London - Edward Rutherfurd [209]
Yet even then, the old guard had not quite given up. They had ruled London for centuries, after all. Many, indeed, had looked to Bull – a respectable figure not yet tainted by office – as a possible champion. Recently he had thought he saw his chance.
A year ago, to help pay for the coming Scottish campaign. King Edward had overstepped the mark by abruptly raising the customs on wool. This new tax, known as the maltote, was so severe that all London had protested. And while the city was still simmering, the post of alderman for Bull’s own ward suddenly fell vacant.
He had been assiduous. “In my father’s day,” he remarked to his family, “we owned so much of this ward that the aldermanry was ours for the asking.” But he made no such assumptions now. Swallowing his pride, he had courted the lesser merchants and craftsmen; he had made himself agreeable to the king’s warden. Even one of the vulgar new aldermen quietly confessed to him: “We need a sound man of standing, like you.” As the day drew close, no one from the ward had troubled to challenge him.
And yesterday the day had come. Discreetly, happily, his sense of family history lending him a dignity of which he was rather proud, William Bull in a fine new cloak had presented himself at the Guildhall to be chosen.
The Exchequer man who waved him away had scarcely troubled even to be polite. “We don’t want you,” he said curtly. “We’ve chosen someone else.” When Bull, mystified, had protested – “But I’m unopposed” – the fellow had only snapped back, “Not from your ward. From Billingsgate.” An outside man. It was unusual, though sometimes done.
“Who?” he had asked, mortified.
And then the reply, quite casual. “Barnikel,” the fellow said.
Barnikel. That cursed, low-born fishmonger. Barnikel of Billingsgate, alderman of the Bulls’ own ward! For several minutes he stood outside the Guildhall, almost unable to take it in. And now, as he brooded about it once more, he knew: it was too much to bear.
The great decision was made: it was time to go.
Which left the smaller decision.
It should have been easy – and pleasant too. The message from Bankside had certainly been intriguing. A virgin at the Dog’s Head. A rarity indeed. Only the most favoured customers were being told: you could be sure of that. Though his own excursions to the whorehouse were only occasional, he was still a patrician, and the brothelkeeper was always as respectful as he was discreet.
So why did he hesitate? A pang of guilt. Was it really necessary to feel guilty? As if in answer to his thoughts at that moment, there was a thump at the door, followed by a querulous voice. Inwardly he groaned.
“What are you doing?” His wife.
“What the devil do you suppose?” he thundered.
“No you aren’t. You’ve been in there an hour.” Was this, he asked himself, any way to address a middle-aged merchant of distinction? “I know what you’re doing,” her voice went on. “You’re thinking.” He sighed. The rows between his great-grandmother Ida and her husband were part of family legend: but surely, he thought, no Bull had ever had to put up with a wife like his. “I heard you,” she called. “You sighed.”
He had tried, over twenty miserable years, to love her. After all, he daily reminded himself, she had given him three strong children. But it was not easy and, in the last few years, he had quietly given up. Grey, gaunt, insistent, she complained if he was out and harassed him if he was home.