Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [407]
Still Wilson had not finished. More than Godfrey realised, he himself represented long memories of feudal power and oppression that the Wilsons had resented for centuries and now, finding Eustace in his own power, the merchant could give vent to feelings he had brooded over all his life.
“I am a merchant; my grandfather was born a villein. I have no interest in your bishop, your magnate or your king. I hope they all kill each other in their wars – like they did last year at St Albans. Let them fight some more and die many more. As for your daughter, she’s got no money and we don’t want her.”
Having finished, he grabbed the plate with both hands, pulled it back towards him and without looking up again, continued to eat the remainder of the salted tongues. Robert did not move or speak, but looked at Godfrey with what might have been mild curiosity.
Shaking with fury, but utterly impotent, Eustace slowly rose and walked out of the room. He hoped his exit was dignified, but he was not sure.
It was a tribute to his remarkable persistence that after only half an hour, he was ready to try again.
His call this time was on Curtis the butcher. For Lizzie would certainly make an excellent bride for Oliver.
“She’s an heiress and she’s good-looking,” he had explained to Oliver, “and she isn’t spoken for yet.”
He arrived at nine o’clock at the butcher’s house and this time, chastened by the last meeting, stated his case more simply, though dwelling generously on his son’s attainments and prospects.
To his relief, he received a polite welcome. Indeed, the heavy-set butcher was attracted by the thought of marrying his daughter to a gentleman who, if fallen in the world, could still boast noble blood.
“He’s very little money,” Godfrey stated frankly.
“Wouldn’t matter. I’ve plenty,” Curtis replied. “The trouble is,” he confessed sadly, “you’ve come two hours too late. I promised her to Wilson’s boy this evening.”
Godfrey’s face fell. While he had been walking round the town waiting for him, the merchant dressed in black had been quietly stealing all his hopes away.
“I’d change my mind, even though he’s rich,” Curtis went on. “But,” he grimaced, “I daren’t annoy the spider.”
And so Eustace Godfrey returned to his house near the close, still empty-handed.
After Godfrey had left them, John Wilson and his son had not shifted their respective positions for some minutes.
The merchant had quietly finished his meal, his son silently watching him.
Only then did John Wilson speak.
“That man’s a fool.”
Something in Robert’s impassive face suggested that he agreed.
John Wilson took a raisin and chewed it thoughtfully.
“That girl, Lizzie Curtis, I got for you. She’s not stupid.” He glanced up. “Might be a bit of a handful though.”
And now Robert spoke.
“I’ll know how to handle her.” The words were said very quietly.
John Wilson looked at his son curiously.
“Think so?”
“Oh yes.” And for the first time that evening, his lips formed into a thin smile.
Wilson shrugged.
“Do what you like,” he remarked, and got up from the table.
The procession of keeping the Midsummer Watch, on St John’s Eve, was a magnificent affair. The houses were decorated, some with dozens of lamps hanging over their doorways, others with bundles of birch, or wreaths of lilies and St John’s wort.
At the head of the procession, riding on splendid horses, came the mayor and the council members magnificently dressed in long gowns of scarlet-coloured Salisbury ray. With them came the symbols of their Fraternity, a figure of St George followed by his dragon. It was only two centuries since St George had become a popular saint, but since then numerous societies had adopted him and he had even become the patron saint of England itself. There were cheers as the men carrying the figure shook it until the armour in which he was dressed clanked loudly.
Behind them came the members of the guilds: the butchers, saddlers, smiths, carpenters, barber surgeons, fullers, weavers, shoemakers: there were nearly forty guilds in all, each with its sign and its