by Helen East
So she sat down at once, took out her quill and wrote to Gerald. That was one skill she’d gladly got from learning to be a lady. It had enabled them to stay in touch, while she still kept her father’s command ‘never to see him’.
‘My love, please come, for I am free, if you still wish to marry me.’
Gerald wasn’t quite as good at his letters as Mary was, but he had no difficulty in getting the gist of her message. He sent his reply back by return over London Bridge, which by now had been patched up so that people could pass, providing the weather was good enough.
‘As soon as I finish my work tomorrow, I will be with you. My love is true,’ came the reply.
Mary, you can be sure, went joyfully to bed that night. But then she was disturbed by the strangest of dreams. St Crispin, the patron saint of cobblers and shoemakers, came to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Be sure and tell your love not to hurry too much. He must come to you only on his own shoes.’
Well, she woke up confused as to what the dream meant, but nevertheless, she sent Gerald another message, faithfully repeating what the saint had said. But the wind was blowing on the bridge that day, and the message was a bit delayed. And having got the first message, Gerald naturally wasn’t waiting around for another. His kindly master, the shoemaker, even let him leave a little early, for everyone likes to see true love triumph. And Gerald had hired a horse, so he could travel in style. Head high, face wreathed in smiles, he rode out over London Bridge.
Maybe it was the bridge that shook, maybe it wasn’t flat underfoot, but all of a sudden the horse cast a shoe, and stumbled. And poor Gerald was thrown right off, and broke his neck.
Poor Mary Over. Not much luck in that horseshoe, was there? Without her love, she lost all taste for London life. She sold the goods and house her father had left her, and with the money built a house for holy sisters, a little priory church in Southwark, which by and by was known as St Mary Overie; and years after was subsumed in Southwark Cathedral. It was right beside the south end of London Bridge, placed so close that all within might look up, if they wished, to make sure all who went that way were safe. There Mary retreated to pass her life in peace. And when she came to die, she was buried underneath, perhaps united now at last with her beloved Gerald.
Lost love and lost life. Was that their sacrifice? Was this Mary’s offering of spirit strength to the new London Bridge? For it was thanks to her, and the profits of John Over’s ferry business, that money was available for essential rebuilding work. London Bridge was much improved with wooden towers at each end, and it was made so wide, two oxen wagons could travel along it side by side. Most impressive of all, the great weight was held up by oaken piles, sunk into the river bed beneath the bridge and standing straight upright – like living oak trees, only that they were quite bare. No hopes there of roots and shoots and new green growth.
Build it up with seasoned oak,
Seasoned oak, seasoned oak,
Build it up with seasoned oak,
My fair lady.
But the bridge was barely restored before Edgar the Peaceful died and it wasn’t long before the crown was in the unsteady hands of Æthelred the Unready, the ‘Redeless one.’ Then the Danes came again to harry England, led by their King, Sweyn Forkbeard. They sailed up the Thames with the tide, intending to raze London to the ground, and to burn the bridge down. But the citizens of London, young and old, were so stoutly bold that they beat the Danes back.
And Æthelred followed unwise advice, as always, and paid for peace with bribes, £10,000 Danegeld fees, and then thrice that much again. Raised from taxes that all but broke the backs of the English, and Londoners most of all. But even worse, soon after, the king commanded the slaughter of all Danish settlers living in England. And in all of this, they say, the king was guided by the serpent tongue of Edric Streona, ‘the refuse of mankind’.
Through this last disastrous decree, Æthelred murdered Sweyn Forkbeard’s own sister, and brought upon them the full force of the Danish King’s revenge. And this time, by blockades across the Thames, the Londoners were starved into submission. Then the Danish fleet sailed in, settling their ships along the river and their men in Southwark, and took charge of London Bridge, and so controlled the city. That might have been the end of Anglo-Saxon London then, and certainly the end for Æthelred, if he had not persuaded King Olaf of Norway to come onto his side.
King Olaf came with his Norsemen, and he saw how well the Danes could fight from London Bridge. They used it to attack, and to defend. They had towers on each side, and high barricades, to hide from spears thrown or arrows fired. But when his ships came below they could shoot and drop down stones, so no one could come close or pass beneath. And one more thing he took note of. The great oak piles on which the bridge depended.
Then Olaf knew that in order to win, they must take the bridge away from the Danes. But no one understood what he meant by that, except for his own Norse friends. Together they went down the river to where there were old houses built of wood and wattle and daub. These they took down, and bound them together to make strong shields of wood. Then they held them over their longships, as if they were great roofs.
Now they were ready to row upstream to the bridge. Their shields saved them from the Danish arrows and when they got near, from the worst of stones, and they rowed so fast that they just got through and under the bridge itself. There they were safe from the Danes’ reach, and they waited for the tide to turn. Then they filled a small boat with rotten wood, and set fire to it against an oak pile, so the flames licked all the way up and at last the bridge began to smoke.
Seasoned oak will burn and smoke,
Burn and smoke, burn and smoke,
Seasoned oak will burn and smoke,
My fair lady.
