ANCIENT LONDON
At the opening of the thirteenth century, London, as I have already
mentioned, was a little city, containing some forty thousand
inhabitants, and surrounded by an old Roman wall, with seven double
gates--the fortifications--being in parts much decayed. It was in the
form of a bow and string, being much more extensive from east to west
than from north to south, and narrower at both ends than at the middle;
and the wall on the south side, along the bank of the Thames, was
straight as a line, and fortified with towers, or bulwarks, in due
distance from each other.
At that time London was considered one of the murkiest capitals in
Europe. For the most part, the houses were mean, the lower stories built
of plaster, and the upper, which were of timber, projecting over the
lower; and, as has been observed, many of the streets were so narrow
that the inhabitants, when they ascended to the roofs to breathe the
fresh air, and look forth on the country, could converse with ease, and
sometimes even shake hands.
Nevertheless, London was renowned for its wealth, and ever and anon the
eye of a visitor was struck with some edifice rising with lofty dignity
from among the dingy houses that lined the long narrow streets--the
Tower Palatine, the Hospital of St. Katherine, the castles of Baynard
and Montfichet, reared by Norman conquerors; the half-fortified
mansions, inhabited by prelates and nobles when they were summoned to
the king’s court; the residences of the richer citizens, who derived
from their trade incomes that enabled them to rival the nobles in
splendour; and the thirteen conventual, and the hundred and twenty-six
parish churches, which studded the city, and kept alive the flames of
learning and religion.
Moreover, within and without the walls, there were chapelries, and
gardens, and places pleasant to the gazer’s eye. Orchards blossomed and
apples grew where now are Paternoster Row and Ivy Lane, and to the north
of Holborn, where, somewhat later, John de Kirkby built the palace for
the Bishop of Ely; associated with the memory of John of Gaunt. Outside
of Ludgate, and beyond the bridge that spanned the Fleet, and beyond the
house of the Templars and Lincoln’s Inn, the town residence of the
Lacies, was the Strand, overgrown with bushes and intersected with
rivulets, having on one side the river, where barges floated and salmon
leaped and swans glided; and on the other, gardens and fields, dotted
with suburban villas, and stretching away in one direction to the chase
and palace of Marylebone, and the hills of Highgate and Hampstead; and
in another by Clerkenwell and Islington to the great forest of
Middlesex, which was not, however, disforested till 1218, when the
citizens had an opportunity of purchasing land and building houses and
greatly extending the suburbs.
Many and various were the sports and recreations in which the ancient
Londoners indulged on high days and holidays. It is to be feared that
they did yield in some measure to the temptations of the maypole, the
tavern, the cockpit, the bull-ring, and the gaming-house, and even found
their way at times to “the vaulted room of gramarye,” in which the
wizard exercised his art. But generally their recreations were of a
manly and invigorating kind. They played football in the fields near the
Holy Well, wrestled for the ram near Matilda’s Hospital, in St. Giles’s
Fields, had horse-races and matches at quintain in Smithfield; and, when
the Thames was frozen over, they tied sheep-bones to their feet--skates
not having then come into fashion--and tilted against each other with
staves in full career. Nor did they, at other times, neglect such
aquatic exercises as were likely to train them to skill and hardihood.
“A pole,” says the chronicler, “is set up in the middle of the river,
and a shield made fast thereto. Then a young man, standing in a boat,
which, being rowed by oars and driven by the tide, glides swiftly on,
while he with his lance hits the target as the boat passes by, when if
he breaks his lance without losing his own footing he performeth well;
but if, on the contrary, the lance remains unbroken, he will be tumbled
into the water, and the boat passes on. Nevertheless, there are always
two boats ready to succour him.”
Around the walls of London were houses, and churches, and hospitals; and
Fitzstephen, writing with the scene before his eye, tells us that “on
all sides, without the suburbs, are the citizens’ gardens or orchards.”
But of all the suburbs, Clerkenwell, where stood the Priory of the
Knights of St. John, and the great mansion of the De Clares, was the
fairest. In fact, Clerkenwell, then a village some distance from London,
was one of the most picturesque places in England, having on every side
but that towards the city the prospect of wooded hills and uplands,
mingled with luxuriant verdure; while the river Holborn, its banks
clothed with vines, wound among romantic steeps and secluded dells; and
there, among glittering pebbles, was the fountain called “Fons
Clericorum,” from which the village took its name, because the youths
and students of the city--and the schools of London were frequented by
diligent scholars--were in the habit of strolling out, on summer
evenings, to take the air and taste the water.
It was at Clerkenwell, in a pleasant garden, which, however, was
evidently intended more for use than ornament, and flanked by an
orchard, where fruit trees grew thick, and afforded shady walks for its
musing and meditative owner, that the suburban villa of Constantine
Fitzarnulph was situated; and it was there that, in the spring of 1215,
the season of Lent being over, the young citizen gave a supper to some
of the Londoners whose wealth and influence were greatest, such as the
Hardels, the Basings, and the Fitz-Peters, the kind of men of whom,
thirty years later, Henry III., when advised to sell his crown jewels,
and told that, if no other purchaser could be found rich enough to buy
them, the citizens of London could, exclaimed, “Yes, by God’s head, I
suppose that if the treasures of Augustus Cæsar were in the market,
these clownish citizens, who call themselves barons, could lay down
money enough to buy them.” But in one respect Henry was wrong. The
citizens of London were not “clowns;” their hospitality was proverbial,
and intercourse with foreigners refined their manners and enlarged their
minds. Neither in point of breeding or intelligence were the guests of
Fitzarnulph at all inferior to the Bigods and Bohuns who set kings at
defiance, and wedded kings’ daughters.
