by Smith, Skye
Once of the carters offered to lead them, but Much told him to unhitch the cart and to see to the horse. Then he threw Raynar’s pack over his shoulder and tucked Wylie's under his left arm and led them across a dusty field between the stark half tumbled columns that the Romans had built to last forever. The three men each caused puffs of dust from a field that was usually filled with weeds and grass.
"Why will the Frenchies switch to English soon?” asked Wylie.
"A bit of a rebellion amongst the merchants. They aren't happy with the new taxes that King William has levied to pay for his disaster in Bretagne. They are angry that the Norman minters are shaving weight from the silver coins and no one is stopping them."
"Rebellion, you mean like Ely?” asked Raynar.
"Fuck no. We are talking merchants here, not foresters and seamen,” replied Much. "They have posted notices on all their doors saying that they will refuse to read any tax notices not written in English."
"Well that will certainly scare the Normans,” laughed Wylie.
"What language did they write their notices in?” asked Raynar and the three men looked at each other and began to howl in laughter.
The rooms were nothing more than monks cells. As Much had said, the only advantage of them was that they were cool. "They'd be bloody freezing in winter,” said Wylie, "or do they get winter this far south."
"They get winter here, but there are many places around the Roman sea that escape winter,” said Raynar, "that is where these tile roofs are most common."
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The Hoodsman - Forest Law by Skye Smith
Chapter 20 - The great fire of London in August 1077
They were woken the next morning by a carter pounding on all the doors. "Come on, you lot, come and watch the burning with me.” Everyone wrenched open their doors at the same time with their britches and shirts in their hands. There were questions of "where", "is there a fire", "are the horses safe".
"No, no, you misunderstand. An urchin just told me that the king's tax collectors are going to make an example of one of the merchants that is refusing to pay. They have collected the notices that were posted that refused taxes and have made a pyre from them and they are going to toast one of the merchants. Over beside London Bridge. Come on. The whole city will turn out."
"I'll come,” said Wylie. "I've seen nothing of the city save the north gate. I'm not interested in watching some poor bugger be burned for taxes, but I hear that London bridge is a wonder."
"Lead on,” said Raynar, "I too would like to walk the bridge."
The day's heat was already building but at least the Temple grounds had no walls and some cooling breezes came in from the Thames. Once they were through the gate and behind the walls there was no relief from the heat, or the smell. As they came closer to London Bridge, the streets became ever more crowded. The body heat and the smell from unwashed bodies made it all worse.
Raynar wanted to give up. He could see the bridge on another day. A day when there were not the crowds. Wylie pushed him along eagerly, however, as he was a York city boy and well used to the crowding and funk of a city.
The pyre was laughable. A few hundred scrolls of paper would only burn long enough to singe the merchants feet. Every man in the crowd understood the threat, however. The tax collectors were making a point softly and without bloodshed. The man in charge wore a long scarlet tunic and a floppy black hat. He must have been sweltering, for his costume was all of the best wool. He was a patient man, however, and he wanted as large a crowd as possible to spread the news that taxes must be paid.
The merchant was yelling to his family, trying to calm them. He would not perish, he would just not walk for a month until his burns healed. Other merchants and his friends were yelling obscenities at the chief tax collector of London. Guards with pikes surrounded and protected the collector from the growing crowd.
Eventually the captain of the guard spoke to the collector. The crowd was hot and getting unruly. The guards were thirsty and wanted out of the sun. The tax collector moved forward with a small brazier of coals and threw them onto the papers at the foot of the pillory where the merchant was cinched.
It was cheap paper, and not velum, so it burned readily and the merchant suddenly realized that such heat on his feet was going to be extremely painful and he began to scream for forgiveness. As the smoke rose it caused its own breeze ont the flames and suddenly the lit papers were floating in the smoke. Half the crowd laughed because the merchant was not even scorched yet and the fire was disappearing with the smoke. Half the crowd panicked because the burning paper was landing on the thatch of the huge roofs closest to the bridge.
The first roof smoldered for mere moments before flames were visible. A breeze increased the flames and suddenly there was a whooshing sound and the near section of the roof became a torch. People were now screaming and running and falling and being crushed. The wise ones were running towards the embankment and down the river bank, the not so wise to the bridge, the panicked were running into the narrow streets in the same direction that the burning papers were floating.
Before Wylie's group of carters could decide on what they themselves should do, a second thatch roof had caught fire, and then a third. Luckily there was no one in the buildings, for everyone had poured out of them to watch the singeing of the merchant. Unluckily there was no way of saving the roofs. Wylie had seen big roofs burn and collapse when the Normans burned York, and Raynar had seen the bishop's roof in Dun Holm burn back in '70. When big thatch roofs collapsed they created an inferno wind that blew out the windows and sent long tongues of flames sideways in all directions.
"Clear the square,” Wylie began to yell. "Get away from that roof, Run, Run” he yelled. The guards who had been protecting London's chief tax collector had scarpered with the taxman, probably to warn the watch of the fire. The pillory was open and the merchant that was to be burned was no where to be seen. Merchants had houses and warehouses and goods in the city. They would be running to their property to set up bucket lines to wet down the roofs.
