London - Edward Rutherfurd [232]
“How does one become mayor?” he asked one day.
For answer, Whittington pointed to a stout building in the Cheap, just below where the Jewry had once begun. “Do you know what that is?” he asked.
On the site where the family of Thomas Becket used to live stood a handsome chapel, with a hall above, dedicated to the memory of the London saint. “That’s where the Mercers Guild meets,” Whittington explained. “First you become a member; then perhaps the warden; and then they make you mayor. The guild, that’s the thing.” And Ducket looked at the building and thought that to be a mercer like Bull and Whittington must be the finest thing in the world.
When he was seven, young Geoffrey Ducket was sent to school at St Mary-le-Bow. He had been a little fearful of this, but when he got there he received one pleasant surprise. Though the children were taught to read and write Latin, of course, the classes were now being conducted in English.
Bull was astonished. In a conversation which the little boy did not overhear, he complained to Whittington: “It was Latin and the birch in my day. What’s the matter with them?”
“All the schools are starting to teach in English now, sir,” the young gentleman laughed. “After all, even at court they speak English.”
The merchant was not convinced though. “I suppose it’s good enough for a foundling,” he grumbled.
And then there was the girl. A wavy mass of dark hair, a pale little face with a rather pointed nose, small red lips, grey-blue eyes. Theophania, the priest had solemnly baptized her, using the Latin form of her name. But never, after that day, was she known as anything but simple, English, Tiffany. Bull adored her.
Ducket had paid little attention to her until she was five, when Whittington’s stay in the house came to an end; but in the years that followed he was often her companion and, remembering Whittington’s kindness to him, tried to be kind to her in turn. Besides, it was pleasant to have someone who looked up to him and followed him around so faithfully. He would even break off from some game of ball or wrestling to play hide-and-seek with her or, as she loved best of all, to carry her on his shoulders across the bridge and back. Sometimes he would take her fishing and they would catch a trout or one of the salmon with which the river was so plentifully stocked.
Of all the things a young man could do, the most daring and dangerous feat was at London Bridge. One day, when Ducket was eleven, Whittington casually remarked to him: “If you watch the river tomorrow morning, you might see something of interest.” It could only mean one thing. No one had done it in months.
The next morning, hand in hand, he and Tiffany stood at the big upstairs window. It was a fine day and the Thames was sparkling, but thirty feet below them the water eddied impatiently by the great stone pier and poured down with a terrifying roar through the channel. “Will he be safe?” Tiffany whispered. “Of course he will,” Ducket said. But secretly he was not so sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have let her see this, he thought.
There was Whittington, with two friends in a long boat, standing in the stern and sculling with a single oar as if he had not a care in the world. Dear God, how brave he looked! As he approached, he glanced up, smiled and gave a cheerful wave. He was wearing a blue neckerchief. Then he coolly set the prow of the boat at the centre of the arch, and sailed into the race.
It was just now that Ducket realized that Bull was standing behind them. His big face looked stern. “Damned young fool,” he said, but Ducket thought he detected approval in his voice. “Better see if he’s alive,” Bull said as the boat disappeared below them, and he led the two children out and across the bridge to the downstream side. Whittington had already been