Nor did the villa of the Fitzarnulphs lack any of the luxuries which at
that period could be found in the castle of prince or feudal noble. In
the hall where the guests were assembled appeared the enamelled work of
Limoges, the linen of Ipres, then celebrated for its manufacture--hence
“diaper”--and the products of Spain and Italy, and the spoils of
Constantinople, recently seized and plundered by the crusaders under
Baldwin of Flanders and Dandolo, the blind Doge of Venice. On the table,
around which they sat on chairs curiously carved, were saltcellars of
rare workmanship, and copper candlesticks, engraved and gilt, with
enamel of seven colours let into the metal, and displaying figures of
animals, and dishes, cups, and boxes ornamented like the candlesticks.
The walls and wainscot were painted with subjects from history or fable;
and more than one image and more than one picture recalled to memory the
recent sack of that rich city on the Bosphorus to which the eye of
Norman and Frank had for centuries been longingly turned.
The supper was not placed on the board, but, according to the fashion of
the day, served to the guests on spits. At first the company appeared
under constraint and silent; but when supper was over, and the
attendants were ordered to leave the apartments, and the doors were
closed, so that the conversation might be strictly private, and when
Fitzarnulph had pointed significantly to the rose on the roof-tree,
surrounded with the legend--
“He who doth secrets reveal
Beneath my roof shall never live;”
and when the wine, which had neither been produced on the banks of the
Holborn nor in the vineyards of Gloucester, flowed freely, their tongues
were loosened, and they expressed themselves without hesitation as to
the crisis which public affairs had reached, not by any means sparing
King John, whose character they evidently viewed in the very worst
light. Two of the party, however, preserved their discretion. One was
Joseph Basing, a cautious man, who had been Sheriff of London in the
previous year; the other a youth of patrician aspect, in a half-martial
dress, with handsome features, and a keen eye which kindled with
enthusiasm when noble words were spoken, and a proud lip which curled
with scorn when a mean sentiment was expressed.
“Sirs,” said Joseph Basing, after listening silently and with an air of
alarm to remarks which, if repeated, might have cost ten lives, “I will
not take upon me to dispute that there is some truth in much that has
been said, and especially that, in the matter of taxes and imposts, the
Londoners have of late had burdens laid on their shoulders which men
cannot and ought not to bear with patience. Nevertheless, we must look
before we leap, lest we should meet the fate of William Fitzozbert, who
was hanged at the Nine Elms, in Richard’s time, for calling himself King
of the Poor, and speaking ill of the powers that be. For myself, I care
not to place myself in jeopardy, even for the weal of my
fellow-citizens, unless I see a way of getting safely out again; and,
for the king, I believe it is said in Holy Writ, ‘Curse not the king,
no, not in thy thoughts, for a bird of the air shall carry the voice,
and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.’ My masters, let us be
cautious. King John may be less wise and less merciful than he might be;
but a king’s name is a tower of strength. He is still a king, and as yet
lacks neither the will nor the power to punish those who rebel against
him. Therefore, I say again, let us be cautious, and set not our lives
rashly on the cast of the die.”
A murmur, in which all present joined, intimated to Joseph Basing the
dissatisfaction which his speech had excited. But, however timid as to
his life, he was evidently not a man to surrender his judgment to his
comrades merely to please them.
“Besides,” continued he, speaking in a resolute tone, “who are these
barons, that peaceful citizens should cry them ‘God speed?’ How and why
did they cease to eat the bread of wickedness and drink the wine of
violence? Who does not know that, up to the day when King Henry came to
the throne, they taxed their ingenuity to invent instruments of torture
to wring gold from their unoffending neighbours? and the Earl of Essex,
who was rather better than his fellow-barons, used to send about spies
to beg from door to door, that he might learn in what house there was
any wealth to plunder. Verily, my masters, we ought to be careful lest
we bring back such evil days, and find ourselves at the mercy of such
ruthless men.”
“Sir citizen,” said the young noble, speaking for the first time, “these
are old stories, and such crimes as you impute to the Earl of Essex
cannot be laid to the charge of the barons forming the army of God and
the Church.”
Joseph Basing was about to answer sharply, but Constantine Fitzarnulph
indicated by a gesture his desire to be heard, and there was silence.
“My friends,” said Fitzarnulph, in a tone which he hoped would prevent
any argument, “it seems to me that this discourse is unprofitable, and
that it would be more to the purpose to come to a decision on the point
we are met to decide. The barons calling themselves the army of God and
the Church are at Bedford, ready to march to London, if assured of a
favourable reception in the city. Such reception we here assembled have
influence sufficient to secure, if we so will it; and there is here
present a young Norman noble--Walter de Merley by name--who is ready to
carry your decision to them as rapidly as horse can carry him. Is it
your desire--yea or nay--that the army now at Bedford should march to
London?”
Joseph Basing was silent: all the others with one accord shouted “Yea;”
and, almost as the sound ceased, Walter de Merley, having exchanged
signals with Fitzarnulph, vanished from the hall.
“By our Lady of Newminster,” said the young warrior, as he mounted his
steed and set its face towards Bedford, “it was no more than prudent to
make these citizens pledge themselves to secrecy by an oath which they
cannot break without risking eternal perdition. Not one of them but will
waken up at sunrise to-morrow, repenting of and trembling at the
recollection of the scene that has just been enacted.”
And while he rode on, congratulating himself on the success of
Fitzarnulph’s attempts to induce the leading citizens of London to make
the cause of the barons their own, the doors of Fitzarnulph’s hall were
thrown open; and wine and spices were served to the guests; and each
departed to his own home to seek repose, and probably to dream of the
danger in which he might be involved should the secret ooze out before
the arrival of “the army of God and the Church.”