London (31 page)

“The iron and charcoal interact,” he explained, “and the iron turns to steel. But you must not heat it too long,” he warned, “or it gets brittle. You want the outside to be hard as diamonds and the inside to remain flexible.”

Then, having shown him these mysteries of his art, he let the boy go home.

From this time on, at least once a week Alfred was summoned to stay behind. And while the other apprentices supposed he was operating the bellows or pulling wire, the master quietly taught him the techniques that were normally reserved for the senior apprentices only. Often, they worked together late into the night, Alfred’s hammer and tongs and pincers flying to their task. They spoke to no one of these sessions, but the boy had an instinct that Barnikel was kept informed by the master, although he could not be sure that this was so.

The crisis broke in September.

The events that were to change the face of England for ever were made possible by a simple and regrettable fact. In September, it being the month of harvest, the men manning the English fleet announced that they had to go home. Nothing King Harold could say would stop them. Accordingly, Alfred, Barnikel and Leofric stood on the quay at Billingsgate one morning and watched the last of the little sailing vessels tie up. From which moment, as they all knew, the Anglo-Saxon kingdom lay open to invaders.

They struck almost at once.

The invasion planned by William of Normandy could hardly have gone better. His timing was perfect. Two weeks after the English fleet put in, the King of Norway led an attack on the shores of northern England and took York. King Harold raced northwards and, in a well-fought battle, smashed the invaders. However, he and his army were now two hundred and fifty miles away from the south coast – where William promptly landed.

His army was not large, but it was formidably trained. Some, the élite, were retinues headed by great magnates with famous names like de Montfort, but most were men for hire, landless knights from Normandy, Brittany, France, Flanders and even southern Italy. Thanks to William’s staunch support of the Church, they rode under the papal banner. On arrival at the bay of Pevensey, near the little settlement of Hastings, they built an earth and wooden fort and set out to reconnoitre.

In Alfred’s memory, the events of the next few days were forever blurred. The king returned to London. The city was arming. The Staller – the head of the city’s Defence Guild – and his captains were commandeering every able-bodied man they could find. Each day Barnikel stormed into the armoury with fresh demands, and they worked all night.

But one small scene always remained in the boy’s mind with clarity. It took place one evening in Barnikel’s hall, after the Dane and Leofric had returned from a big council meeting with the king. The Dane was agitated, the Saxon thoughtful.

“How can he hold back?” Barnikel cried. “Strike now!”

Leofric was less sanguine. “The army’s exhausted after the march south. Our London contingent is brave, but it’s no good pretending they’re a match for trained mercenaries. However, if we burn all the crops between here and the coast and destroy his transport, we can starve them. Then,” he added grimly, “we should kill them all.”

Barnikel grunted in disgust. “This family will fight.”

Yet, as Alfred subsequently learned, the more cautious advice was exactly the course that King Harold’s wisest counsellors urged upon him.

Soon afterwards, on 11 October, for reasons that are not entirely clear, before half the reinforcements he needed from the shires had arrived, King Harold of England marched out of London towards the southern coast at the head of about seven thousand men. In place of honour, by the king’s standard, marched the Staller, Barnikel and the London contingent. Barnikel’s son went with him. Leofric, because of his injured back, could not go. The Dane was carrying his two-handed battle-axe.

Despite all their efforts, young Alfred noticed that not all the London contingent were well armed. One man, wearing a foolish grin, was carrying a window shutter instead of a proper shield.

Leofric hesitated. Could he bring himself to go in?

It was evening, the hour after vespers, and he had come to that important quarter on the western hill just below the quiet precincts of St Paul’s. Several days had passed since the king and the army had left. No word had come. The city was quiet, waiting anxiously for news.

Behind him, the long wooden roof of the Saxon cathedral loomed over the thatched houses. On his left stood the guarded courtyard of the London Mint. Ahead, the narrow lane, carpeted with yellowed leaves, sloped down steeply towards the river. A faint smell from the cathedral brew-house nearby mingled agreeably with the scent of wood smoke in the still, damp air. A church bell was tolling. And in the west, the sky was reddening, deep crimson like a rich man’s cloak.

