The justice gazed down at the Lombard, decided he did not like him, and turned reluctantly to Joan. “Well?” he asked.
And it was just then, unlooked-for, that help came from an unexpected quarter: a red, pimply face, grinning cheerfully, burst out of the crowd. It was Silversleeves.
No one had noticed Dionysius arrive. Indeed, he had not planned to be at Newgate at all, or even remembered that there was to be a hanging that morning. He had been walking out to Westminster, to watch the gathering for the Parliament, when just past St Paul’s he had noticed a small stream of people on their way to Newgate. He had arrived just in time to see Joan approach the tumbrel, had witnessed the argument, and now, vastly intrigued, and relishing his own part in the business, he saw his chance to make a dramatic intervention. They’ll be talking about me all over London, he thought as he stepped forward.
“It’s true, sirs,” he cried out to the justice and the sheriff. “I’m Dionysius Silversleeves, of the Mint.” Now they would all know his name. “She is a whore. I had her last night.” Catching sight of William Bull, and pointing to him, he cheerfully called out: “And so did he!” He beamed at them all, delightedly.
Joan’s face turned to horror. This was not what she had intended. She thought furiously. She knew she must make them believe she was a whore, but kindly Bull had been going to do that. Thrown off balance by the interruption she looked guilty and distressed. And then what about poor Martin, watching all this from the tumbrel. What must he think? In an agony of fear, she stared at him, willing him to trust her, to understand.
At that moment, she heard the justice speak.
“By God, we’ve forgotten something.” He turned his gaze upon Martin Fleming now. “It seems, young man, that this girl is a whore. Now then. If she is, are you ready to marry her?” He paused. “It means you go free, you know,” he added kindly. “You won’t hang.”
And Martin Fleming only stared ahead.
He could not speak. He could hardly even think. On his way to death, to which he had resigned himself, his Joan, his pure and beloved, had appeared in the loathsome dress of a whore. It was so unimaginable that for moments he had been unable to comprehend what was going on. “Nothing will be what it seems.” He remembered the message. But how was that possible? “You must trust her.” He wanted to. Perhaps, against all appearances he might have, had it not been for the look he had just seen on her face. There was no mistaking it. The look was one of guilt and confusion. And even though she was now staring at him desperately, mouthing something, he was sure he understood the awful truth.
She was a whore. She might have done it for his sake. She must have. But she was a whore. At the moment of death, for a crime he had not even committed, this ultimate horror of horrors had been sent him by a God whose great, blank cruelty he could not begin to understand. The one girl he had dared to trust was like them all. Indeed worse. It was all filth, he thought, all bitterness, all useless. As he looked up, now, into the clear, cold, blue sky, he decided: No more. I want none of it, any more.
“No, sir,” he said. “I don’t want her.”
“No!” Joan was screaming. “You don’t understand.” But the tumbrel was already moving.
“That’s it then,” remarked the justice, as he rode away.
What could she do? How could she speak to him? She tried to run after the tumbrel, but strong arms were holding her back. She tried to fight them off. “Let me go,” she screamed. Why were they holding her? Who were they? She twisted her head, to see the grave, stern face of her father and her two brothers.
“It’s over,” they said.
And she fainted.
William Bull rode swiftly.
He was not very pleased at being publicly exposed by young Silversleeves, though he did not blame the girl for that. Nor did he quite understand what had happened. Had the fellow from the Mint taken her virginity? If he had, it must have been by force. Whatever was going on, he sensed there was foul play.
But one thing he did know: he had given his word. “I said I’d help her,” he muttered. And that was enough. He would try. And the only course left now, that he could see, offered only a slim chance. “He can hang last,” the justice had told him. “I will give you one hour.”
He was going to try for a royal pardon. The Warden of London might give it him. And he was at the Parliament.
The great Palace of Westminster was thronged with people when he arrived. Magnates and lesser barons in sumptuous robes, knights and stout burgesses like himself in heavy cloaks and furs. No one stopped the doughty merchant as he strode in.
