that when he was just a ragged urchin whom the captain had rescued from starvation they had tolerated him, even felt sympathy for him. But now it seemed he had become the captain's favourite and was, moreover, trusted with keeping accounts. He could tell that some of them resented his new status.

  That night the drink flowed freely. Piet was well pleased with the deals he had done and happy to reward his men. Halfway through the evening Ranulph had to make a necessary visit to the midden behind the yard. He was on his way back when he encountered three of his shipmates. He greeted them and made to walk past, but they stepped in front of him and barred his way.

  'What's the matter?' he asked nervously. 'What do you want?'

  One of them laughed and said something in Flemish, his voice slurred with drink. Another replied in the same language. The third had a few words of French.

  'They say, what captain want with pretty boy like you.'

  'Nothing!' Ranulph gasped. 'Not what you think. He's a good man.'

  The man translated and the others answered. 'Yes,' said the French speaker, 'captain good. But what about you? What you want with him?'

  'I just want to work for him, like you.'

  'No work!' the man said. 'Just make scratches on tablet.'

  One of the others interrupted with a raucous laugh. He translated. 'They say you too clean. Need to be dirtier.'

  The man who had laughed reached out suddenly and snatched the cap from Ranulph's head and threw it down on the muddy yard. That seemed to be the signal the others were waiting for. They closed in on him and one made a grab for the shoulder of his tunic. As he tried to twist out of his grip the fabric ripped, and that seemed to urge the others on. Ranulph saw that they were going to strip him and ruin the clothes Piet had bought him unless he could stop them. The manhandling had made the bites on his arms and body itch afresh and suddenly he had an inspiration. He pulled the front of his tunic and his shirt open.

  'I shouldn't touch me, if I were you. I think I've caught something.'

  The men stopped dead and stared at him, then they backed off. 'It's the pox!' the French speaker said.

  Ranulph seized the moment of hesitation and ran, dodging between his tormentors and out into the street. He rounded a corner, then another, and came to a stop, panting, and listening for the sounds of pursuit. There were none. As his breathing eased it dawned on him that he might have won a temporary respite but he was now in a far worse situation. If the word got round that he was suffering from the pox he would never be allowed back onto the ship. He pulled his torn tunic round him and huddled against the wall of a house. Tears stung his eyes, as a growing sense of despair engulfed him. The sense of security, or belonging somewhere, which had grown in him over the last days, drained away. Piet's men hated him. Even if he was allowed back on board the Waverider they would never give him any peace. Miserably, he turned away and wandered on up the street.

  Away from the lights of the inn it was very dark, and the April night was cold. He had left his cloak on board and now he shivered in the chill wind. The cobbles beneath his feet were filthy, covered with a layer of mud mixed with the effluent of the city and as he walked the stench of it rose to his nose and made him want to wretch. He plodded onwards, heading along the docks, his brain struggling to come to terms with the sudden change in his situation. Where could he go? How would he live now? He thought there must be tradesmen who would be in need of an apprentice, or houses requiring servants. He might find work somewhere, but cold fear grabbed his guts at the prospect. Who could he trust? What if he should fall into the hands of some man who would use him as Osric had done? He was beginning to recognise that there was something in his looks that attracted that sort of attention.

  A gust of wind brought him back to his immediate situation. He must find somewhere to shelter until morning. A building towered above him, one of the great warehouses that lined the docks. A gleam of moonlight showed him steps leading down into some kind of cellar. There, at least, he reckoned he would be out of the wind – if he could get in. Cautiously, he groped his way down and found his way blocked by a solid door, its wooden surface rough and slightly damp under his fingers. He found a latch and pushed gently, and to his surprise the door yielded with a creaking of hinges. He peered in and saw a huge space, divided by pillars and arches supporting the roof above and lit by the smoky light of a brazier. There was a scuttle of movement as the door opened and he almost retreated, but the possibility of shelter was too precious to be relinquished easily. He stepped inside and saw shapes, formless in the dim light, rising around him and fear gripped his throat. Had he strayed into a crypt and were these the ghosts of those buried here, angry at having their rest disturbed?

  Then a hoarse voice called, 'Don't stand there letting the cold in! Shut the sodding door!

  Ranulph pushed the door to and advanced towards the sound of the voice. The shapes resolved themselves into the figures of a dozen or so boys, around his own age or slightly older, wrapped in an assortment of old blankets and threadbare cloaks.

