London - Edward Rutherfurd [96]
One other factor made their lives pleasant. As the boy’s father always reminded him: “We can go to the king himself if we want justice. Never forget, Alfred, that we are free.”
This was crucial. By now, the organization of the Anglo-Saxon countryside was broadly similar to the rest of north-western Europe. The land was divided into county shires, each with a shire reeve – the sheriff – who collected the king’s taxes and oversaw justice. Each shire was divided into hundreds, each hundred containing numerous estates. These were in the hands of thanes or lesser landowners, who, like the lords of Continental manors, held their own courts over their peasants.
But when it came to the peasantry, Anglo-Saxon England was a special case. While, in general, European peasants were either serfs or free, in England it was far more complex. There was a bewildering variety of legal statuses. Some peasants were slaves, mere chattels. Others were serfs, tied to the land and subject to a lord. Still others were free, paying rent only. Some were half free but paid rent, or free but owed particular services, and there were many other categories in between. Nor, of course, were men fixed in their positions. A serf could become free, or a freeman, too poor to pay his rent and taxes, descend into servitude. The resulting kaleidoscope pattern, as court records show, was often bewildering.
About their own status, however, the family of young Alfred was very clear. Apart from that brief and long-forgotten interlude when their ancestor Offa had been a slave of Cerdic the merchant, they had been free. True, they were only modest cottagers; their land was just the tiny smallholding known as a farthing. “But we pay a money rent, in silver pennies,” Alfred’s father could truly claim. “We don’t labour for the lord like serfs.”
Like every free man in the land, therefore, young Alfred proudly wore in his belt the symbol of his treasured status: a fine new dagger.
Since his grandfather’s day, the family had been the village smiths. By the age of seven, Alfred could shoe a horse. By twelve he could swing the hammers nearly as well as his older brother. “You don’t have to be big and strong,” his father told his sons. “Skill is what matters. Let your tools do the work for you.” And Alfred learned well. The fact that, like his grandfather, he had the family’s webbed fingers did not seem to trouble him. At the age of fourteen, he was as good as his brother who was two years older.
“But there isn’t work for two smiths in this village,” he pointed out. “I’ve tried all the villages around – Windsor, Eton, even as far as Hampton. There’s nothing. So,” he declared proudly, “I’m going to London.”
What did he know about London? Truth to tell, not much. Certainly he had never been there. But ever since he was little and had learned the family saying, “There’s buried gold in London,” the city had possessed a magic significance for him. “Is there really gold there?” he used to ask his parents.
It was no surprise, therefore, when his father scornfully remarked: “You think you’ll find buried gold, I suppose.”
Perhaps he would, he thought irritably. And when his mother timidly asked him when he meant to go, he suddenly felt inspired to answer: “Tomorrow morning.”
Perhaps the strange star was speaking to him after all.
By the approach of Easter 1066, the kingdom of England had become agitated. The Saxon fleet was being hastily prepared for sea patrol. The king had taken direct charge of it.
The reports were coming in daily. William, the bastard Duke of Normandy, was preparing to invade. Knights from