London - Edward Rutherfurd [103]
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