‘Haimo,’ I said, ‘you have made a decent profit. It would have been bigger if we’d done this sooner.’
‘But you weren’t here sooner,’
‘That is true. More’s the pity. Even so, you should buy yourself new clothes. A prosperous man needs to look prosperous. You are a walking exemplar for your business.’
‘Our business,’ he corrected me.
‘Indeed.’
‘So you should buy some new clothes too.’
The old boy was growing quite skittish.
Something that looked like spring came at last with a bluster of wind and a tremble of daffodils. A hulk capsized downriver and bales of cloth were washed ashore as far up as Les Andelys. Houses up and down put out their rugs to air and stretched out their sheets gaily on clothes-lines across the alleys. There was, as there always is, a sense of refreshment and new beginnings.
Before Easter came, something occurred that made the Duke angry. We heard all about it from another wagoner who had come from Caen where the Duke was quartering. Henry had had a long-standing quarrel with his Archbishop of York, the man called Thurstan, who would not agree to being ranked lower than the Archbishop of Canterbury, and exiled him from England. The Archbishop was now trudging around France, long in the face, and making trouble. The Pope’s decision was that Henry, on pain of excommunication, had to let him go back to England, and the Pope was insisting on a meeting between the Duke and his Legate. This whole matter of Normandy, the Duke’s homage to the King of France, the Archbishop’s return to England, Prince William’s succession, and the submission of the barons still opposed to Henry, was coming to a head.
It didn’t mean much to most people, to whom the price of bread is more important than a battle, but of course I was interested. Alice and I talked about it, and our feeling was that our own position would be better if the Duke was a happy man. I was still on the list of those who had stood against him at Breteuil, officially an enemy. I could not forget that short sojourn I had spent in the dungeon at Ivry. It could happen again, without warning, without reason. As for Alice, she was a deserter; she had run away from her mistress who happened to be the Duke’s daughter. Juliana, now reconciled to her father could say anything if she chose: that Alice had stolen silver, was living immorally; anything. Alice too could find herself on a bed of straw in a hard place. If the Duke could do that to his own brother, who still lay prisoner in a castle, who knows what he could do to a passing irritation. He could crush us like fruit flies.
It was Easter, late this year, when the killing started again (well, it started before Easter so that we should have enough meat for the Easter rush), and after that the year rolled forward in a familiar butcher’s trundle, for I realised with some shock that we had been in Rouen a full twelve months and could almost consider ourselves Rouennais.
We went to Mass on Good Friday, and again on Easter Day – twice. There were plenty of eyes and mouths to tell on you if you didn’t in Rouen.
At Ascension-tide, there was great excitement upriver at Vernon, a dozen miles or so away. The Pope’s legate, Cardinal Cuno, had arrived to see the Duke, and they were joined by Archbishop Thurstan, stubborn old josser that he was. Some said it was a snub to Rouen that the bigwigs didn’t meet in the town, but others said Henry was uncertain of big crowds – Rouen was the second biggest city after Lyon in the whole of France, not counting Paris – and you could never quite tell how safe the town might be for great people in that jostling throng. Perhaps they were nervous of the Jews. There were six thousand of them in Rouen, nearly a sixth of the city. The Jews always added an unstable, exotic element, rather in the way old Saul had done at Saint-Sulpice.
At all events, Henry and Cuno met in Vernon, and Henry was forced to agree to take his old mule of an Archbishop, Thurstan, back to England in the near future. We sent them up some meat by boat because Henry insisted on Haimo’s provision and learned the news from the landlord of a snug little tavern, The Water Rat, in Vernon. He told us Henry could not go back to England without first agreeing peace with Louis, who could then accept homage from Prince William (which was dear to Henry’s heart), so Henry had to agree to the Archbishop’s return. Back in England, he had previously given an oath to the Archbishop of Canterbury that Thurstan of York would not return until he agreed to submit to Canterbury. It just showed how proud, selfish and stubborn these spiritual princes could be – just as bad, in fact, as the lords temporal who couldn’t keep their sacred promises.
Funnily enough, it was the troublesome Thurstan who proved clever at finding ways through the thickets of Norman negotiation. He got King Louis to agree to the idea of Prince William paying homage not to Louis himself, because he had previously made an oath to the deposed Duke Robert, but to Louis’ son – a small boy, almost a baby.
‘Nothing so strange about that,’ said King Louis the Fat. ‘Do we not pay homage at Christmas to an infant?’
So Henry got what he wanted: his son recognised as the future Duke of Normandy; the French King on speaking terms with him; and the unruly barons no longer with a powerful figure to give them support. The only fly in the unguent was having his troublesome Archbishop Thurstan in England again, but he would be in York where he belonged, far from London, with orders not to come down and fight with Canterbury until it suited his king to call him.
‘So what?’ said the jolly fat landlord of The Old Barge. ‘They’ll all be fighting again next year.’
‘If you ask me, they want their heads knocking together,’ said the barmaid.
‘What does it matter?’ asked Berthe, as we sat round the table at home. ‘They’re just like a lot of children.’
