London

  Yet still, to his amazement, she held her ground.

  “I will not speak the vows. I’ll appeal to the priest. You cannot force me, no matter what you do.”

  “Then I’ll send you to a nunnery,” he yelled.

  “Send me to St Helen’s then,” she cried in exasperation. “At least I’ll have some fun.” And she rushed from the room, leaving her father puce in the face, and stupefied.

  An hour later, Tiffany was in her room at the top of the house, with the door bolted from the outside. “She will stay there until she sees sense,” Bull declared. Only the fat girl was allowed to go up with a jug of water and a bowl of gruel.

  So three days passed. Her mother, supposing that it must be a case of nerves, went to talk to her and returned looking helpless. The preparations for the wedding, at Bull’s insistence, continued. Nor was Silversleeves even told about the trouble when he called. “She’ll come round, or I really will send her to a convent,” Bull told his worried wife. But as the days passed, even he began to grow discouraged until, at the end of the fourth day, he was so uncertain that he did something he had never done in all their married life. “What do you think I should do?” he asked her.

  “I think,” she said quietly, “you will have to send her to a convent or let her have her way.”

  Tiffany’s room was a good place to think. It was directly above the big upstairs room and had a pleasant view up the Thames so that she could sit and watch the traffic on the river by the hour. There, as the days passed quietly, she had plenty of time to consider.

  What did she want? At first, she hardly seemed to know herself, except that she had no desire to marry Silversleeves, or be a nun. By the second day, she began to realize. By the third, she knew, and it all seemed so simple, so natural, that she wondered if she had not known it all along. But how could she bring it about? She did not know.

  She would have to play for time.

  She spoke quietly. Her voice was meek and small.

  “I have always obeyed you, Father. If you loved me, you would not condemn me to a life of unhappiness.” She waited. When at last he replied, his voice was gruff.

  “What do you want, then?”

  Now she looked up at him. Her eyes were soft.

  “I wish you would help me,” she said. “I am so confused. I beg you, give me a little time.”

  “For what? To choose another husband?”

  “To be sure of my heart.”

  Bull paused. He had no wish to see her in a convent. God knows, he wanted grandchildren. He also had some knowledge of the human heart. Doing his best to set aside the embarrassment he felt towards Silversleeves, he tried to guess at his daughter’s real state of mind. Was she sure about Silversleeves? Even if she chose someone else, mightn’t she change her mind again? Few fathers in his position would have allowed their daughters so much freedom; it had probably been a mistake. He announced his decision.

  “I will make a bargain with you,” he said, “but it will be the last.” Then he told her what it was, and left, bolting the door behind him.

  After he had gone, Tiffany looked pale, and thoughtful. It was not at all what she had wanted. Yet what could she do? It seemed that she would have to gamble everything on a single throw of the dice.

  When Ducket received the message the following morning, he questioned the fat girl closely. But the message she delivered had been typically brief.

  “That’s all she said? Come to the house this evening?”

  “I’ve to let you in.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You must know something.”

  “Cook says Tiffany’s got to marry or go to a convent.”

  “Who?”

  “The long-nosed one, I s’pose.” She watched him impassively. “You coming?”

  “Of course I will,” he cried, as she waddled away.

  If anyone had been observing as the guests arrived at the house of Bull the merchant that evening, they might have noticed a curiously high proportion of eligible young men. There were several middle-aged aldermen with their wives, two of whom had brought daughters, also a widow and even a priest. But there were seven or eight bachelors.

  No one knew of any particular reason why they were there. Before noon that day, the merchant had invited as many as he judged necessary. Besides Silversleeves, who looked very comfortable and at ease, standing in the middle of the upstairs room near Bull’s precious astrolabe, there were four sons of merchants, a young mercer and a draper, both from solid gentry families, and even the young fellow with a great estate. The only exception in terms of eligibility was the figure who, tall, red-faced and a little flustered, had clumped up the stairs behind the others. Chancing to see James Bull in the street, that afternoon, the merchant, with a shrug, had invited him too. He was, at least, a kinsman.

  As it was almost midsummer, there were still hours of daylight left. It was warm; the lower half of the big window had been thrown open, allowing in a pleasant waft of air, cooled somewhat by the river which, the tide having just turned, was rushing with a roar through the channel far below. The company was relaxed; even James Bull, who to give himself confidence in such society had been thinking how honest he was all afternoon, soon began to feel at ease. The master of the house chatted to everyone affably.

