London - Edward Rutherfurd [184]
It was as Godefroi clattered out of the yard one morning, watched by David, Brother Michael and Ida, that the boy turned to his stepmother and remarked, “I wish my father was like that.”
Ida only laughed. And then she said the hurtful thing.
“Don’t be silly,” she told him. “Just look at your father. You can see at once that he’s only a merchant.” Then, with a sigh, “Nobles are born, not made.” Though, to cheer him up she added: “I’ll find you a noble wife. Perhaps your son could be a knight.”
And so the London merchant’s son came to understand that not only was his powerful father wrong in his attitudes, not only was he of lower rank than the feudal knight, but God had actually created him inferior. He had not known this before.
But it was true. Except in London itself, Norman and Plantagenet rule had produced one huge change in English society. The Anglo-Saxon noble had boasted of his warrior ancestry, but his nobility had actually derived from his wealth. A man with enough land was noble; rich London merchants became thanes. In time of war, they had led the old English levy drawn from their fields.
Their Norman supplanters were quite separate from the English people. Godefroi might run his estate at Avonsford like his Saxon predecessor, but he had another in Normandy. He could speak English, but his first language was still French. He did not lead his peasants to war, because the old, untrained English levy was hardly used any more. Lionheart’s troops were hired – tough archers from Wales and the terrifying routiers, the mercenaries from the Continent. The knight might be rich, or very poor. Bull could have bought even Godefroi twice over. But he belonged to a separate, European, military aristocracy, a caste united in a vast cousinship that looked upon all others with disdain. It was a perception of nobility that, once rooted in the island of Britain, would haunt its society.
Alderman Sampson Bull saw, cannily, that his family could, over time, buy and marry its way into this nobility. Ida knew it too, but regretted the fact. As for young David, when he looked at the knight he saw only magic. And from now on, when he looked at his father, he would see him as base and, despite the fact they were father and son, secretly despise him. This was Ida’s latest gift to her husband.
All this the monk observed, and he grieved. It was at the next family visit, however, that the real shock came.
After the meal, he had gone outside with his brother and the boy. The hall was quiet; Ida had gone to supervise the larder; the knight was sitting alone in silence. Only by chance had Brother Michael gone back and seen them.
Godefroi was standing, as quiet and motionless as ever. Ida had re-entered and was standing in front of him, saying something softly. Then she reached out her hand and touched the knight on the arm. With that tiny gesture, it seemed to Brother Michael that he knew. Turning pale, he backed out.
The awful dream came that night. He saw her pale body intertwined with the knight’s, saw her long neck stretch in ecstasy, saw him possess her. He saw her dark eyes, her long hair falling over her breasts; he heard her utter a small cry. And awoke with a huge, cold anguish that caused him first to sit bolt upright, then to pace his little cell. Nor did he find it possible to sleep again, but paced up and down the five night hours before dawn with that same terrible image of Ida’s lovemaking continuing all the time, now this way, now that, before him.
It was soon after dawn and the birds were in their full May chorus when he made his way across Smithfield and down towards St Paul’s. There, by the door, as a single bell summoned a few chaste souls to prime, he saw the silent figure of Godefroi approaching.
When the pious knight heard what he had to say, he did not even deign to show surprise. “You accuse me of adultery,