‘This will be going on for weeks,’ said Haimo. ‘Talk talk talk. But what would they all do if they didn’t have such things to waste their time on?’
‘They’d be rushing out of their castles and killing everyone,’ said Alice. ‘So it’s just as well they have…’
The negotiations did indeed go on for weeks, then months. In the meantime, many of the Norman Comtes who had been at odds with Henry saw the writing on the wall and opted for peace. If the King of France was going to stop fighting Henry, they could hardly keep the trouble going by themselves. Meanwhile, the King accepted Henry’s son as rightful inheritor of Normandy, and Prince William performed homage to Louis’s son, one heir to another, as had been negotiated.
At this point even people like the Comte of Flanders – a dyed in the wool opponent of Henry’s along with Stephen, Comte of Aumale – threw in the towel, and the son of the erstwhile duke, Robert, gave up his years-long quest to avenge his father and secure himself the dukedom, even though the King of France had made an oath that he would help him. Luckily for Louis, the Pope or his delegate absolved him from his promise. It was too bad for Henry’s nephew, son of the erstwhile duke, but that is the way of princes and of Popes.
And all the while, as the Church and the nobs chopped up the kingdom, we chopped up the animals, but at least we were honest about it. The beasts came in and the yard ran red and the hunks of meat, cleverly cut and creatively presented, were sold to peer and peasant alike, and we became rich because Haimo was the best butcher in Rouen and I was the best accountant.
My method was simple – a little money out, a lot of money in. Simple arithmetic, and firm on credit. I had not gone into those devices and ingenuities of money-making that we heard people in Italy were practising – maybe they needed them in the business of crusading and banking and usury, I could not tell. For butchery, what we made with honest trading and Arabic numerals was money enough.
It was still not exactly the life I had seen myself leading, but you can’t have everything, can you, or else you would become spoilt and unpleasant to know. One consequence of our success, rather sadly, was that Alice and I were seeing less of each other. She was sad about it too, but she worked until late, dealing with the sick who came to Berthe’s door, and I came home tired after a day at the butchery – and so it continued.
We loved each other just as much, and spoke of marriage when things had quietened down a little, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. We belonged to each other anyway. I tried to encourage her to draw a line and see those who came late, on the following day, but she shook her dark head. She had the healer’s art and, if she could help them, that is what she did. It was what she had been waiting for all those years – that and me, she told me. The next day may never happen, she used to say, so when it was late and we made love it was as if there were no tomorrow.
She was, unfortunately, too good at her art, for one day in September when the stubble stood in the fields like the bristles on a badly shaved Norseman, her skill came to the attention of the town authorities and in the end, the Mayor sent for her to attend his mayoral hall. Two constables escorted her, and Berthe and I walked at some distance behind. Doors opened, a crowd flocked in and I flocked with them. Alice looked as beautiful as ever – not downcast, but determined – and the Mayor looked ugly; fat with a downward mouth and a nose beginning to show incipient rosacea. I do not know how I looked but I felt terrible.
They soon discovered she was not a native Rouennaise at all. The Mayor supervised proceedings from his great seat (one great seat on top of another because he had a fat arse), while a man in a black gown, some kind of advocate-cleric, conducted the enquiry. I thought I recognised him.
‘So who are you?’
‘I am Alice Blouet.’
‘Where do you come from?’
‘Breteuil.’
‘Breteuil? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure. Where do you come from?’
‘Do not be impertinent with me or it will be the worse for you.’
‘I do not know who you are. It is hard to be impertinent to someone one does not know. I ask the question so that I may be better acquainted.’
‘I am asking the questions. Do not chop logic with me.’
Be nice, Alice, I implored inwardly. Be sweet. You know you can be.
‘Breteuil was the seat of the Duke’s enemy, Eustace. Are you too an enemy?’
‘I was one of the Comtesse’s ladies. She is the daughter of the Duke.’
There was an indrawing of breath from the crowd and even the inquisitor paused to digest the news. It did not seem to make him more friendly.
‘And why did you leave?’
‘The Duke and she had a quarrel. I did not wish to take sides. I decided to leave because I heard how kind and hospitable were the people of Rouen, where I might find people who would benefit from my knowledge of medicinal herbs and spices.’
‘How are we to know you are not a witch, expelled from the Comtesse’s court for dark practices? Witches too are good at healing those who they love – and harming those whom they don’t. We have a witness who says you have given him cramps and blains. There is a black cat in your house. He says it is your familiar.’
It was time for me to speak up.
‘This is all a mistake,’ I said smoothly. ‘I am sure we can clear this up.’
‘And you, sir, who are you?’
‘I am Master Haimo the butcher’s tally-man.’
‘Oh, we have heard of you. We were coming for you. Haimo is an honest man but you have tricked him with your craft. You employ ciphers to do tricks with his accounting. You use the round sign which is the sign of Anti-Christ. You charm the maids with your a-conting.’
He tittered at his own joke and a few toadies tittered with him. Someone in the crowd said:
‘Arrest him so he can play no more tricks.’
I thought it was Luc, the butcher’s shopkeeper whom I had sacked. While I was pondering that, I found two stout constables holding my arms.
