London by Edward Rutherfurd
Leofric nodded his agreement. But before she left, he looked at his daughter thoughtfully.
“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
Leofric continued to gaze at her. For years he had wondered what her relationship with the Dane might be, but had never dared to ask. “I’m sorry I made you marry Henri,” he said softly.
She returned his gaze. “No you’re not,” she said, and smiled. “But just do as I ask.” Then she left.
Not long after this, a rift between Alfred and his friend and patron Barnikel began to open. It happened very privately.
They were standing in Barnikel’s hall on a quiet evening. Little had changed. The great two-handed battle-axe still hung on the wall. Everything was as usual – or would have been if Alfred had not just repeated, still more firmly, the words he had spoken a moment before to the huge, red-bearded figure who was glaring at him furiously.
“No. I dare not.” It was the first time Alfred had ever tried to refuse him.
Barnikel had once more been hearing voices from over the sea. Nor had he imagined them. The voices were very real. Indeed, in the closing months of 1083, King William of England was more worried about his new island kingdom than he had ever been.
The cause was a vast, northern conspiracy. Its origin was Denmark, where a new king, another Canute, was anxious for a Viking adventure. Even now his envoys had begun to negotiate with the Norman Conqueror’s rivals, the envious King of France and the swashbuckling King of Norway.
Even the Conqueror’s own family were not always reliable. His son Robert, aided by the French king, had already tried to rebel once, and recently William had been forced to put his half-brother, Odo, the fighting Bishop of Bayeux, in jail for suspected treason.
“And if all these come together, then even William may find it’s more than he can handle,” the Danish envoys were quick to point out.
Hardly surprisingly, such rumours were a source of delight for Barnikel. He might be sinking into debt. He might be growing old. “But in a year or two, we could have a Canute on the throne of England again,” he cried to Alfred enthusiastically. “Think of that!”
How, then, could Alfred hesitate?
For a long time now, Alfred had been concerned about his relationship with the Dane. Five years had passed since they had last shipped arms. Five years in which England had been quiet. Five years in which Alfred had become the trusted master armourer at the Tower. He had even made a coat of mail for Ralph and a sword for Mandeville himself. He had raised his family, and lived in security.
True, every month or two Barnikel had come to him and asked him to make arms. Never very much at a time. Easy enough to accomplish without arousing suspicion and to hide in the several spaces he had devised under the floor of the armoury. Without telling even his wife, Alfred had continued to oblige the Dane out of loyalty. “I still owe it to him,” he told himself. But as time passed and his family grew, he did these commissions with ever increasing reluctance. And a month ago, when he had surveyed the full size of the hoard hidden under the floor, he had been horrified.
“You could equip a hundred men,” he whispered to himself. For the first time, he experienced a real sense of panic. If ever the Normans raided the armoury and found these arms? I could never explain that away, he thought.
“I’m frightened,” he confessed to Barnikel.
“Then you’re a coward.”
At this Alfred only shrugged. He was much too fond of the Dane to take offence. Besides, there was a further consideration.
“I also think,” he admitted, “that it’s all becoming a waste of time. The truth is,” he said quietly, “that most Englishmen have accepted William now. They might not even fight for the Danes.”
Barnikel let out a roar of rage. And yet he could not altogether deny it. London, of course, would make its own terms with any king, but in several of the minor rebellions over the last ten years, the English in the countryside had actually fought side by side with the hated Normans, putting down the rebels – for the simple reason that such insurrections threatened to damage the harvest.
“You’re a traitor,” Barnikel angrily declared. And at this Alfred did bridle.
“If so,” he retorted, “then what are your children?”
It was a sharp blow and it hurt the Dane. Alfred knew very well that the Dane’s grown sons had shown little interest in joining their father in his secret activities. “If the King of Denmark arrives, we’ll be Danish,” the youngest son had once told him. “But not before.” It was a sensible position to take, but Alfred knew that Barnikel had been deeply disappointed.
Perhaps it was because he saw how hurt the old man was that, a few minutes later, Alfred gave in and agreed to do as Barnikel asked. But he did so with misgivings.
In December of that year, Barnikel of Billingsgate was greatly surprised to find himself politely summoned to a meeting with Silversleeves.
There was no denying it. If Alfred had become independent, the long-nosed Norman had nowadays become nothing less than splendid. A man-at-arms stood by the gateway to his house. Two clerks busied themselves at a table in his fine stone hall. He was a canon of St Paul’s. Archbishop Lanfranc himself had called upon him, and though that stern reformer had seen the clerical merchant for exactly the disgrace he was, he was too wise to do more than drily admonish the generous canon and patron of St Lawrence Silversleeves. Barnikel tried not to be impressed, but it was difficult.
The Norman greeted him with the utmost courtesy, begged him to sit down, and, looking down his nose at the table between them, gravely addressed him.
“It has long been on my mind, Hrothgar Barnikel, that I owe you the debt I took over from Leofric. I hope you will acknowledge that I have always discharged my obligations in this regard.”
Barnikel nodded. Much as he disliked the Norman, he could not deny that for ten years he had paid the agreed interest on the nail.