"Let's help with the fire,” yelled Much.
"No,” yelled Wylie. "The river is the only safe place now. Get into it up to your necks, and be quick about it."
Raynar was used to rivers of water, but the Thames at London was a river of piss, shit, and offal. He ran down the bank and picked up two small girls as he ran. The other men saw the sense in this. The women and children would be crushed or drowned. Each of the tall Daneglish men grabbed a wee one or two or lifted a woman and pushed their way through the onlookers who had not yet realized the danger they were in.
With every step Wylie was yelling "Run, Run, to the river,” and those that were already running to the river wished he would shut up for the embankment was already crowded enough. And then it happened. The beams that held up the thatch of the first of the burning roofs gave way and the huge roof collapsed. Flames shot from the windows and those near to them were set aflame. Searing hot air flooded into the square and people began to scream in pain and then choke and then fall to the ground. Those falling to the ground pushed others down, which likely saved their lives. A dense plume of ash and soot and burning straw went straight up in the air and the wrapped over itself and the burning straw of the first roof was blown onto the roofs all around.
Wylie, with one child under each arm, two hanging from his neck and their mothers keeping up to his wake by holding onto belt, was the first to reach the sewer that Londoners call the Thames. Within steps the mud, or whatever it was, sucked his boot down. A river boat drifted by with only two men in it, who had known better than to leave it tied to the bank and risk it being swamped by fleeing folk. Wylie threw his children over the gunnels, and their mothers after them. The boatmen tried to row away from him, but he held the gunnels fast and yelled to the other carters to get all the children into the boat.
One of the boatmen raised his oar to beat Wylie, but one of the other cart
ers grabbed hold of it. Raynar was there now and lifting a mother with two infants into the boat. "How much to take these children out of harm?” he asked.
"There is no room for you men,” replied the boatman angrily.
"Did I mention men. How much for the children and their mams?"
"We were only trying to escape harm ourselves,” the boatman replied and then gave a horrified look towards the masses thronging down the bank. "Get the rest of them loaded, and let us get out of here,” he said. The other carters obliged him with four more children and two women. The small boat was now loaded almost to the water line.
Raynar threw a handful of silver into the boat at the mans feet and said "take care of them, mate” and pushed the boat out into the current. The effort of pushing the boat verses the suction against his boots meant that he fell face first into the sewage. Wylie pulled his head above water so he could gain his breath and no matter how fetid it was, never had air tasted so sweet .
He looked down at the pungent ooze on his clothes and began to feel sorry for himself, until he saw that all the men around him were purposefully wetting their clothing and hair with the same ooze. Beyond his own men, the throngs that were racing into the safety of the river were also diving into the fetid muck to wet all. Beyond them there was a slow moving cloud of smoke and sparks heading for the river. Beyond that was an inferno. A city alight. A hundred roofs burning, collapsing, exploding, and spreading their destruction to other roofs. It would be a thousand roofs within the hour, and then the entire city.
"The stable,” said Much. "we can't reach it along the bank. It is blocked first by the city wall and then by the Fleet River. The fire is moving downstream. Move upstream to the next street and it will lead us to the first gate in the wall."
The most unpleasant thing that Wylie could ever remember was walking upstream on the muddy bottom of the sewer called the Thames. Luckily they had originally fled upstream away from the bridge. If they had run downstream they would never have gotten around the bridge on the bank. The span closest to the bank had long been fouled by logs and debris and since the Normans had taken over, this jam had never been cleared. It was now a dam, a solid, impenetrable dam.
Once the heat of the fire was further away, Much led them into shallower water. Shallower but no less a quagmire. Eventually they made drier land and climbed the oozing bank up to the street. The street was almost empty, that is until they got to the first cross road. Then it quickly became so jammed with people that they could barely move.
"What's the problem?” asked Much of the only man who was pushing his way through the crowd away from the gates.
"The fuckin' Nobs at the gate think this is a rebellion. They've fuckin' closed and barred the gates aven't they."
"What, they can't see the flames and smoke?"
"They fear us more than the smoke, lad. Were there boats on the river taking passengers?"
"Yes, but they are full. Best of luck to you.” Much and the man were swept apart by a surge in the crowd.
Wylie pulled at the arms of the other men to get them out of the drift of the crowd. "We'll never make it on the street. Boost me onto this roof.” With boosting and pulling they were eventually all on top of the roof. Once there they stood and looked over the other roofs and no one spoke. They just stared. London's roofs were ablaze save for the corner of the city where they were perched. "Those poor buggers. Those poor buggers. Those poor buggers,” Wylie repeated time and again to every quadrant of the terrifying scene.
"Why are we up here?” asked Much, "I don't feel safe standing on a thatch roof in a city full of blazing thatch roofs."
"These roofs are so close to each other that we can run along them to reach the wall and the gate,” said Wylie. "Stay away from the edges. If your leg falls through you want it to touch a beam or a wall.” Wylie began off along the roof keeping his body low and leaned inwards. The other carters looked at each other and then back at the fires, and then followed him. It was not a fast way to travel, but it was much faster than being down at street level where now thousands were pushing and crushing and screaming.
