London - Edward Rutherfurd [242]
In fact, he had already thought about it many times. “In an ideal world,” he had told his wife, “I’d have been happy to see her marry one of Chaucer’s children. But as he’s only just started a family, that’s no good.” He had dropped broad hints to young Whittington, but the rumour was, alas, that the young man had another prospect in mind. Socially, he would have been glad of a knight. “But not a fool.”
Now, gazing affectionately at his docile wife and obedient daughter and, without thinking about what he was saying, Gilbert Bull expansively remarked:
“I want you to think about it Tiffany, but I shall never force you. The choice will be yours. You may marry whomever you wish.”
It was not a concession many fathers in his position would have given. Though, so impressed had he been by the performance with the astrolabe that he could not resist adding casually: “You might do worse, I dare say, than consider young Silversleeves.”
Not everyone was so impressed. As the guests made their way out on to London Bridge, that evening, Whittington turned to Ducket, and pointed at the lawyer who was walking a little way in front of them.
“I hate that fellow,” he remarked.
“Why?” asked Ducket, who had felt, rather humbly, that the clever young man belonged in a different world from his own.
“I’ve no idea,” Whittington snorted. “But he’s no good.” At the end of the bridge, as Silversleeves turned left towards St Paul’s, he hissed in a whisper the lawyer could not fail to hear. “Why doesn’t someone clear up St Lawrence Silversleeves? It stinks.” Benedict Silversleeves, however, did not turn to look at them. “Humbug,” Whittington muttered.
If the thought of her future husband occupied Tiffany’s thoughts, she was not sure quite what to do about it. In the coming months she and her girl friends would sit in the big window overlooking the waters of the Thames that rushed under the bridge, and discuss the merits of all the men they knew. One boy they all wanted to marry.
Shortly after Bull’s birthday, Edward III had finally died, and the Black Prince’s ten-year-old son Richard was proclaimed king; with his uncle John of Gaunt as his loyal guardian.
“He’s the same age as us,” the girls all said. Young Richard was undeniably handsome. His features were clear-cut; his bearing, even at such a young age, was gracious. If he was opinionated, only those closest to him knew it. “And his eyes,” one girl said with a rapturous sigh, “look sad.” They had all seen him. But how to meet him?
Kings did not marry merchants’ daughters however, even if they had a fine house on London Bridge. “Perhaps your father will find you someone you like,” Tiffany’s mother said soothingly. But though Tiffany did not object, she remembered his promise. “He said I could choose,” she said meekly.
Ever since he had joined Fleming, Ducket had kept his word to Tiffany and called to see her every week. Sometimes they would sit in the kitchen with the cook, but if the weather was fine they would go out. One bright October day that year, they went to see Chaucer.
Ducket had seen more of his godfather recently for Chaucer had a new position nowadays, that kept him in London. He was Comptroller of Wool Customs.
The London Customs House was a huge, barn-like building that stood on the wharf between Billingsgate and the Tower. The royal regulations that covered all wool exports insisted that they only pass through certain ports – this was the great Staple organization of England. And the Staple port of London was one of the greatest. On any day, hundreds of sacks of wool would arrive there to be checked, weighed and paid for. And only when duty had been paid would they be tagged and stamped with the royal seal, supervised by Chaucer himself before being loaded and allowed to proceed downstream. Ducket enjoyed visiting Chaucer here, watching the men hauling the sacks to the weigh-beam, as the wool-fluff, which always covered the great wooden floor, constantly stirred. Chaucer would show him the endless sheets of parchment on which he and his clerks kept the records