London - Edward Rutherfurd [97]
Early one morning at this perilous time, when a cold night had left a frost upon the rutted streets, Barnikel the Dane was making his way from Leofric’s house to his own on the eastern hill.
He had just passed over the little stream that ran down between the twin hills, and which, since it came through the city’s northern wall, was now called the Walbrook, when he was arrested by a pitiful sight.
The lane lay along the line of the lower Roman thoroughfare. On his right, on the Walbrook’s eastern bank, the Roman Governor’s Palace had once stood, though the memory of its elegant courtyards was long gone now, covered by the German merchants’ wharf. Along the street where sentries once patrolled, there was now a line of stalls and workshops belonging to the candlemakers. Candlewick Street, they called it. Of imperial grandeur there was not a trace – except for one curious object.
Somehow, the old milestone marker that had stood by the palace gate had remained, like the obstinate stump of some ancient oak, rooted for nine hundred years or more in its place by the side of the street. And because they were vaguely aware that this familiar though mysterious object came from the city’s antiquity, the citizens referred to it, with some respect, as the London Stone.
It was beside the London Stone that Barnikel saw the pathetic little figure.
It was three days since Alfred had eaten. His filthy woollen cloak was wrapped tightly around him as he huddled by the Stone. His face was very pale. At the moment his feet were numb with cold. Later, if he could warm them somewhere, perhaps by a brazier, they would hurt.
The first month he had been in London, Alfred had been a young fellow seeking work, only he had found none and had no friends to sponsor him. By the second month he was cadging food. By the third, he was a vagrant. The people of London were not especially cruel, but vagrants threatened the community. Soon, he realized, someone would report him. For all he knew he would be dragged before the Hustings court, and then what? He did not know. So, as he heard the heavy footfall approaching him, he huddled even closer to the cold stone. Only when he was addressed did he look up, and saw, towering over him, the largest man he had ever beheld in his life.
“What is your name?”
Alfred told him.
“Where are you from?”
“Windsor.”
“What is your trade?”
Again, Alfred told him. Was he free? Yes. When had he last eaten? Had he yet stolen? No. Only one barleycake, which had fallen on the ground. The questions continued like a catechism until finally the huge red-bearded man gave a snort, though what it signified Alfred did not know.
“Get up.”
He did so. Then, unaccountably, he fell down. He shook his head and tried again, but once more his legs buckled. At that moment, more astonished than frightened, he felt the Dane’s massive arms lift him up and toss him over one shoulder as though he was a small sack of flour, while the big man began striding along the street towards the East Cheap, humming to himself.
Not long afterwards Alfred found himself in a large homestead with a steep wooden roof on the far side of the eastern hill. Better yet, he was in the hall, before a huge brazier, where a quiet, grey-haired, broad-faced woman was heating a big bowl of broth that smelt, to him, like all the good meals he had ever eaten.
While she was getting this broth, Alfred looked around the hall. Everything in it seemed huge, from the great oak chair to the stout oak doors, and on the wall hung a mighty two-handed battle-axe. The Dane was standing on the other side of the brazier, so that Alfred could not see him very well. By and by, he remarked: “We’ll feed you, my young friend, but then you must go home to where you came from. Do you understand?”
He had not