London - Edward Rutherfurd [180]
In feudal Europe a commune was treated as though it were a single, feudal baron. The farm was paid to the king by the mayor, who raised it as he thought fit; the aid was paid similarly. But since the commune was a single, feudal baron, when it came to the tallage, it was as though all the thousands of freemen within the city’s walls had vanished. They were no longer the king’s men; they belonged to a baron called London. No tallage was payable. The commune was, in reality, a form of tax haven not for the rich but for ordinary citizens. No wonder, then, that the Exchequer clerk regarded it with horror.
“Would you support a commune?” he asked.
“I would,” Bull gruffly replied.
Ida had listened to this disloyal conversation with mounting horror. Who did these arrogant merchants think they were? Perhaps if her visit to Bocton had not sharply reminded her of her former state, she might have kept silent. If she had been the widow of a magnate, familiar with the power of the great European cities, she would have known better. But she was only the widow of a provincial knight; nor was she clever. So, with nothing but the prejudices of her class to sustain her, she now addressed her husband with disdain.
“You are speaking of the king!” she protested. “We owe him obedience.” Seeing their astonished looks, she burst out: “You call yourselves barons? You’re nothing but merchants. You talk of a commune. It’s an impertinence. The king will crush you, and quite rightly. You should pay your taxes and do as you’re told.” Then, finally, “You forget your place.”
Within this speech lay all the pain of her own humiliation, and a reminder to them that, whatever they might do to her, she was still a lady. Flushed and angry, Ida felt rather proud. It did not occur to her that every word of it was absurd.
For a moment Bull was completely silent, staring down impassively at the heavy oak table. Then he spoke.
“I see I made a mistake when I married you, my lady. I had not realized you were so stupid. But as my wife I believe your place is to obey me, so get out.”
As she turned, white and shaking, she saw young David at the door, watching her.
In the weeks that followed, the relationship between Ida and Bull remained cold. Both were secretly hurt by the exchange, and like other couples who discover they despise one another, they retreated into a state of armed neutrality.
Brother Michael continued to come to the house. He did what he could to make them cheerful, and prayed for them, but he was not sure if he had much success. As for David, if Ida wondered what he made of the dispute, it soon became clear, for only days afterwards, sitting quietly with her one afternoon, he asked: “Is my father wicked?” When she replied that of course he wasn’t, he persisted, “But surely he shouldn’t speak against the king?”
“No,” she admitted frankly, “he shouldn’t.” But she refused to discuss it any further.
Only one thing during this period gave her a small satisfaction. Despite her failure to interest him before her marriage, she did not give up in her attempt to claim kinship with the Lord Fitzwalter. Once, cleverly trapping him as he came from a Mass in St Paul’s, she forced him to acknowledge her existence. Meanwhile, by referring to him frequently as her kinsman, she could see that she had impressed several of her husband’s friends, who displayed in her presence a faint social discomfort which, at this time, was her greatest pleasure.
And so autumn proceeded into winter. In early December, King Richard crossed the sea to Normandy, and England was quiet.
It was one winter’s night that Sister Mabel nearly sent Brother Michael to perdition. Or so, in after years, she liked to think.
Midwinter had come to London, and all the world was seeking warmth. At St Bartholomew’s it was the feast of Christmas. Darkness had fallen and there was a quarter-moon. The priory roof was covered with a mantle of snow; the interior of the cloister was