Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered
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Contents
Alfred Duggan 1903–1964
1. Off to School
2. Thomas of Cheapside
3. The Young Knight
4. The Fair Promise of a New Reign
5. Thomas the Chancellor
6. The Archbishop
7. Clarendon
8. Northampton
9. The Challenge
10. The Lists are Set
11. The Last Joust
12. Defeat and Victory
Epilogue: Thomas Forgives
Alfred Duggan
God And My Right
Alfred Duggan
1903–1964
‘There have been few historical imaginations better informed or more gifted than Alfred Duggan’s.’ (The New Criterion).
Historian, archaeologist and novelist Alfred Duggan wrote historical fiction and non-fiction about a wide range of subjects, in places and times as diverse as Julius Caesar’s Rome and the Medieval Europe of Thomas Becket.
Although he was born in Argentina, Duggan grew up in England, and was educated at Eton and Balliol College, Oxford. After Oxford, he travelled extensively through Greece and Turkey, visiting almost all the sites later mentioned in his books. In 1935 he helped excavate Constantine’s palace in Istanbul.
Duggan came to writing fiction quite late in his life: his first novel about the First Crusade, Knight in Armour, was published in 1950, after which he published at least a book every year until his death in 1964. His fictional works were bestselling page-turners, but thoroughly grounded in meticulous research informed by Duggan’s experience as an archaeologist and historian.
Duggan has been favourably compared to Bernard Cornwell as well as being praised in his own right as ‘an extremely gifted writer who can move into an unknown period and give it life and immediacy.’ (New York Times)
1. Off to School
On such a day everything should have looked different. It was disappointing that the whole of London seemed absorbed in its own affairs, though of course Cheapside was the busiest street in the city, and September was the busiest season of the year. In September everyone felt rich, with all that food stored for the winter; it was impossible to imagine the short commons of spring, or the real hunger which might follow a bad season. There was plenty to eat, and the men of Middlesex were eager to spend their wealth in the booths of Cheapside. Luckily a number of them wanted sound oxhide, which was good for the family prosperity. But those preoccupied buyers crowding into the shop might have spared a glance for young Thomas peering out of the gable window of the chamber above.
Young Thomas was alone in the little chamber, which in itself marked the day as something special; for the whole family lived in the hall, and only climbed to the chamber for sleeping. To be alone was even more extraordinary than to be in the sleeping-quarters after sunrise. Thomas tried to recall the last time he had been indoors and alone; but he could not.
The remarkable solitude must not be wasted. Here was a crisis in his life, and he was lucky to have this chance to think undisturbed. To begin with, he must renew his good resolutions. He would mind his book and give value for his father’s money, spent so freely to get him a good education. That seemed in prospect rather a depressing plan, but when it came to the point it would probably turn out pleasantly enough; the alphabet had lately begun to make sense, and even reading long words could not be too difficult; the priest at St. Mary Colechurch opposite, who had baptized him and taught him his catechism, managed to blurt out some very long and unfamiliar words in the proper of his Masses, after peering at the Missal and muttering to himself; and the whole of Cheapside said that the vicar of St. Mary Colechurch was the most foolish clerk in London.
But he must be more than merely a diligent scholar. Among the other boys at the priory school of Merton he must bear himself worthily, for the honour of the family would be in his hands; he must always behave as a freeborn Norman. That was important. The foreigners of Surrey were inclined to take it for granted that a Londoner must be English; already, sixty years after the Conquest, men forgot that the conquering army had contained decent middle-class spearmen and archers as well as proud knights. He had learned from his father the family legend: that his great-grandfather had fought at Hastings among the Duke’s own foot. He got nothing from the victory save a silver buckle from the belt of a dead Englishman, and presently went home to help with the ploughing. Yet that was why, when grandfather died and Uncle Robert took over the family holding, his father had come to England to seek his fortune; instead of journeying south to Italy where any Norman could so easily win wealth. There was already a family tradition that England owed them a living in return for the exertions of their ancestor.
Thus he had a position to uphold. The family was not noble; yet they were pure Norman, of the stock of the conquerors. In a sense he, Thomas, was nearer to the great lords whom he saw riding to the crownwearings at Westminster than to young Edward Godricson next door, who wore leather shoes summer and winter and rode a special pony of his own, with other extravagant signs of wealth; but who rattled off his Hail Marys in throaty English, and could barely understand a dozen words of French.
Above all, when he got to school he must keep his temper. That would be the most difficult task. He was tall and strong, and had never been beaten by a boy of his own age; but he himself was frightened of the red rage which curtained his eyes when someone hit him hard enough to hurt. There was that day a year ago when a street-urchin spat at him; he had picked up a cobblestone and if his mother had not intervened he might have battered the little rascal to death. Once the red curtain was down he could not halt his attack; the only remedy was to stifle his anger before it had mastered his mind. He must keep his temper, or he would perpetrate some assault that would get him dismissed with ignominy from the monastery. He made up his mind firmly, at the same time asking Our Lady to help him in keeping his resolution; this last he did almost without conscious thought, because he had already formed the habit of asking Our Lady for anything he desired.