He had no plan. There was no time. “I must find the Warden of London,” he cried. “Does anyone know where he is?”
Several minutes passed as he made his way through knots of men before someone helpfully pointed to a place at one end of the palace, where a small dais had been erected, covered with a purple cloth. And there Bull saw the warden, talking to the king. “Oh well,” Bull grimaced to himself. “In for a penny . . .”
King Edward I of England gazed impassively as the large and flustered merchant stated his case to the warden, whose conversation with the monarch he had dared to interrupt. A possible miscarriage of justice. A pardon begged. Such things did happen. The fellow at the gallows now. No wonder the man was sweating. The condemned a poor man, no relation of this solid London patrician, who was prepared to pay. Most unusual.
“Well?” King Edward intervened. “Do we grant it or not?”
“We could, sire,” said the warden, doubtfully. He knew he had the king’s confidence, and did not much care for the patrician Londoner. “But the man robbed was a Lombard. He’s very angry, too.”
“A Lombard?” King Edward turned his eyes full upon Bull. They glowered so that even that powerful man blanched slightly. Then he delivered his crushing judgment. “I will not have my foreign merchants bothered. No pardon.” And he waved Bull away.
“He’s one of the patricians you wanted to break,” the warden told him as Bull withdrew. “A wise decision.”
It was no good then. With a sense of failure, and of sorrow for the girl and her luckless lover, Bull rode slowly back towards the city. He passed Charing Cross, and turned west along the lane. He hated to give up, but he could not see what else he could do. Had he been a praying man, he would have prayed for inspiration.
It was just as he reached the Aldwych that he saw the company of riders. Upon the site where his ancestors’ homestead had once stood, there was now a fine new complex of buildings. In the previous reign it had been given to the king’s uncle, the Italian Count of Savoy, and so this sprawling aristocratic residence was generally referred to as the palace of Savoy. In front of the Savoy the riders had momentarily paused to greet some others. They were, Bull saw at once, a group of London aldermen, going to the Parliament. Just those very fellows who had supplanted him and his friends. Another cruel reminder, he realized, of his impotence.
“If one of these damned people had pleaded for that boy to the warden,” he muttered, “I dare say they’d have succeeded.” He was just about to wheel his horse to avoid them, when in their midst he observed the hated Barnikel himself. “He even saw the king,” he cursed, thinking of the day before. “He could probably get anything he wanted.”
Then it struck him. There was, after all, one remote chance for Martin Fleming. One man who just might change the monarch’s mind.
“Oh damn,” he said. “Oh damn and a thousand curses.” This was going to hurt. “But a life’s a life,” he comforted himself, and humbly rode towards the fishmonger.
“Another fellow begging for this boy?” the king stared at the fishmonger in astonishment. “Who is he to have such friends?”
But Barnikel did not flinch. Though he had no particular interest in Fleming, he knew what it had cost the patrician to come begging to him like that. And if he succeeded and demonstrated his own triumph over the fallen Bulls, well then, so much the better.
“You
are asking a favour from me already, are you, Alderman Barnikel?” the monarch coolly demanded, as he surveyed him from under his drooping eyelid. “You know that the favours even of kings usually come at a price?”
Barnikel nodded. “Yes, sire.”
King Edward smiled. “We have a busy Parliament ahead,” he remarked. “Remember, Alderman Barnikel,” he added meaningfully, “that I shall be relying on you.”
The fishmonger smiled, “Yes, sire.”
The king summoned a clerk.
“Go with him,” he said. “I should think you’d better hurry.”
And so it was, a quarter of an hour later, that a greatly astonished Martin Fleming, as he stood under the elm tree upon Smithfield with the noose already round his neck, saw William Bull, Alderman Barnikel, and a royal clerk, riding swiftly towards them with a cry.
“Royal pardon.”
The marriage of Martin and Joan Fleming took place a few days later, in the porch of the riverside church of St Mary Overy in Southwark.