A dozen times they had to leap a gap, but the gaps were never far and Wylie was always across first and then braced himself to catch the others if they misstepped. Finally they reached the small square in front of the gate. The gate was barred. The guards and the watch had created barricades in front of it so that none of the swarm could reach the gate. There were wounded men on the ground writhing in front of the barricades.
The last roof was a stable's lean-to roof leaning against the wall. Wylie scrambled and pulled and slipped and almost swam up the thatch and then he was on the wall. The others followed him. They looked towards the gate. They were the only men on the wall. The guards were all down on the street protecting the gate.
"This is madness,” said Wylie to Raynar and Much. "Why don't they open the gate. If they don't do it now, there will be such a crush of bodies against it that it won't be possible to open it."
Raynar pointed down to the street at the noble in charge of the guards. "The fool should be up here directing. From down there he sees nothing save his 'rebels' storming the gates.” As they watched, the noble ducked some hurled cobblestones and backed himself to the safety of the staircase beside the gate.
Wylie began to run, Much was on his heels, then Raynar and the other two. Suddenly understanding what Wylie was about, Raynar shouted ahead. "Don't kill him. The fastest way of getting these gates open is for him to order his men to do it.” Wylie did not slow as he raised his hand in a skirmisher signal that he understood.
Wylie went down the stairs three at a time. With the massive din of the crowd in front of him, the noble did not even notice Wylie's presence until he was dragged backwards with a dagger at this throat. Much and Wylie physically dragged the man back up the stairs but he was fighting them and it was a slow process, one step at the time. Finally they got him high enough up the wall so that he could see over the closest roofs and Wylie forced the man to look out over them at a city in flames.
The man gazed at the giant series of torches that was now the center of London, and stilled. Raynar was beside him now and yelled into his ear in French. "These people are not rebels, they flee the fire. Order the gates opened before that next wave of folk reach this square, else we will all burn to death.” Wylie removed his dagger from the man's throat. "Go, open the gate,” Raynar repeated in French and gently pushed at the man so that he would realize that he was free.
The noble ran down the stairs yelling to his men, but they could not hear him until he reached the barricade. Whatever he said to them was enough, for immediately half his men began the process of swinging the bar. One giant door opened, and then the other, and suddenly there was no holding the barricades and the guards were swept away through the gate in the flood of folk.
The carters ran down the staircase and joined the flood. They kept to their side of the crush and just before they reached the gate they found themselves pushed against the noble who had caused this madness. As they passed him the man went down in a scream of panic and was trampled by a dozen feet. Wylie was wiping the noble blood from his dagger as he reached Raynar's side. "I thought he should pay in advance for any he has killed by his actions this hour.” Raynar nodded. There were many that would die in this crush even if they escaped the fire.
Much was yelling at them to keep up, for now that they were through the gate they must race back to the stables to protect the horses from theft. Eventually so many folk were camped in the Temple fields that they removed the tools and leathers and horses from the stables and guarded them in the monastic cells where they had been sleeping the night before.
Meanwhile the sounds of terror were never ceasing. Children separated from their mothers, wives separated from their husbands, people calling names, searching, searching, and always the screams that told of the anguish of burns. Much led Raynar to the area still inhabited by monks. Most of the order had moved on to
other monasteries and there were only four monks left. They were a strange lot. Sworn to silence. Uninterested in the tragedy around them. Their life was prayer and meditation and naught else, save for their goats.
Eventually Raynar convinced them to give him all their fermented milk and curds so that he could help the children in the temple grounds. With Wylie and Much beside him carrying the buckets and casks, Raynar wound his way between the family groups that were huddled around the meager possessions they had saved from the spreading fires. He bathed burned skin in ale or wine, and then put a poultice of fermented goats milk curds on the fragile skin.
He concentrated on the children and the women, and talked softly to each mother about how many lost children there would be, and how only the women could be trusted to protect them. He was grateful to the wind gods that the smoke from the thatch fires was drifting down stream, so that the people around him were not a sorely taxed by the choking hot ash. He said a prayer to the wind gods to send the smoke straight up so that those poor folk that survived on the other side of the city would not have to breath the hot ash. All these things and more he discussed with the women as he showed them how to cleanse and salve the burns.
Men were now drifting hesitantly back towards the gates. They all desired to return to their homes and shops to save what they could and protect them from looters. They were not foolish enough to go back without the help of neighbours who could vouch for them if they were stopped by the watch. Looters usually met with a quick end at the hands of the watch. As the afternoon wore on, Raynar ran out of the curds that would sooth and help burns to heal. By then groups of men were cautiously walking back through the gates and into the city.
The carters all felt helpless. The task of helping the lost and the injured was so huge, and their resources were so limited. It reminded Raynar of the enormous and frustrating task seven years ago in Selby when he and Anske and Beatrice had tried to help the flood of sick and starving refugees. There were thousands crossing the River Ouse at Selby to escape the Norman army that was harrowing Yorkshire by burning all shelter, and slaughtering all animals, and destroying any sustenance.