He had been kneeling on the floor of the chamber, his elbows on the sill of the little window and his head in the street. Now he rose and looked round for his saddlebag. Through the clatter of hoofs tapping over all the square mile of cobbled London he had made out the rhythm of old Snowball’s determined plod; of course it was very like the sound of any other horse walking, yet to Thomas every horse was unique, as individual men are unique. The rare and precious interval of solitude was over, and it was time to put his resolutions into practice. As he walked over to the bag he braced his shoulders, already seeing himself as a representative of Normandy in an alien world.
In the hall below Goodman Gilbert also looked round for his saddlebag. It hung on a peg, already packed with his night-gear, as though for one of the familiar journeys he undertook to buy hides for his drysalting. But this was a special journey, and he seemed to be taking it too much as a matter of course. He ought to prove that he was treating the occasion with the importance it deserved, by discussing it once more with
his wife.
‘The horse is ready, Rose,’ he called into the gloom of the inner end of the hall. ‘Help me to bar the main door. You had better shut the shop while I am away, though if anyone comes with a good offer of course you may use your own judgment. Is that clear? I shall be back tomorrow night.’
He spoke in the pure French of Normandy, without a trace of English accent, and Rose answered in the same tongue.
‘I shan’t deal with strangers. If I hear of a good bargain I shall consult Goodman Osbert. Mind you see the children’s dormitory at the Priory, and if you get a chance put your head in the kitchen. Men without women are always untidy, so don’t bother if it looks a mess; but it must smell sweet. And don’t leave without talking to the schoolmaster.’
‘That I won’t, I promise you. Our Thomas needs a bit of explaining. I’ve thought it out carefully, and this is what I’ll say. First I’ll tell them how quick he is, and how hard he works. That’s true, and they’ll be pleased to hear it. Then I’ll warn them of his pride, for he’s pigheaded enough to mope to death if they insult him. And I’ll tell them to beware of his rage, though I don’t see how he can get into a fight in a well-ordered Priory. They won’t like that so much, but they must be used to dealing with human wickedness. Even the children of the cloister, vowed to God as soon as they are born, must come into the community with their ordinary share of sin.’
‘That’s all right as far as it goes, but you have forgotten half the things we agreed on. Make them understand that he has outgrown his strength, and that he feels the cold more than most. They must give him plenty to eat; proper nourishing food, not their messes of cabbage and beans. Try to arrange extra blankets for his bed, and leave a little money to buy him extra wine and meat if he looks peaky. But the great thing is to make them realize that he doesn’t want to be a monk, and that we don’t want him to be one either. That won’t be easy to explain without seeming rude, but you must do it. He’s a good boy, who says his prayers and tries to keep the Commandments; he is not cut out for the life of religion. One day he’ll make an honest merchant, or perhaps a clever lawyer. Let him take vows, and he’ll kill himself trying to keep them, fighting against his inclination. He is so stubborn that he must never undertake anything too hard for him.’
‘You have it all planned, my darling Rose. Do you think we are planning too thoroughly? It’s not too late to keep him at home and train him to take over the dry-salting when I am gone.’
‘We have had this out, dear,’ said Rose, with the appealing but perfunctory smile of a loving and well-loved wife who knows she can get her own way in all important matters. She had been a pretty girl, and was still very pleasant to look at, though her pink cheeks were beginning to wrinkle; about her was the comfortable and completely nonsexual charm of the busy housewife who divides her time between the kitchen and the church. ‘We’ve had this out before, and we agreed that there is something special about our Thomas. For one thing it’s a miracle that he’s in this world at all. He would be dead if Our Lady had not listened to my prayers.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Gilbert muttered roughly. He was a decent regular churchgoer, but his wife’s habit of mentioning religion on weekdays embarrassed him. ‘You had a very bad time, and perhaps when it was over I lost my head. If I had known he was going to live I would not have run across to St. Mary’s to see him christened at once; and if the vicar had not been so flustered by my fright he would have been spared that eccentric name. I hope his schoolfellows don’t make fun of it.’
‘Why should they? It’s all bound up with the miracle of his survival. It was St. Thomas’s feastday, and when you were stuck for a name there was the Missal open on the altar, with Thomas painted in red and gold. The patron of our son was a great Apostle and Martyr.’
‘So long as St. Thomas doesn’t make him a martyr I suppose it’s all right. Yet our Thomas must have something special about him, when you think of his birth. The girls were no trouble at all.’