  One of them, taller than the others, walked up to him. 'Who are you? What do you want?'

  The language was English and Ranulph replied in the same tongue. 'My name is Ranulph. I'm looking for somewhere to shelter for the night.'

  'Why? Where have you come from?'

  'I … I was working on a ship, but I … I've run away.'

  Another boy sidled closer and fingered Ranulph's tunic. 'He's not one of us. He's too fine. He's a fucking Norman spy!'

  'I'm not! I'm English.'

  The tall boy took a step closer. 'You don't sound like a working boy. Give me your hand.'

  He grabbed Ranulph's wrist and rubbed his thumb across his palm. 'Thought so. Never done a day's work in his life.' He gripped him by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh. 'Come on! Tell the truth. What do you want with us?'

  'Nothing! I'm just looking for somewhere to shelter until morning.' He was ashamed to hear that his voice cracked, on the edge of tears. 'I don't mean any harm. I don't know who you are.'

  'Us? We're the London Wolves, masterless men without jobs or homes. We stick together and we hunt in packs! We're not afraid of anyone.'

  The other boys gave a muffled cheer at the arrogant assertion. Ranulph swallowed. 'Could I … could I stay with you? I've got no home either.'

  'I've got no home either!' someone imitated his shaking voice with pitiless contempt. 'Look at him. He's some Norman lord's fancy boy.'

  'I'm not!'

  'He wouldn't last a day. He's a weakling.'

  'No, I'm not!'

  'Prove it then.' The first speaker gave him a shove.

  'How?'

  'Fair fight. If you can beat me, you can stay.'

  The others gathered round, calling out and laughing, eager for the fight to begin.

  Ranulph had only ever fought once in his life, a brief scuffle with the gardener's son when he had caught him stealing apples and threatened to tell his father. It had ended when one of the monks caught them, and Ranulph had been soundly beaten for his sins. He cast looks around him, beginning to back away towards the door, but the circle of boys had closed behind him and his assailant followed up and pushed him again, rocking him back on his heels.

  'Come on! What are you, a girl? Can't you stand up for yourself?'

  Anger and shame, and a kind of desperate courage, took control of Ranulph's limbs and he lashed out wildly, catching the other boy on the side of the head. The blow took him by surprise and for a moment he stepped back. Then he came at Ranulph with a yell, pounding him with both fists. Ranulph went down, the other boy on top of him, and he felt his wrist gripped and his arm forced back above his head, while a han
d under his chin jammed his head against the cold stones. Instinct made him draw his knees up and kick out and his attacker gave a sharp grunt of pain. For a moment the grip on his arm slackened and with a desperate wriggle Ranulph freed himself from under the other's body and rolled on top of him, seizing him by the hair with both hands. Something happened then, inside his head, a red rage that banished fear and any sense of restraint. He felt other hands trying to drag him off, but he refused to release his grip and as a result his enemy's head was pounded against the stone floor. Quite suddenly, the body under him went limp and his senses cleared. He staggered to his feet and found the other boys staring at him with something like terror in their eyes. The boy he had been fighting lay still, and there was blood on the stones. Ranulph hesitated a second, them he made a plunging dash for the door, wrenched it open and ran up the steps to the street.

  This time he did not stop running until he was exhausted and shaking all over. He sank down on a stone mounting block and put his head in his hands. He did not know what had happened to him in those few terrible moments, but it frightened him. Yet at the same time there was a sense of triumph. He had fought and won. He had proved something to himself.

  He lifted his head and saw that he was sitting at the bottom of some steps, leading up to what looked like a church. The word 'sanctuary' came into his head. If anyone was looking for him, they could not take him away if he was in a church. He wondered if he had killed the other boy, and if he had, whether it would be reported to the city authorities. He thought probably not, but it might be as well to hide himself. He crept up the steps and tried the door. The main doors were locked, but a small side door opened into what he recognised must be the vestry. Robes and surplices hung on pegs around the walls. With a quiver at his stomach at the thought that this might be sacrilege, he took one down and carried it through into the nave of the church. The place was dark and silent, except for the red candle signifying the reserved sacrament near the altar. Ranulph wrapped himself in the robe and lay down behind one of the pillars. He was still cold, and his mind was in a tumult, but in spite of that he fell asleep.