In the confusion, Olaf and his men tied ropes and cables as low as they could around the great oak piles. Then, when the tide was going out, they rowed with the river, as hard as they might, towing these ropes behind. Now, the current of the River Thames and the pull of the men between them was so strong that the oak piles were dragged out of place at the base. Then London Bridge, with its great weight of men and heavy piles of stones, with creaks and groans and cries and moans, came tumbling down into the river. And with the bridge that day were drowned the men and hopes of Denmark.
But when it became known that King Olaf had pulled down London Bridge, he was hailed by the people of England, and Norway too, as a hero above all others. And his scalds made praise songs about him, which echo down to this day:
London Bridge is broken down.
Gold is won, and bright renown.
Arrows singing, Shields ringing,
Odin makes our Olaf win!
Later, Olaf was converted from the old religion to the new Christianity, and after he died, he was beatified. And that is how the people of London remembered him. A true saint. Now he is known as St Olave, as in St Olave’s church and school. And in the root of Tooley Street, too.
It was not up to Olaf, of course, to rebuild London Bridge, which was done using wood again, for the interim. Nor did Olaf select the sacrifice to strengthen it. But, caught between Odin and early Norse Christianity as he was, he would probably have agreed with the bloody nature of the final choice …
For spilt blood was inevitable while Edric Streona was still around. And somehow, in true snake style, he managed to wriggle out of all blame for the trouble he had caused, and continued to pour his poison into the ears of kings, including the Danes, and Canute, son of Sweyn.
The only man who never listened to Streona was Edmund Ironside, the son of Æthelred, but as ready and as steady as anyone could be. Nicknamed on account of his legendary strength, he was a giant of a man, the Anglo-Saxons only true answer to the Danish invaders. Canute conquered much of England and was made king by the Witan parliament, but London rebelled and declared for Edmund, who was crowned king at Old St Paul’s.
The battle between the two kings was an even match,
but when Edmund challenged Canute to fight in single combat, and so reduce the bloodshed of their men, Canute refused for fear of facing such a mountain of muscle. Instead, he suggested dividing England in two, with Edmund keeping London, East Anglia, Wessex and Essex, and Canute having the rest. They agreed that this would stand until one of them died, when all lands would revert to the survivor.
This coalition was not easy for either ruler, particularly Canute, as London was so central to trade. One evening, Edric Streona, who had wormed his way into Canute’s court, having double-crossed the Anglo-Saxons once too many times, happened to overhear Canute in one of his famous rages. ‘That obdurate Edmund and his accursed London!’ he stormed. ‘Always in my way! If any man can move him I swear I’ll raise them higher than any other ever was in England!’
Eager to squirm his way higher up the ladder, Edric took him at his word. Besides, he hated Edmund. Of course he was afraid to approach him openly, so he sent his sons to do the task. And it was done in such a dishonourable way, and in so private and disgusting a place, that no one would imagine it might happen. For the sons of Streona went to the privy, and positioned their crossbow in the midden heap, to fire up at Edmund as he sat upon the seat. It is said that the shaft went in so deep, that it could never be taken out again. And some say, because of that, it was not seen, and so not known at once as foul murder.
With Edmund dead, Canute became King of all England. He was a good ruler, level-headed and respected, even in London, although he made the citizens pay for having opposed him, by increasing the taxes on the city. When there, he occupied a fort by the Roman walls, where the River Fleet came to meet the Thames. Perhaps it was there that he famously taught his courtiers not to exaggerate his powers, by making them stand with him on the river beach, and commanding the Thames not to let the tide rise. He waited until it came almost to their waists before he allowed them all to escape. ‘Now you have felt the power of such a thing,’ he said, ‘understand how weak beside it is the power of a king.’
At Christmas, Edric Streona, now restored to the Earldom of Mercia, was in London with the king. Ever wily, Edric had kept his knowledge about Edmund’s death strictly secret, biding his time to speak to his best advantage. Late into the evening, he and King Canute were drinking and playing a game of chess. Edric rather unwisely won, and then even more ill-advisedly argued with the king about the rules. Canute flew into a terrible temper, and Edric, anxious to turn the tide back in his favour, played what he thought was his trump card. He told the king all about the murder of Edmund, and, smiling, explained he had done it at Canute’s request. He even reminded him of what he had sworn, to ‘raise the man who removed Edmund higher than any other’.
Canute was absolutely horrified. Earl Edric was drawn by the heels from the fort, scorched by flaming torches and then had his head struck off. His body was thrown down into the ditch, where the hungry hounds prowled, just outside the city walls. It is remembered to this day by the name of Houndsditch. But they say even dogs didn’t want to eat that meat.
Yet the king still kept to the letter of his oath. Edric Streona’s head was stuck on a long spike, and hoisted high above London Bridge – higher than any other man had ever reached.
And Edric’s blood dripping down below provided a human offering to be absorbed by Canute’s newly rebuilt London Bridge. It started a tradition, too, for putting traitor’s heads up there, which was to be continued for centuries, conveniently answering the needs of many a reincarnation of the bridge – including what was presumed to be the final one, King John’s utterly indestructible structure of stone.
Build it up with solid stone
Solid stone, solid stone,
Build it up with solid stone,
My fair lady.
