London - Edward Rutherfurd [229]
And then, at the start of that summer of 1348, came the plague.
It had already devastated much of Europe, and it travelled with astonishing speed. The Black Death had swept up the island of Britain and killed, perhaps, a third of the population. When it struck, it was sudden. Terrible sores and swellings appeared; fever followed, choked lungs and usually, within a few days, an agonizing death. The Great Mortality, it was called.
For Gilbert it was the dark memory. The day it reached London, he had left for Bocton and there he remained for a month with his family. Upon his father’s orders, the estate on its ridge had been virtually sealed off. The occupants of the manor and its hamlet did not leave, nor did any visitors come. Together, gazing over the great panorama of the Weald of Kent, they had waited. And by the Grace of God, the plague had passed them by.
When he did return, he found the world had changed. In the countryside, the Black Death had made labour so scarce that, with landlords competing for men to work the land, the old system of tied serfs had already broken down, never to recover. In the cities, whole streets of houses and tenements were empty. And something else had happened. A girl he had loved had gone with all her family. No one could even tell him where they were buried.
Despite the trauma, the city recovered with astonishing speed. Nothing could stop the trade of London. Fresh immigrants came in. The children of the survivors began to fill the yawning gap. Life seemed to have returned to normal. But the plague had not passed. It had only gone into hiding. For more than three centuries, like some terrible blight, it would suddenly appear and shatter the bright life of the city for a season before abruptly vanishing once more. Though where and how it dwelt meanwhile – whether in some dark, infected part of the city’s bowels, or brought back by the damp wind in a cloud – no man knew. In that spring of 1361, it had appeared again. Several London parishes had suffered. There had been many deaths in Southwark. And if this baby had been abandoned, the chances were that its family had died of plague. Bull was reluctant to touch it.
“There haven’t been any new cases for a week,” his friend remarked. “If this baby were infected, he would have died by now. I’d take him myself, except that I’m a bachelor.” But still Bull did not step forward.
They had not noticed the cart approaching, nor the puddle of water close by. As the cart passed by, it splashed them. The younger man leaped to one side with agility, but Bull was less fortunate, and a moment later was gazing down at his mud-splattered red cloak, his face a picture of woe.
And then the baby laughed.
The two men stared in surprise; but there was no mistaking it. The little round face was looking up at Bull with obvious amusement. “What a cheerful little fellow,” the younger man said. “Do let’s save him, Gilbert.” And so Bull picked the baby up.
A few minutes later, as the two men parted in the middle of London Bridge, Gilbert Bull gazed at the little bundle he was holding in his arms. “Now see what that damned fellow had made me do,” he murmured with a smile. He had known his young friend for some years now: he had a junior position in the king’s service, though his father and grandfather had dealt in wine. Before that, however, Bull assumed that the family must have been shoemakers, since their name came from the French word for shoes, chaussures. He was very fond of young Geoffrey Chaucer.
“Your name is Ducket. Ours is Bull.” It was the first sentence he remembered being addressed to him. How large and impressive the merchant had seemed as he spoke the words, not unkindly, but firmly. Until that moment, the little boy had vaguely supposed that he was part of the family. Now he understood that he was not. It had been the day their daughter was born, when