The Forest - Edward Rutherfurd [117]
Alan Seagull nodded. He wondered if Willie hankered after this sort of thing himself but, as far as he could see, his son was quite happy just to observe the merchant’s way of life. All the same, there were two warnings he decided it was time to give his son. ‘You know, Willie,’ he said quietly, ‘you mustn’t think that Jonathan will always be your friend.’
‘Why, Dad? He’s all right.’
‘I know. But one day things will change. It’ll just happen.’
‘I should mind that.’
‘Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. And there’s something else.’ Alan Seagull looked at his son carefully now.
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘There’s things you mustn’t tell him, even if he is your friend.’
‘You mean …?’
‘About our business, son. You know what I mean.’
‘Oh, that.’
‘You keep your mouth shut, don’t you?’
‘’Course I do.’
‘You mustn’t ever talk about that. Not to any Totton. You understand?’
‘I know,’ Willie said. ‘I won’t.’
The bet was made that night. It was Geoffrey Burrard who made it, in the Angel Inn.
But Henry Totton took it. He calculated and then he took it. Half of Lymington was witness.
The Angel Inn was a friendly establishment at the top of the High Street; all the classes of Lymington folk used the place, so it was no surprise that Burrard and Totton should have chanced to meet there that evening. The family of both men belonged to the class known as yeomen: free farmers owning their own land, or prosperous local merchants. Both were important figures in the little town – men of worship, as the saying was. Both lived in gabled houses with overhanging upper floors; each owned shares in two or three ships and exported wool through the great Staple entrepôt at Calais. If the Burrards had been in Lymington longer than the Tottons, the Tottons were no less devoted to the interests of the borough. In particular, the two men were united by a common cause.
The big port of Southampton had been a significant town when Lymington was only a hamlet. Centuries before, Southampton had been granted jurisdiction over all the smaller harbours along that part of the southern coast, and the rights to collect any royal customs and taxes on cargoes shipped in and out. The mayor of Southampton was even called ‘Admiral’ in royal documents. But by the time of the Hundred Years War, when Lymington was supplying the king with vessels of its own, this overlordship of the bigger port seemed an offence to Lymington’s pride. ‘We’ll collect the customs for ourselves,’ the Lymington burgesses declared. ‘We’ve got our own borough to support.’ Indeed, there had been sporadic disputes and court cases, now, for over a hundred and sixty years.
The fact that several of the burgesses of Southampton were his kinsmen in no way diluted Totton’s commitment to this cause. After all, his own interests lay in Lymington. With his precise mind he went into the whole matter thoroughly and advised his fellow burgesses: ‘The issue of royal customs is still in Southampton’s favour, but if we limit our claims to keelage and wharfage tolls, I’m sure we can win.’ He was right.
‘Where would we be without you, Henry?’ Burrard would say approvingly.
He was a big, handsome, florid-faced man, some years older than Totton. Exuberant, where Totton was quiet, impetuous where Totton was careful, the two friends had one other rather surprising passion in common.
Burrard and Totton loved to bet. They frequently bet against each other. Burrard would bet on a hunch and was quite successful. Henry Totton bet on probabilities.
In a way, for Totton, everything was a wager. You calculated the odds. It was what he did with every business transaction; even the great tides of history, it seemed to him, were just a series of bets that had gone one way or the other. Look at the history of Lymington. Back