Almost invincible – depending on the weather. But that never is dependable in London. As the old riddle says: ‘As I went o’er London Bridge I heard a great crack. Can any man in England ever mend that?’ No man could, for the problem – which recurred many times – was ice. Packed around the stone it was cold enough to crack it, as they saw before too long when the Thames froze solid.
Solid stone, will crack and fall,
Crack and fall, crack and fall,
Solid stone, will crack and fall,
My fair lady.
But fortunately not only did successive royal dynasties supply sufficient human heads, but also, along with many London citizens, they were wealthy and wise enough to realise the economic necessity to rebuild the bridge every time it cracked and fell. Although, it must have seemed like it was literally made of money!
Build it up with silver and gold,
Silver and gold, silver and gold,
Build it up with silver and gold,
My fair lady.
Thieves will steal it away,
Steal away, steal away …
Set a watch all night and day,
Night and day, night and day…
What if he should fall asleep?
Fall asleep, fall asleep …
Set a pipe between his teeth,
’Twixt his teeth, ’twixt his teeth,
Set a pipe between his teeth,
My fair lady.
So by all these diverse means, Londoners ensured that their bridge continued structurally and spiritually strong and safe until the eighteenth century, when a brother bridge was constructed to share the traffic, and the old one shored up in a new way. Better than ever:
Build it up with bricks and mortar,
Bricks and mortar, bricks and mortar,
Build it up with bricks and mortar,
My fair lady.
Bricks and mortar will not stay,
Will not stay, will not stay …
Build it up with iron and steel,
Iron and steel, iron and steel,
Build it up with iron and steel,
My fair lady.
Even in the most modern times, with a huge range of building material available, London Bridge still had to be rebuilt from time to time. And that of course posed a whole new problem. For Queen Elizabeth II the possibility of immuring someone inside London Bridge when it had to be replaced in 1973 was simply not an option. Nor was the chop-chop at the block and then hang the head up solution available to her, as it had been to her namesake, Elizabeth I.
After much head scratching, a clever alternative was suggested. The Fair Lady should be the Queen herself. What better head than hers? Not removed from her in the flesh, as has happened to queens in the past, but simply represented as she is in every hand in every purse, in every grubby transaction and great commercial enterprise. Heads or tails, the coin spins. And that was what was used. A sovereign to represent our sovereign, head facing up, implanted in the bridge.
In the twenty-first century too, London Bridge has, to some extent, been renewed. Only a few years ago I was walking along it, picking my way through extensive roadworks; men with big machines, and steaming tarmac cooling to a flat black path. One of the first to walk across it, I remembered the old tradition, wondering if anyone thought of it now. And suddenly I saw something shining. It was only a penny but a gleaming new one. Not just dropped but pressed in deep, to lie properly flush – Queen’s head up.
5
WILLIAM I AND SONS
For a king to ensure his succession, in the days when daughters were disregarded, he had to have a son. At least one, but preferably two, because you never knew … Chances of survival weren’t that good. But any more and you may be sure that as well as options, you would have opposing forces, which would probably disrupt the direct line anyway.
William the Bastard of Normandy was well aware of that. After all, his claim to the English throne was extremely indirect. A circuitous family connection, and a promise made by Edward the Confessor that was afterwards denied. Besides that, he had to fight Harold Godwinson, who had been declared king with most of England’s thegns or landed lords supporting him.
But perhaps William was right
to claim that he had been divinely ordained to reign. And Harold should have understood that the message he’d seen in the heavens was not, after all, so good. For the ‘star with a fiery tail’, Halley’s Comet, had appeared that year, just after Edward, dying, declared Harold as heir.
Or maybe it was simply good tactical timing. Godwinson had barely beaten the Viking Hardrada in the north before he was forced to march to meet with William of Normandy in the south. For whatever reason, it was the Saxon cry of ‘Goddemite’ that was overcome by ‘Dex Aie’ – ‘God Aid Us’ – the Norman battle cry, at Hastings. King Harold died with an arrow in his eye, and his body was buried without a sign, so that no one might know where to go to honour him, or to cry for him.
Then the Dowager Queen gave up the Keys of England and William the Conqueror marched up to London town. The city gates were closed against him, and London Bridge was barred, but he bartered with the citizens, and bargains were soon struck. All London’s privilege and rights would be retained, and most Saxon common laws remained.
William was welcomed into London then, and with impeccable timing once again, was crowned almost straight away. It was at Westminster, King Edward’s newly built Abbey, on Christmas day, 1066. ‘Unto us a king … ’
At first King William I went easy on the reins. He hoped that not too much would have to be changed. It all depended on making alliances and friends amongst important London citizens and Saxon landed thegns.
But having Norman overlords affected almost everything. The Norman court, the way they thought, the language they talked, even the way they looked was different from the Anglo-Saxon, Danish, and Celtic mix that the English had become. William and his French friends seemed effete in many ways, their faces like beardless boys, for the Norman fashion was to be close shorn. Londoners guffawed when William struck a new coin, marked with his name ‘Le Rei Wilam’, and shamelessly put on his face, bare as a babe.
