London - Edward Rutherfurd [226]
Nor were the heavens indifferent to men below. Comets and shooting stars were messages from God. Though the Church was uncomfortable with the pagan superstition of astrology, most Christians paid heed to the signs of the Zodiac. Each planet had a character and its influence upon men was undoubted. Similarly, all matter was composed of the four elements – air, fire, earth and water – and to match them, the year had four seasons and men four humours. All things in God’s universe were connected in this mystical way.
And if, in this ordered universe, the Earth was at the centre, then was there a place upon Earth’s surface which could be called the focal point of the whole system? Here opinions differed widely. Some said Rome, others Jerusalem. The Christians of the East might claim Constantinople, the Saracens Mecca. But ask a true Londoner, and he could tell you at once. The centre of the universe was none of these. It was London Bridge.
By now, London Bridge was far more than just a crossing. In the century and a half since it was rebuilt in stone, the long platform on its nineteen arches had grown a massive superstructure. Down the centre ran a carriageway wide enough for two laden carts to pass; on each side were lines of tall, gabled houses jutting out over the river, and some of these buildings were joined across the thoroughfare by foot-bridges. Only one of the nineteen spans was not built upon and this was a drawbridge, so that even the tallest masted vessels could pass upstream. There were two big gateways. At one, all “foreigners” entering the city paid tolls. In the middle, enlarged into a two-storey building, was the old chapel of St Thomas Becket.
The bridge had, besides, one other particular feature: so massive were the piers supporting the arches that it acted as a kind of dam. When the tide was flowing slowly upriver, this was hardly noticeable, but when the tide was flowing downstream and the full weight of high tide water and the river current met this partial dam, it was held in check. At such times, the level on the downstream side of the bridge fell several feet below that of the pent-up waters on the upstream side, and each archway turned into a seething mill-race as the water rushed furiously down. Sometimes the more daring watermen would put their boats in to shoot these rapids, but it was a dangerous pastime. One mistake, a capsize, and even a strong man might be drowned.
Upon London Bridge, the heads of traitors were stuck on spikes for all to see. National triumphs were marked by gorgeous processions over the water. The bridge was the focal point of the city and of all England.
On a sunlit day in May, Gilbert Bull’s burly form had been crammed into a short, waist-length tunic and blue and green hose.
The bridge was festooned with garlands. On the city side, the mayor and aldermen were waiting in their red robes and furs, the city’s two gold and silver maces carried before them. Attending them were the leaders of the guilds, some in their liveries, others carrying banners depicting their crafts. There were the canons of St Paul’s; the Black Friars; the Grey Friars and monks, nuns and priests from a hundred parishes, dressed as sumptuously as their orders allowed. All around, standing upon every vantage point, thousands of spectators strained to catch the extraordinary sight.
A King of France was being led captive to the city.
In recent decades, the ancient conflict between France and the Plantagenets had entered a new and different phase known, by later historians, as the Hundred Years War. By accidents of marriage and genealogy, the Plantagenets could now assert a claim to inherit the French throne; and though the French denied the claim, English monarchs would henceforth, for generations, add the French fleur-de-lys to their royal coat of arms.