Though Martin was fully satisfied by now of his wife’s purity, it had required a long conversation with Bull to overcome his horror at Joan’s action in becoming a prostitute, even in name. As for his family, and hers, neither had got over it and neither had come to the wedding.
So it was that Alderman Barnikel stood by Martin, and William Bull gave the bride away, and the two Dogget sisters acted as bridesmaids, and the priest thought he had never seen anything like it in his life.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing of all, was that young Martin Fleming was the only man in the church that day who had never slept with either of the Dogget sisters.
Margery Dogget and her sister Isobel left London the next day. They had a reason for absence which not even the bishop could quarrel with. They went to Canterbury on pilgrimage.
While they were away, Margery continued to use the ointment the doctor had given her. To her great surprise, by the time they got back, it seemed to be working.
The Parliament of 1295, often referred to because of its broad composition as the Model Parliament, successfully concluded its business by Christmas. The barons and knights granted the king a tax of an eleventh of their movable goods, the clergy a tenth, and the burgesses, stirred no doubt by a passionate and loyal speech from Alderman Barnikel, a generous seventh.
The alderman might also have been amused to discover, the same day, that Isobel Dogget had come to the reluctant conclusion that he was going to be a father.
“I’m definitely pregnant and I’m sure it’s him,” she told her sister.
It was just after Christmas that Dionysius Silversleeves began to experience a burning sensation in his private parts.
It was Margery, not Isobel, that he had slept with.
LONDON BRIDGE
1357
As the medieval world approached its final flowering two things could be said with certainty. The first was that earthly life, so rich and exciting, was also fleeting. War, disease or sudden death came behind every footfall. The second, which provided some comfort, was that the order of the universe was known. More than twelve centuries had passed since the great astronomer of classical times, Ptolemy, had described it, and with such ancient authority, how could there be any doubt?
At the centre of the universe was the Earth. And though simple men – and even some mariners who feared to sail over the edge – supposed the Earth to be flat, men of learning understood that it was a globe. Around this central Earth, the universe was arranged in a series of concentric spheres – translucent and therefore invisible to men – upon each of which moved one of the seven planets: the haunting Moon, swift Mercury, lovely Venus, the Sun, warlike Mars, fear-some Jupiter, sullen Saturn. Their motions around the Earth followed an elaborate dance whose pattern the astronomers could predict. Outside these lay yet another sphere in which the stars were set which also rotated, but incredibly slowly. “And outside all these,” the scholars declared, “resides a still greater sphere, whose motion causes all the rest to turn. This sphere, the Primum Mobile, is moved by the hand of God Himself.”
Nor were the heavens indifferent to men below. Comets and shooting stars were messages from God. Though the Church was uncomfortable with the pagan superstition of astrology, most Christians paid heed to the signs of the Zodiac. Each planet had a character and its influence upon men was undoubted. Similarly, all matter was composed of the four elements – air, fire, earth and water – and to match them, the year had four seasons and men four humours. All things in God’s universe were connected in this mystical way.
And if, in this ordered universe, the Earth was at the centre, then was there a place upon Earth’s surface which could be called the focal point of the whole system? Here opinions differed widely. Some said Rome, others Jerusalem. The Christians of the East might claim Constantinople, the Saracens Mecca. But ask a true Londoner, and he could tell you at once. The centre of the universe was none of these. It was London Bridge.
By now, London Bridge was far more than just a crossing. In the century and a half since it was rebuilt in stone, the long platform on its nineteen arches had grown a massive superstructure. Down the centre ran a carriageway wide enough for two laden carts to pass; on each side were lines of tall, gabled houses jutting out over the river, and some of these buildings were joined across the thoroughfare by foot-bridges. Only one of the nineteen spans was not built upon and this was a drawbridge, so that even the tallest masted vessels could pass upstream. There were two big gateways. At one, all “foreigners” entering the city paid tolls. In the middle, enlarged into a two-storey building, was the old chapel of St Thomas Becket.