  Tiffany entered. How charming she looked. Perhaps she was a little pale, but she went over to Silversleeves, greeted him affectionately, and began to mix with the other guests. She even came and talked to James. From time to time her gaze strayed towards the door, but nobody noticed. Her father smiled at her and she at him.

  For this meeting was their bargain. “I’m not telling anyone,” he had told her the day before, “because I’m not going to embarrass either Silversleeves or myself. But this much I’ll promise you. If you like any of the other young men in the room, you can marry them. They’ve all expressed an interest before. I’ll break it to Silversleeves. But if you don’t choose anyone else, then it’s Silversleeves, or a convent. I shan’t go back on this,” he had said with a stare. “You have my word.” And she had known he meant it.

  It had been a bitter blow. She had intended to bring him round to the idea gradually; but there was no chance of that now. So she had planned her great gamble. She hoped it would work.

  She was going to point to Ducket.

  Yet even then, there was still one terrible danger – a flaw which, if she were wrong, would bring the whole plan down in ruin. What if Ducket did not want her? What if, that very day, he had promised himself to Amy? She had not dared tell the fat girl too much when she sent her to Ducket. She had not even dared to send a letter. And now, as there was no sign of him, she even began to wonder: did the fat girl deceive her? Had her father, who smiled at her now, already fore-stalled him? Where was he?

  Ducket took his time. He had watched the guests arriving, and had waited. He did not want to meet anyone when he approached the house; if Silversleeves or Bull caught sight of him, he would certainly be thrown out. He would let them get started first.

  There was another reason why he allowed himself to pause. These might be his last moments of freedom. He did not know exactly why Tiffany had summoned him, but he feared the worst. Silversleeves or a convent: that was what the fat girl had said. Why all these people were arriving he did not know but no doubt he would soon find out.

  He had wondered if Silversleeves would be there, and had come prepared. The knife was concealed, stuck in his belt under his shirt. As soon as he was sure how things stood, he would use it.

  Silversleeves must die. If possible he would follow him out and do it somewhere discreetly, but if, for some reason, he had to, he would do it here. As for his own fate, he shrugged. I’ll swing, he thought grimly.

  He was just contemplating this when he saw a latecomer hurrying to the door. It was the priest Bull had invited. And now, with a shock, it seemed to him that he understood. “My God, he’s going to marry them r
ight away,” he muttered. The company were gathered to witness it. His heart beating hard, he hastened to the kitchen door.

  He could hear the sound of voices as he followed the fat girl up the familiar stairs. She had given him an old gown of the cook’s and a little linen cap to hide his give-away hair. He carried a platter of food as well. Fortunately he was clean shaven, so if he kept his head down and stayed at the back of the room, people would probably assume he was a serving girl.

  At the top of the stairs they paused. The fat girl stood in the doorway, as a signal to Tiffany. Looking past her, Ducket could see that there were at least twenty people in the room.

  Then Tiffany came over. She slipped round the fat girl, and a second later, Ducket found himself gazing into her face. She looked pale, her eyes a little frightened.

  “Thank God you’ve come.” She was trembling. “I told father I didn’t want to marry Silversleeves. But he said . . .”

  “I know. A convent. Don’t worry. It’ll be all right.”

  “You don’t quite understand.”

  “Tiffany.” Her father’s voice was calling.

  “Tell me,” her eyes gazed into his searchingly, earnestly, “tell me Geoffrey Ducket – I have to ask, you see – do you love me? I mean, could you? You see . . .” He cut her short.

  “Enough to die for you,” he promised. It was the truth.

  She was about to say more, but her father’s voice was heard again. Closer. She gave a desperate little shrug, turned, moved quickly round the fat girl and stepped forward to meet him. A second later they had moved away.

  Ducket entered the room. No one seemed to be looking at him. He edged forward. He saw Silversleeves, standing a few paces in front of the table on which the astrolabe lay. Just in front of him, he also saw James Bull, and silently cursed. Another figure who could recognize him. Fortunately however, an alderman and his wife stood between himself and these two. Keeping his head down, he was able to get closer. Holding the platter in his left hand, he reached under the folds of his dress for the dagger. He had it. He wasn’t taking any chances. He prepared to make his rush.

  Tiffany and her father had drawn a little apart from their guests for a moment and were standing close by the window. Though her father had looked at her enquiringly, it was Tiffany who had begun the conversation.

