London - Edward Rutherfurd [127]
It was Hilda who discovered the answer the very next evening as she walked with Barnikel past St Bride’s, towards St Clement Danes.
Little had changed for Hilda. Her life had been quiet. There had been one more child. If it was possible for a disappointed woman to mellow, she had done so. Her chaste rendezvous with the Dane by the banks of the Thames were perhaps her greatest pleasure.
Recently, though, she had noticed a change in her friend. It was not just that he was preoccupied; suddenly he appeared older. The grey hairs in his red beard seemed more noticeable; a slight tremor in his hand told her that some nights he drank too much.
Her father had let her know about the curious scene he had witnessed by the Jewry, so now, when she judged the moment was right, she gently asked her old friend if anything was the matter. At first he would not tell her. But when they reached the little ruined jetty at Aldwych, she made him sit on a stone, and there, gazing sadly over the Thames, he at last confessed.
His debts had slowly grown, it seemed. She suspected his secret activities had been part of the cause, but did not ask. Since the Conquest, many Danish merchants had suffered from competition with the Normans. Recently there had also been heavy taxes on Londoners to pay for King William’s castle-building. Barnikel was not ruined, but he needed money. “So soon I must go to the Jewry,” he said bleakly, and shaking his head explained: “I have lent, but I have never had to borrow before.” It obviously distressed him.
“But doesn’t Silversleeves owe you money?” she asked, remembering her father’s old debt.
He nodded. “He pays the interest.”
“So why not claim it back?” she demanded.
He rose. “And let the Norman know I need it? Let him see me crawl?” Suddenly he was almost his usual self again. “Never!” he thundered. “I’d sooner go to the Jews.”
And Hilda could only marvel, as most women do, at the vanity of men. But she thought she saw what to do.
And so, later that day, she visited her father and suggested to him: “Go to Silversleeves. Don’t tell him Barnikel’s in trouble, or that I told you. Just say that the debt’s been on your conscience and ask him to repay it. He’ll do it for you, and if it happens naturally, Barnikel needn’t guess.”
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,