The bridge had, besides, one other particular feature: so massive were the piers supporting the arches that it acted as a kind of dam. When the tide was flowing slowly upriver, this was hardly noticeable, but when the tide was flowing downstream and the full weight of high tide water and the river current met this partial dam, it was held in check. At such times, the level on the downstream side of the bridge fell several feet below that of the pent-up waters on the upstream side, and each archway turned into a seething mill-race as the water rushed furiously down. Sometimes the more daring watermen would put their boats in to shoot these rapids, but it was a dangerous pastime. One mistake, a capsize, and even a strong man might be drowned.
Upon London Bridge, the heads of traitors were stuck on spikes for all to see. National triumphs were marked by gorgeous processions over the water. The bridge was the focal point of the city and of all England.
On a sunlit day in May, Gilbert Bull’s burly form had been crammed into a short, waist-length tunic and blue and green hose.
The bridge was festooned with garlands. On the city side, the mayor and aldermen were waiting in their red robes and furs, the city’s two gold and silver maces carried before them. Attending them were the leaders of the guilds, some in their liveries, others carrying banners depicting their crafts. There were the canons of St Paul’s; the Black Friars; the Grey Friars and monks, nuns and priests from a hundred parishes, dressed as sumptuously as their orders allowed. All around, standing upon every vantage point, thousands of spectators strained to catch the extraordinary sight.
A King of France was being led captive to the city.
In recent decades, the ancient conflict between France and the Plantagenets had entered a new and different phase known, by later historians, as the Hundred Years War. By accidents of marriage and genealogy, the Plantagenets could now assert a claim to inherit the French throne; and though the French denied the claim, English monarchs would henceforth, for generations, add the French fleur-de-lys to their royal coat of arms.
The English had also become astoundingly successful. King Edward III, worthy grandson of mighty Edward I, whom he rather resembled, had hammered the French repeatedly. His eldest son, the gallant Black Prince, leading the English knights and archers at the famous battles of Crécy and Poitiers, was the greatest hero since Lionheart. Not only were the so
uthern lands of Aquitaine and the Bordeaux vineyards secure under the English Crown, but in northern France, the Channel port of Calais, whose burghers had begged for their lives in chains before King Edward and his queen, was English now, a depot and customs point for England’s mighty wool trade on the European mainland.
Most remarkable of all, the wars had even been profitable. England’s merchants had been able to continue their huge trade – with Flanders, the Hansa ports of the Baltic, with Italy and Bordeaux – almost uninterrupted. There were profits from supplying the armies too. And the successes against the French had brought in so much plunder and ransom money from captured knights that for years King Edward had not needed to tax his people at all.
Now, on a bright May morning, the King of France himself, a gallant and charming fellow, captured in battle the previous year, was coming as a captive guest to London. And here came the heroic Black Prince, worthy leader of his father’s new order of chivalry, the Knights of the Garter, riding with exquisite courtesy beside the captive monarch on a little palfrey, as though he were his squire. No wonder, seeing these matchless flowers of chivalry, that the Londoners flocked to greet them. “His ransom,” they declared, “will be stupendous.”
It was just as the procession reached the mayor that Gilbert Bull, standing on the slope behind, took a decision and, turning to the girl at his side remarked:
“I’ve decided to marry you.”
The girl looked up at him.
“Do I get a say?” she enquired.
“No,” he answered pleasantly. “I don’t think so.” At which she smiled. She wanted a husband who would take the decisions. And he smiled too, because she was exactly what he needed.
When, sixty years before, William Bull had retired in disgust to his estate at Bocton, he had stopped trading and devoted himself to country matters. So had his son and grandson. But in the next generation, when there were two healthy sons and only one estate, something had to be done. In Continental Europe, the estate might have been split. But English kings, finding this made it harder to collect their feudal dues, had increasingly insisted upon primogeniture, inheritance by the eldest son. And if Bocton went to the eldest son, then what about his younger brother, Gilbert?
London Page 50