London - Edward Rutherfurd [94]
Would he have stayed here if he had not lost the girl in Caen? Probably not. He had been so sure she was his; he had loved her since she was a child. What had he loved? Was it her little snub nose, so different from his own heavy protuberance? As the years passed, that was the only thing he could precisely recall about her, yet deep within him, the sharp remembrance of that pain remained like a lodestar to guide him on his way.
And to have lost her to a Becket. Whenever his family’s hatred of these rival merchants had begun, it had certainly existed by his grandfather’s day. It was not just a question of business. There was something in their character. And it was not just that they were quick, lively, clever and charming, though that was bad enough. They all had a truculence, a deep-seated egotism that irritated many, and which his family had learned to loathe.
She had been his. Until one day, round a corner, he had heard young Becket talking to her. They were laughing.
“How will you kiss him, my dear? The nose is an impenetrable barrier – don’t you see? A fortress that no one has ever got past. It’s magnificent, of course. One admires it like a mountain. But don’t you know that since Noah’s Flood, no member of that family has ever been kissed?”
He had turned away. He was fifteen. The very next day, she had been cool towards him. A year later she had married young Becket. After that, his home town had become hateful to him.
The years of Edward the Confessor had been good for him. In London he had married and prospered, made useful friends in Edward’s cosmopolitan court, and become a valued benefactor of St Paul’s cathedral, a man of importance.
He had also gained a new name.
It had happened one morning soon after his marriage. Walking along the stalls in the West Cheap he had paused at a long table where some silversmiths were working. Fascinated, he had leaned over the table to watch them, and remained there some time. It was when he was finally moving away that the voice had called out: “Look, that one must be rich. He’s got silver sleeves.”
Silver sleeves. He thought about it. Silversleeves. And since it made no reference to his nose, and suggested he was rich, he decided to adopt it. Silversleeves: a rich man’s name. “And soon I’ll deserve it,” he had promised his wife.
Now, as Silversleeves gazed at the chessboard, he allowed himself a faint smile. He loved chess, with its play of power and its secret harmonies. In his years of trading he had learned to look for similar patterns in his business. And had found them. Sometimes subtle, often cruel, the affairs of men were like an elaborate game to Silversleeves.
He enjoyed playing chess with Henri. Though Henri lacked his father’s deep strategy, he was a masterful tactician, brilliant in improvising sudden solutions. Silversleeves had tried to teach his younger son too, but Ralph could not follow the game, getting into embarrassed rages while Henri looked on with mild contempt.
If he was secretly disappointed in Ralph, however, Silversleeves never showed it. Indeed, like many a clever father he felt a protective affection for his stupid son, doing his best to make the brothers friends and assuring their mother: “They will share my fortune equally.”
Nevertheless, it was Henri who would one day run the business. Already the young man thoroughly understood the details of making, shipping and storing wine. He also knew his customers. And at quiet times like this, Silversleeves could share other, deeper thoughts with him to improve his understanding. This evening, his mind full of the calculations of the last few days, he decided to broach a most important subject.
“I have an interesting case to consider,” he