The house of Silversleeves was quietly impressive. The stone hall facing him was not large, but well built, with an outside staircase leading to the main floor. Slowly and with misgiving, he went up.

Silversleeves and his two sons greeted him politely. It was strange how, inside their own hall, their clean-shaven faces and long noses seemed less out of place. Indeed, though his own, knee-length green gown was of the best cloth, Leofric could not help noticing that their longer Norman gowns were decidedly elegant.

A great fire burned at one end of the room. At the other, a tall window was filled not with oiled parchment like the windows in his own house, but with green German glass. The hangings on the walls were rich. On the table, instead of smoking lamps stood large and expensive candles of sweet-smelling beeswax.

Several other people were there – a Flemish merchant, a goldsmith he knew slightly, and two priests from St Paul’s. He noticed that the last two especially were treating Silversleeves with deep respect. There was also one other group, the reason for whose presence the Saxon could not immediately guess. Sitting on a small oak bench in the corner furthest from the fire, three poor and undernourished lay monks were watching the proceedings with mournful interest.

Excusing himself while he completed his business with the others, Silversleeves left Leofric near the fire with his two sons, which gave the Saxon some opportunity to study them. Henri, who at once began a polite conversation, seemed agreeable enough. His brother, Ralph, however, was not. Silent, awkward and sullen, nature seemed in him to have debased the family’s features. His nose was long, but also brutal; his eyes were strangely puffy; where his brother’s hands were long, his were gnarled and clumsy. He stared at Leofric suspiciously.

All Leofric knew, as he gazed at them, was that one of these two young men apparently wanted to marry his daughter.

So troubled was he by this thought that for a few moments he entered a kind of daze, and at first did not quite take in what Henri was earnestly telling him. “A great day for my family . . .” he was saying. “My father is building a church.”

A church! Now Leofric was all attention. He gazed at Henri in wonder. “Your father is endowing a church?” The young man nodded.

The Norman must be rich indeed, far richer than Leofric had realized. No wonder the priests were treating him with such respect.

There were already more than thirty churches in the Anglo-Danish city. Most were small Saxon buildings with wooden walls and earthen floors; some were little more than private chapels. But to found a church was a sure sign that a family had ascended to fortune.

Silversleeves, he learned, had just acquired a plot of land below his own holding. A good spot on Watling Street, above the area of wine warehouses known as the Vintry. “It will be dedicated to St Lawrence,” Henri explained. He smiled. “I dare say,” he coolly added, “that since there’s another St Lawrence nearby, they’ll call it St Lawrence Silversleeves.” This custom of double names commemorating both a saint and a founder was already becoming one of the features of London churches.

Nor was this all. That very day, the young man added, another solemn consecration had taken place: that of the merchant himself. “My father has taken holy orders,” he said proudly. “So that he can officiate at the church.”

It was not uncommon. Whatever the piety of Edward the Confessor himself, the English Church during his reign had sunk into a complete and cheerful cynicism. True, the Church was still a mighty institution. Its lands were everywhere, its monasteries like little kingdoms. A man on the run could still seek sanctuary in a church and not even the king could touch him. But morality was another thing. Priests were frequently and openly living with, in effect, common-law wives, and left their church livings to their children or even gave them as dowries. Rich merchants took orders, as Silversleeves was doing, and might even, if they fancied the dignity, become canons of St Paul’s. Indeed, it was in the pious hope that William of Normandy might reform these abuses that the Pope had given the planned invasion his blessing.

Whatever the Pope may have thought, however, it was clear to Leofric that the house of Silversleeves was grown powerful indeed.

Several minutes passed before the priests and merchants left, then Silversleeves himself advanced towards Leofric.

“So that we can take our time,” he said pleasantly, “I hope you will sup with us this evening.”

From behind a screen came three serving women, who spread a large white cloth upon the table. They brought two earthenware pitchers, knives, spoons, bowls and drinking vessels. Once this was speedily and quietly done, Silversleeves motioned him forward.