“For a long time I have wished to discharge this debt,” Silversleeves went on, “but the sum is large.” Barnikel glanced at him suspiciously. He had heard of the Norman’s tactic of forcing creditors to accept less than they were owed. To his surprise, Silversleeves continued blandly: “I believe, however, that if you could accept my offer, I am now in a position to repay the debt in full.” Raising his head, he smiled.
For a moment Barnikel was too stunned to react. The debt repaid in full? He thought of his embarrassing visit to the Jewry that autumn. So far even he, who would not have shrunk from any battle, had not summoned up the courage to go back there. “What did you have in mind?” he asked gruffly.
Silversleeves picked up a parchment from the floor and unrolled it on the table. “Something that might interest you,” he said. “An estate that has just come into my hands. You may know of it. It’s called Deeping.” Which surprised the Dane even more, as he did indeed know of the place.
It lay on the east coast about fifteen miles from the estates he himself had lost at the Conquest. Though he had not been there, he knew well that the land along that coastal strip was rich, and the Saxon charter before them indicated that, if anything, the estate might even be worth more than the debt he was owed.
“Please consider the matter at leisure if you wish,” Silversleeves said. “Though I have an agreement drawn up if you are interested.”
Barnikel, looking at him and then at the charter, heaved a sigh.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
It seemed that after all things were looking up.
Indeed, for Barnikel, in the year that followed the whole world became bathed in a new light. A dangerous light to be sure, but to the Dane each distant rumble, each faint flash upon the horizon, brought promise of the great conflagration for which his Viking soul was longing.
In the winter a great tax was raised. It fell heavily on London, but even in the countryside not a village was spared. Throughout 1084 the tension rose. Extra defences were p
As the spring of 1085 began, word spread in London: “King William is bringing over an extra army of mercenaries from Normandy.” In the city, a curfew was strictly enforced. And on their walk one day, Hilda warned Barnikel: “Ralph is posting spies in every street.”
Which only made Barnikel relish the challenge all the more.
For when Alfred had declared that resistance to Norman rule was over, he had, in fact, been wrong. The Dane knew of fifty or sixty men who, if they thought there was a chance, would probably be ready to act. Some of these were men from Kent, where the greed of Odo had made the Norman rule unpopular; others were Danish merchants like himself who, since the Conquest, had been hit by the increasing influence of Continental merchants; others were dispossessed Saxons hoping to regain their lands.
It’s just a question of waiting until the time is ripe, Barnikel told himself with satisfaction. Then I’ll be ready.
The blow to these plans came in the month of May, from an unexpected quarter.
For Osric these were happy times. His first child was a healthy girl, who brought him great joy. Thanks to Alfred and his family, she never wanted for food or clothing. It seemed to him that only one thing was needed to complete his family happiness. “One day,” he said to Dorkes, “perhaps there will be a boy as well.”
In another way, the deepening political crisis in England also improved his life. With the work on the Tower progressing rapidly in its established routine, Ralph had become occupied with other duties for Mandeville, and his supervision of the work usually consisted of only a brief daily inspection. Labourers and masons went about their tasks with a sense of relief, and, as the high walls of the Tower rose, Osric’s work settled into quite a pleasant daily rhythm.
And how fine it was. The upper and final storey of the Tower would be the most magnificent by far. “The royal floor, I call it,” Osric liked to say.
It was, in fact, a double floor. Although many centuries later, an extra floor would be inserted halfway up, the original apartments soared to a height of nearly forty feet. The western half would be taken up by a huge hall, most of the eastern by the royal chamber. Twenty feet up, round the outside wall of both rooms, there would run an internal gallery like a cloister, where courtiers could stroll, gaze out through small windows at the River Thames, or look down through the Norman arches into the great rooms below. There were more garderobes, and in the eastern chamber another fireplace, though the huge main hall would be warmed in the traditional manner by the great braziers in its centre.
But noblest of all, in the south-eastern corner, was the chapel.
It was very simple, with a rounded apse in the eastern wall. Its space was divided by a double row of thick, round pillars, making a short nave and two side aisles, with a gallery on the upper level. Its arches were rounded, its windows just wide enough to bathe its pale grey stone in a pleasant light. It was dedicated to St John. It was perhaps here, in this simple, sturdy chapel in the great castle keep by the river, that the spirit of William the Norman conqueror of England could most perfectly be felt.
And the main arches were just nearing completion when, one evening in spring, Osric received an unexpected message that Barnikel wanted to see him.
Two people had thrown the Dane’s plans into confusion. The first was Ralph Silversleeves.
As preparations for the expected invasion went forward, not only had King William sent for mercenaries from the Continent, he had also told Mandeville to prepare the Londoners. Which meant a new task for Ralph.
For once, the surly Norman had set about his work with intelligence. His men went from house to house collecting arms. All weapons of any description were taken and their owners warned that if they were found concealing anything afterwards, the punishment would be terrible. The Normans moved swiftly. Perhaps the only weapon they missed was Barnikel’s great two-handed battle-axe which, to his family’s horror, he obstinately insisted on hiding.