As he came down the ladder from the chamber young Thomas overheard this last speech. The realization that there was something special about his very existence fortified him for the coming adventure, as it had fortified him in other crises of his short life; he had known the exciting story of his difficult birth and hurried baptism since he was old enough to talk. By all human probability he should have been dead, in the painless but unecstatic Limbo of unbaptized infants; from that fate Our Lady and St. Thomas had saved him, and he must thank them every time he said his prayers. It was natural for him to think he had survived because some great destiny was in store for him.
When finally the horse was brought round Goodman Gilbert decided he would like some breakfast. In theory he was opposed to the English custom of breakfasting before beginning the day’s work, and if he had been asked he would have maintained that he seldom ate before midday; in fact the climate of London was colder than he was accustomed to, and business often kept him from home at dinnertime; breakfast was served in his house on most days of the week. But of course the serving-maid would not dream of bringing in the new bread and mulled ale until the master of the house called for it, and to prove that it was an exceptional meal they all munched it standing.
Then the great moment arrived. Thomas crossed the yard to the kitchen to kiss his two baby sisters. Then his mother caught him up and hugged him. His eyes filled with tears, but he kept his mouth steady; he was feeling so well that her anxious reminders about eating good food and wrapping up warmly seemed unnecessary, and surely in a Priory they would make him say his prayers even if he forgot to do it of his own accord.
Soon regrets were banished in the novel excitement of riding pillion. Hitherto when he had gone farther than his baby legs could carry him he had been placed on the saddlebow, like a piece of baggage. Grown ladies and invalids rode pillion, and it was the next best thing to having Snowball all to himself. He was well away from the rasping mane and hard neck which had sometimes made his nose bleed, and though his father’s broad back blocked the view in front he could see the bustle of the streets beside him.
Cheapside and London Bridge were familiar, though it was delightful to wave to old friends from such an eminence. But once through the barbican at Southwark they were in open country, and there was much to interest a little Cockney. The road was busy with single travellers, and father and son rode without companions; for this was September 1126, the twenty-sixth year of King Henry the Lion of Justice, and never had England enjoyed such firm peace.
They dined by the roadside and came to Merton in time for supper. When the Prior received them in the stranger’s parlour Thomas sat quietly in a corner, hearing himself discussed as though in his absence; but an only son is used to that.
He heard his father rehearsing the instructions about his health that his mother had commanded; they were so familiar that he hardly listened. But when the Prior answered he was all attention. The Prior was a kindly old man, with a tired but patient expression.
‘Very well, Goodman Gilbert,’ he said with finality, as one used to cutting short the explanations of loving parents, ‘we shall teach your son reading and writing, and the simple rules of numbers. We shall not teach him Divinity beyond the catechism that every Christian should know, and we shall not influence him to choose the life of the cloister. Though if you don’t want him to be a monk you run some risk in sending him here at all. The life of religion, seen at close quarters, is more attractive than you laymen understand.’
‘We won’t stand in the way of a real vocation, father Prior. But my wife and I want our only son to be a clever merchant or a learned lawyer, living in the world. That’s why I was so careful to explain that he is not a child of the cloister, vowed to God from his birth.’
‘Quite so. You have been generous with your money, and we shall carry out our side of the bargain. We shall not make a monk of him. I suppose you won’t mind if he wears the cowl while he is here? That is the custom in English monasteries, as you may know, and
it does not commit him for the future. It solves the problem of what clothes are fitting to wear in the cloister. Some parents have very bizarre ideas on that subject.’
As Gilbert nodded assent the Prior produced a sheet of parchment from his bosom. ‘There is one other thing. In case of emergency would a messenger who inquired in London for Goodman Gilbert the drysalter find you easily?’
‘Well, no, perhaps not. These English are apt to think every Norman is called either William or Robert, and if they know my name half of them pronounce it Willibrod. I am not grand enough to be Gilbert of London or even Gilbert of Cheapside, and people have forgotten that once I was Gilbert of Rouen. I have a nickname, Gilbert Becket. That was my name back at Thierceville in Normandy, because my father’s holding lay beside the brook. Becket of Cheapside would be known even to Englishmen who cannot say Gilbert.’
The Prior listened with some amusement. He guessed that this burgess dearly longed to be known as Gilbert of London, and felt ashamed of the plebeian nickname which implied that the only notable thing about him was that once he had lived beside a brook.
‘Then you will go down on my list as Goodman Gilbert Becket of London. I hope we never need to send you a message, or if we do that it is only good news. That is all. Your son may go home for a few days at Christmas and Easter, and the long holiday comes at harvest time. Now I shall leave you to say good-bye in private. Then Thomas must go to the boys’ dormitory to be fitted for his cowl.’
Thomas took an affectionate and respectful leave of his father. His education had been arranged for him, without inquiry into his own wishes; perhaps he would have preferred to be a monk, in a not too strict community where there was plenty of time for reading. If his opinion had been asked he might have suggested it; but as it had not been asked he did what was expected of him.
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