London - Edward Rutherfurd [422]
In the first months when the old walled city was a charred and empty ruin, people had even wondered if it might be abandoned. Gradually it was rebuilt, but its medieval structure had gone. New fashionable developments were starting to spring up around the court area at Whitehall; the rich were more inclined to live there. Craftsmen meanwhile, who had been obliged to carry on in the northern and eastern suburbs of the city, found it cheaper to stay put. The mayor and the aldermen lacked the will to extend their authority over all these spreading areas, and the guilds felt much the same. If a man wanted the freedom of the city, and the benefits of guild membership, the old rules and the apprenticeship remained the same. But if traders and craftsmen chose to evade the rules and operate in the suburbs, there was not much the guilds could do about it. So when a group of Huguenot silk-weavers had moved into the little suburb of Spitalfields, just outside the city’s eastern wall, and their hard work and imported skill had brought them instant success, some of the low-wage earners in the area had grown jealous.
“It’s just a local affair,” Meredith told him. “The Londoners aren’t against the Huguenots, I promise you.”
But Eugene was shaking his head. He had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them – a trick he often had when he was embarrassed. During his twenties, his face had become thinner, so that now it looked finely chiselled. His eyes, though short-sighted, were a deep, lustrous brown. He’s a handsome fellow, thought Meredith; he might almost be Spanish. But the real problem for Eugene Penny was that he was French.
He had been sent to England by his father. Cautious, always planning ahead, quietly persistent, they both agreed what must be done. “The kings of France have sworn, by the Treaty of Nantes, to allow us to worship freely in perpetuity,” he had told Eugene. “But the Church of Rome is strong; the king is devout. Go to England therefore. If we are sure we are safe here, you can return. If not, you must prepare a new home for your brothers and sisters there.”
But after his last trip back to his family, Eugene had been overcome by a terrible homesickness; and with every month it had grown worse. Now, with an apologetic face, he confessed to Meredith: “I just want to go home to France. My family has come to no harm there. It cannot really be necessary for me to be here.”
Meredith hardly knew what to say. He could not counsel Eugene about the situation in France, but it concerned him that the young watchmaker should leave such a good master. “At least write to your father first to seek his permission,” he suggested but he doubted that Eugene would take his advice.
When Meredith had gone, Eugene Penny walked back slowly. He acknowledged the wisdom of what the older man said, but his heart was very torn. Making his way across the top of the slope to the broad expanse of Blackheath, he picked up the old Kent road and began the long descent towards Southwark. It was a good four-mile walk, but he did not mind. As he came down from the ridge he saw all London spread out before him – the charred city, still rebuilding, the distant palace of Whitehall, the more distant wooded slopes of Hampstead and Highgate. And wherever he looked, from London Bridge, extending downstream past the Tower and all the way along the Pool of London to beyond Wapping, he saw the ships; a forest of masts so thick that they seemed, like trees, almost to touch one another. There must, he thought, be over a hundred great vessels there, proof positive that the mighty port of London would never allow anything – plague, fire or even war – to stop its worldwide trade. How could he want to leave such a place?
On a warm afternoon a few days later, a group of men gathered in a circle at the centre of a huge, empty ruin on the city’s western hill. Several of them were simple craftsmen and stonemasons wearing their aprons – which was appropriate since the