It happened that this was a fast day in the calendar of the Church; at this hour, devout men ate only a light collation of vegetables with their bread and water. Since Silversleeves was now a priest, Leofric resigned himself to a harsh diet, but in this, too, he underestimated his host. At last turning his gaze upon the three depressed lay monks, who were still sitting on their bench in the corner, Silversleeves beckoned them to approach. “These good men fast and say penances for us,” he blithely explained. And giving to each of these worthies a silver penny, he waved them away and they sadly retired. Then he said grace.

The meal began with a capon brewet – a rich broth with spices on top.

It was the practice of those times for men to sit along one side of the table only, the food being served from the other, as though across a counter. Leofric found himself placed on Silversleeves’s right, with Ralph beside him. Henri was furthest away, on his father’s left. The brewet was served in a two-handled bowl placed between each pair of diners, courtesy demanding that one should share with one’s neighbour. It fell to Leofric, therefore, to dip his spoon into the same bowl as Ralph.

If only the fellow ate more pleasantly. Leofric was accustomed to all kinds of table manners amongst the bearded Norsemen of the port, but for some reason the little dribble of food that came from the corner of Ralph’s clean-shaven yet brutal mouth filled him with a particular repugnance. Not to seem wanting in the courtesies, his silent companion also offered him his goblet to share, which Leofric was naturally bound to do.

Still, the meal was impressive. Silversleeves kept his table like a French noble. After the brewet came a porray – a soup of leeks, onions and other vegetables cooked in milk. Then a civet of grilled hare cooked in wine. As was the custom, the tablecloth was long, so that the diners could use it as a napkin, and Leofric was impressed to notice that, whether because of the mess Ralph made, or whether it was simply another example of his host’s magnificence, the cloth was changed between every course, just as if he had been dining with the king.

Silversleeves himself was a fastidious eater. He rinsed his hands frequently in a bowl of rose-water. He ate slowly, taking small bites. And yet, Leofric observed, it was extraordinary how much food he put away in this decorous fashion. The wine in the two earthenware pitchers was also excellent – the most prized, from the Paris region. Leofric drank just enough for it to seem to him that as they rose and dipped over their food in the glow of the candlelight, the three noses beside him had become even longer than before.

Finally came a frumenty, a custard dish with figs, nuts and spiced wine. Only then did Silversleeves broach the business in hand.

He began indirectly. They had been speaking generally of the invasion, and what news they might expect to hear. “Of course,” he said meditatively, “as a Norman, I know some of William’s men.” And he named de Montfort, Mandeville and several of the Norman duke’s closest confidants. “Whoever wins,” he remarked, “it will probably be the same for our business.”

But not, Leofric thought bleakly, for mine.

For a few moments Silversleeves was silent, letting the Saxon think his own, sad thoughts. Then, with a smile, he came smoothly to the point.

“One of my sons,” he said easily, “wishes to marry your daughter.” Before Leofric could frame a suitable response, he gently continued: “We seek no dowry, except the alliance with your good name.”

Leofric gasped. This was as astonishing as it was courteous. But it was nothing compared with what followed. “I can also offer an arrangement that might be of interest to you. If this marriage takes place, I should like to take over your two debts, to Barnikel and Becket. You need never concern yourself with them again.” At which he dipped his nose into his beaker of wine and then stared politely at the tablecloth.

For several moments Leofric was completely speechless. When, in his message, Silversleeves had stated that he could be of help to him, the Saxon had realized that the Norman was powerful, but this was far beyond anything he had dreamed of.

“But why?” he asked simply.

Silversleeves gave what might have been a sentimental smile.

“All for love,” he said softly.

To be free of his debts. Perhaps an alliance with this Norman might even save the estate if William should triumph.

“Which son wants my daughter?” he asked gruffly.

Silversleeves looked surprised. “I thought you knew. It is Henri.”

And Leofric was so relieved it was not Ralph, he scarcely troubled to notice that young Henri’s eyes were cold.