London - Edward Rutherfurd [207]
It was, as his household knew, his habit to give interviews in this sanctum. But now, seeing who it was, his face darkened into a glower. “You,” he snarled. “The traitor.” And his cousin winced.
Elias Bull was ten years younger than William. Spare where the merchant was thickset, fresh-faced where William had a blotchy cheek and heavy jowl, he was a weaver, but he made a poor living. “I wouldn’t trouble you,” he had confessed at their last encounter, “but it’s for my wife and children. As you know, our grandfather cut my father off with a pittance.” All he needed was a little help. “Is it right,” he had asked William, “that the sins of the father should be visited upon the son?” William, in genuine surprise, had answered: “Yes.”
The long reign of King Henry III had not gone well for the Bull family. It had started happily enough while the council had run England wisely and efficiently for the boy king. There had been no wars of consequence. England’s mighty wool trade was booming. The city, under its mayor and oligarchic council of aldermen, had prospered. “If only,” William’s father used to say, “that boy had never come of age. Or if only,” he would add, “he hadn’t been a Plantagenet.” For was there ever a Plantagenet born without dreams of empire? Young Henry had England and still possessed the lands of Aquitaine, around Bordeaux; but he dreamed of more.
And finally he had come to grief, just like his father John: a series of foreign entanglements that were vastly expensive had aborted; a large section of the barons, led by the great Simon de Montfort, had rebelled, and had set up a new council to govern the king, as though he were a child again. Montfort had called a huge assembly of barons, knights and even burgesses, which he called a Parliament. For a few short years it had even looked as if some new kind of kingship, subject to a great council, might develop in England. And in the midst of this turmoil, the awful thing had happened.
There had been dozens of riots in London before. But this one was different. It was not just the poor folk or hot-blooded apprentices. Solid citizens – fishmongers, skinners, traders and craftsmen – had led the ancient Folkmoot in an organized rebellion against rich dynasts like the Bulls. There were riots; a party, led by a furious young fishmonger called Barnikel, had even smashed the door of Bull’s house and tried to set light to it. Worse still, Montfort had let these radicals depose the aldermen and elect new, vulgar fellows of their own. And this disgraceful state of affairs had continued for some time until at last Montfort had been killed, the king returned to power, and the old patriciate managed to get control of London again.
Worst of all – the thought of it still made Bull clench his fists in fury – his father’s own brother had joined these rebels. A number of young idealists, or opportunists, from other patrician families had done the same. “But that doesn’t make it any better,” William’s father had told him. “A traitor is a traitor, and that’s that.” The young radical had been cut off from the family for ever. And now, for the third time this year, here was the traitor’s wretched son, pestering him for help. It was an outrage. But then his brow cleared, and he even grunted with a hint of pleasure. For after the great decision he had just taken, this visit was rather appropriate. I am growing cruel, he thought. But he saw no reason why he should deny himself a modest revenge.
As the merchant stared fixedly at his unwitting victim – to whom at that moment and in his present posture he appeared like a large and rather frightening toad – he said abruptly: “I’ll give you three marks if you go away.” This was enough to improve the family’s meals for some time, but not enough to make the slightest change in their circumstances. Elias looked anguished. “But if you come and find me here in a year from today,” William shrugged, “perhaps I’ll even give you the inheritance that might have been