Since many of the weapons were in poor repair, they were taken to the armourers, where guards were posted to make sure nothing was removed. After this, they would be taken to a secure store. “And then I shall search the armourers as well, just to make sure they aren’t hiding anything either,” Ralph boasted to his family one evening.
“And where will you store all the arms, finally?” Hilda asked.
Ralph grinned. “In the Tower,” he replied.
It would be the first time the Tower had been used. While building was in progress, the garrison of London remained dispersed at the Ludgate forts and other places, but the great cellar, sealed off from the rest of the Tower, could serve as a store. Ralph had already had another mighty door placed at the bottom of the spiral stairs for extra security, and this, too, Alfred had fitted with a heavy lock. “A guard at the top door to the staircase, that’s all I need,” Ralph remarked. King William would be pleased to know that his great castle was already in use.
By the following day, Hilda had told Barnikel everything.
If the threat of having the armoury searched made Barnikel and Alfred nervous, in the end it was the armourer’s wife who brought the crisis to a head.
Wandering into the armoury late one night, she had surprised her husband just as he was concealing a sword in the hiding place under the floor. When, after her initial horror, she had forced him to tell her everything, she had given the armourer an ultimatum: “How could you put us all at risk? You must stop helping Barnikel. For good. And the arms must go.”
Alfred soon discovered that on this matter, his usually comfortable wife was implacable. “If not,” she told him, “I go.”
Here lay the problem. Although Alfred was secretly rather relieved at this excuse to end the dangerous business, there remained an obvious difficulty. “Ralph’s men guard the outside of the armoury. His spies are everywhere. Where can we hide the arms now? And even if I wanted to dump the arms in the river, how would we smuggle them out?”
Neither he nor Barnikel could think of what to do until the Dane, remembering Osric’s ingenuity when they had smuggled the arms before, at last suggested: “Let’s ask our little carpenter. Perhaps he’ll have a bright idea.”
And it was after listening to them carefully and thinking for some time, that Osric came up with a suggestion which caused the huge old Dane to gasp and then roar with laughter before crying:
“It’s so outrageous, I do believe it might work.”
Tap. Tap. As softly as he could. The little hammer and chisel echoing around the huge, cavernous cellar in the darkness. Tap, tap. Sometimes he held his breath, hardly able to believe that the short, sharp sounds could be muffled even by the thick walls of the Tower.
Tink, chink, he softly dislodged the mortar. Tap, scrape, he gently removed a stone. All by the light of a little oil lamp in the pitch-black cellar below the crypt. Tink, tink, like a busy gnome Osric burrowed in the bowels of the mighty Norman keep.
It was the strongroom he had made three years earlier that had given him the idea. “The wall beside the crypt was about twenty feet thick,” he pointed out to Barnikel. “So if there was enough space in there to make a strongroom, then there must be the same amount of space in the wall of the cellar directly below.” After careful calculation, Barnikel and Alfred had told him that they needed a space about five feet by eight feet to store all the illicit arms they had. Could he create such a thing?
“I’ll need a week,” he replied.
Tink, chink. All through the night, Osric eagerly went about his work.
It was not difficult for him to sneak into the empty Tower at night. Alfred had provided him with keys to the cellar doors. But there was very little time. As soon as he started to take arms into the cellar, Ralph would post guards on the door. Each night, therefore, until an hour before dawn, the little labourer worked, carefully loosening the stones to create a small space he could crawl into before
This rubble he carefully placed into a sack, which he dragged from the crypt cellar, down the eastern chamber, round into the bigger western chamber and then over to the well, dropping it in there before returning. At the end of each night, he replaced the stones in the wall and fixed them with a shallow layer of new mortar that he hoped would not be noticeable in the cellar’s darkness. Tidying the floor carefully, he then departed.
And so he continued, night after night. Apart from the fact that he sometimes seemed sleepy at his daily work, no one was any the wiser.
Only one thing worried him. “I’m going to put so much rubble down the well,” he told the Dane, “I’m afraid I might block it.” But each night when he let down the bucket, it continued to enter the water easily and come up clean. And by the end of the week, as he had estimated, there was a small secret chamber just high enough for him to stand up in hidden within the cellar wall.
Which left him one, final task.
On the last night, instead of going to the wall, he went to the big western cellar. In the corner, over the great drain, was the stout iron grille Alfred had made. So that the drain below could be cleaned and repaired, this grille opened on a hinge and was locked in place. Using the key Alfred had provided him with, Osric unlocked the grille and let himself down with a rope. Entering the long passage, he bent almost double and worked his way down it for fifty yards until he came to the outlet in the riverbank. This, too, was guarded by a thick metal grille.
His timing was good. It was low tide and the passage was nearly dry. He encountered nothing except for a few rats. The great bars of this grille could not be opened with a key, however, and so for the rest of the night Osric worked around the masonry until he had prised it loose. Then he carefully fixed it once more, but this time with thin mortar so that with accurate hammer blows in the right places he would be able to push it open from either side. Finally, he returned to the cellar, locked the grille, and left.