London - Edward Rutherfurd [179]
In the months following, Brother Michael often blamed himself. If I had just led her out, he would think, she would not have heard. I should have guessed the way things would go. However, partly because he was curious to listen himself, he had not. And certainly, nothing in her life had prepared Ida for what came next.
For, quite coolly, her husband now addressed himself to the clerk.
“The king’s a fool. The barons of London are not to be trifled with like this.”
Ida knew that the rich London burghers liked to call themselves barons, but had always supposed it a piece of foolish pretension. However, if she expected a sharp reaction from the king’s man, none came. Silversleeves knew better. A strong king like William the Conqueror or Henry II could dominate the city, but during the anarchic period before King Henry, which older folk could still remember, the Londoners in their huge walled city had been capable of holding the balance of power in the kingdom. Besides, the cautious Exchequer man, though determined to do his master’s work, was equally anxious in these uncertain times to make as few enemies as possible. To Ida’s surprise, therefore, he now sat down opposite Bull at the oak table and remarked in a voice that was almost apologetic, “Richard, you must understand, knows nothing of England, and cares less.”
“Then the city will oppose him.”
“The king is powerful at present,” Silversleeves observed. “I think you’ll have to pay.”
“This year, yes. Next year, perhaps not. After that,” Bull looked at him steadily, “we shall see.” He shrugged. “With a bit of luck he’ll be killed on crusade and we’ll be rid of him.”
Ida gasped. But far from protesting at this, as she thought he must, Silversleeves instead leaned forward and confidentially asked, “We all know this is a mistake, but tell me honestly, how bad is London’s reaction going to be?”
Bull considered for a few moments before delivering his verdict. When he spoke, his voice was grave. “If the king won’t play by the rules, if he turns his back on custom,” he looked Silversleeves carefully in the eye, “we won’t stand for it.”
To Ida the words seemed rather foolish. To Pentecost they were frightening. Custom was everything in England. The old common law that governed every manor and village in the kingdom might not be written down, but the Norman conquerors had wisely never attempted to touch it. Similarly, the customs of London might not be formally set out, but every king since William had respected them. This was the code the Norse and Saxon burghers of the city lived by. Within its limits, they were flexible. Break the code, and cooperation would end. Ida only dimly guessed this. Pentecost had known it from his cradle.
It was then that Bull added something that to Ida sounded even stranger, though in time the curious word he used would become as familiar to her as it would be loathsome.
“Frankly,” he remarked, “it wouldn’t surprise me if this didn’t lead to a commune.”
Silversleeves went pale.
A commune. Ida had only a vague idea of what such a thing might be, although in fact, as an institution, it was not new. In Normandy, the ancient city of Rouen had possessed a commune for half a century, and other European cities had versions of it. In the past, the barons of London had been known to raise the idea from time to time, though never with much success.
For the commune was every burgher’s dream. It meant, in effect, that the city became a self-governing unit with almost no interference from the monarch. A kingdom within the kingdom, electing its own governor, who was usually called by the French term of mayor. But there was another feature of the Continental commune of which Silversleeves was well aware.
There were three main ways in which the king obtained his income. The first was the yearly farm from the counties; the other two were occasional taxes, levied for special purposes as the king and his council thought best, one of which was the aid, in theory a gift given to the king by all his feudal