‘You, sir,’ said the inquisitor. ‘Stand in the witness box. This woman, Alice Blouet, is your wife?’
‘Yes. And I protest at my arrest. I thought the people of Rouen were fair-minded folk who do not like to see people arrested on trumped-up charges.’
‘Silence. Answer the questions or it will be the worse for you. No one knows you here. You may be a spy.’
Alice spoke up at this point. ‘Let go of his arms or it will be the worse for you.’
The inquisitor became enraged. ‘I have warned you, madam…’
He started to raise his arm at her.
‘You do that and you’re a dead man,’ I told him.
‘Oh dear me,’ a silky voice interposed. ‘All squabbling like children.’
I peered into the throng of churchmen, and saw a movement at the back. The throng parted and a tall fellow, white-faced, high-voiced and portly as a eunuch, walked forward.
‘I am the Pope’s Enquirer,’ he told me. ‘I travel with Cardinal Cuno. I am sent to examine, for instance, the question of the large Jewish population of this city; their influence on the behaviour, belief and morals of the populace.’
‘Many of them come from Spain, I believe, bringing new ideas in medicine, mathematics and rerum naturae,’ I said, mindful of my old mentor at the monastery. ‘Surely the town could do with some of that.’
‘New wine in old bottles, tally-man, and you are a Latiner, I see. Never a good idea. We are told also of new people, strangers in our midst, who muddy faith with a spirit of rational or intellectual enquiry derived from the pagan fathers, followers of Abelard in Paris who profess a quasi-heretical belief in Modernism, Realism, Conceptualism, and isms beyond whatnot, and we know what happened to him.’
‘He had his bollocks chopped off,’ shouted a voice from the crowd.
‘Indeed he did, as I shall have yours if there are any more interruptions. There are others in Northern France, I have heard,’ he continued, ‘who begin to postulate the duality of the Creation, They believe that God created the spiritual world and the Devil created the physical one. They begin to wander about, these people, telling others of their heresies and suborning them to join their corrupt faith. There are others too, just a few as yet, but they will spread like evil weeds, who have the impertinence to say that love is a sacrament, and defile love’s name. These are troubled times when people wander about. It is quite possible that you two strangers may be such wandering people. Tell me about yourselves.’
‘We have told you,’ I said to him. ‘We are who we are. We come from Breteuil, before that I lived at Mortagne. Alice comes originally from Barfleur where the Duke changes into the English King and sails for Southampton. We have found shelter and work here in Rouen. Shall it be said there is no welcome here in Rouen for strangers who can work? You all started here once, or your fathers or your great-great-grandfathers did, arriving here one day. There is a wall around the city, but there are gates in it. People come and go. We came. We stayed. We love the city.’
‘As for heretical belief,’ Alice chimed in, ‘we leave all that to churchmen. Our religion is our fathers’ religion. We do not hold with sectarianism or secret meetings. We do not like trouble. We give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and to God that which is God’s. Our Lord never said we should give it to the Church, though.’
There was a considerable cheer from some of the onlookers furthest away from the constables when she said that, but I knew she had made a mistake. It does not do to make the Church look foolish. You must always be very pussy with churchmen. They want their money. Where would they be without it?
‘They seem like rascals to me,’ said the representative of Pope Callixtus the Second, who seemed as interested in heresy as the Pope was in investiture. ‘Talmudic numbers learnt from Jews. Potions to increase desire in young maidens and old men. Unnatural powers and bestial persuasions! She is from the south-west, almost Brittany, and should not be here; a Breton witch and a spy for our Duke’s enemies, the De Montforts. Throw them into prison. Their presence in Rouen is like a pestilence … Take them away, constables, and put them in the darkest cells where they may consort with the darkness that they preach.’
‘Shall we put them together, my lord?’ asked one of the guards.
‘By no mea
ns. They will commit acts of darkness together. We have no record that they are indeed married. They may well be adulterers and commit fornications which offend all true Christians. Away with them to separate cells and feed them on hard commons. I will find out the truth from them and what goes on in their minds if I have to put a gimlet in their skulls so I may look inside.’
Alice and I cast sorrowful glances on each other and I tried to include some measure of confidence that this was only a temporary setback, but I am afraid it was a weak show for I felt nothing but dejection and concern. How were we to get out of this pickle? I knew the fault was mine, for had I not sacked the idle and reprehensible Luc, and had he not warned that he would get his own back? I should have been more cautious, not so full of myself and my new broom.
So now here we were, laid low by that malicious sneak, and under suspicion of crimes which, if proved, would follow us to the gallows or worse. I doubted whether Alice, sweet girl though she was, would ever forgive me. How she must wish she had never set eyes on me, and could be back in the castle playing games with the ladies!
We were led out of the mayor’s building and taken through the streets to the castle, accompanied by the whistles of tosspots, ostlers and carmen. There we were shown to our rooms, by which I mean we were roughly thrust into the dungeon, and allotted cells at opposite ends of that dismal place. It was damp and it was dark. In fact, the dungeon at Ivry was like a palace compared with this one.
The White Ship Page 32