  “Father, you said that if I could not bring myself to marry Silversleeves, I might choose another in the room?”

  “I did.”

  “There is a man in the room of whom you have a low opinion. Nor have we ever spoken about him as a husband. And yet, Father, I truly love him. Will you allow me to marry even him? For if not, I shall have to go to the convent.”

  Bull glanced around. The only man who seemed to fit the description was James Bull. Could his daughter really have fallen in love with the clumsy fellow? It was certainly a disappointment.

  “You are sure? Rather than the convent?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. At least, he thought, he’s honest. “Very well,” he sighed.

  “It is Ducket,” she said. And pointed.

  “What?” Bull’s face was red. His bellow shook the room. The whole company had turned, to follow his gaze.

  Ducket went pale. They were looking at him. He had been recognized. He clenched the hidden knife. There was nothing for it. Before they threw him out he must strike. He started towards Silversleeves, pushing past the alderman in his way.

  And then something happened.

  With a roar of rage, Bull turned upon Tiffany and, swinging his large arm, struck her face with the open flat of his hand so hard that she seemed to fly from him like a wounded bird. There was a general gasp.

  Then a cry, as Tiffany, spinning away, crashed against the open window, lost her balance, and fell out.

  “My God!” Bull, suddenly ashen, leaped to the window. The whole room seemed to surge forward, as Tiffany, with a faint cry, dropped like a bundle of clothes the thirty feet into the waters of the Thames below.

  The sequence of events that followed lasted only a matter of seconds from beginning to end, yet, to most of those present, they seemed to happen rather slowly.

  Tiffany’s dress had lessened the impact of her fall and she was only briefly submerged. Though stunned as she came up, she could see that one of the bridge’s great piers was only yards away and she struggled desperately to reach it before the current took her to the point where the waters began their irresistible rush into the channel. She was vaguely aware of a voice far above crying – “Hold on” – as she managed to seize the long riverweeds that grew upon its sides. But already the current was pulling, tugging at her dress. The weeds were slippery. Frantically she held on, but knew she could not do so for long. Yards away, the churning waters roared and foamed; the current seemed to be urging her, ever more insistently, to join it in the headlong ride to death.

  Above, in the big room, all was confusion. What should they do? Bull was struggling to get out of his heavy robe; his wife, about to lose a husband as well as a daughter, was gasping for breath. Silversleeves, with a look of deep piety, sank to his knees and began to pray, while James Bull, waving his arms wildly, cried out: “A rope! Fetch a rope!” Clambering across the room, he knocked over the table, stamping, in his haste, upon the astrolabe and crushing its delicate mechanism entirely.

  But it was Ducket who, dropping the knife and ignoring Silversleeves, ran to the window and launched himself out into the air just as, below, Tiffany’s fingers lost their grip.

  A second later he followed her, into the raging torrent.

  Bull the merchant had many faults, but ingratitude was not one of them. Nor, indeed, was moral cowardice.

  Some hours later, when Tiffany was sufficiently recovered to talk, he spent some time at her bedside, listening while she spoke to him earnestly. Then he went down to the kitchen where, in dry clothes, Ducket was sitting by the fire, and asked the apprentice to accompany him to the big room.

  “I have thanked you for saving Tiffany’s life, which you certainly did, and I do so again,” he began. “But I now believe, after talking to Tiffany, that I owe you an unqualified apology for doubting your character. I ask your forgiveness.” He paused. “It seems also that my daughter is very anxious to marry you instead of that rogue Silversleeves. Her judgement is obviously better than mine.” And now he smiled. “The question is, Ducket, would you consider it?”

  Ducket and Tiffany were married a week later. It was a happy occasion. Whittington stood beside the bridegroom. Chaucer made a speech.

  The rich merchant, before giving his daughter to the foundling, had made one stipulation. “Since I have no son, and you will enjoy a large fortune from me, I ask one thing: that you, Ducket, should take the name of Bull.” To which the couple had readily agreed. It was therefore Geoffrey and Tiffany Bull who now started their new life together, in the pleasant house already picked for them, on Oyster Hill by London Bridge.

  One other happy event also took place a month later. On the eve of her daughter’s wedding to Carpenter, Dame Barnikel made an announcement.

  “I’m going to marry James.”

  She had decided she could make something of him; and James Bull for his part, it seemed, had concluded that, if not the fortune he had dreamed of, the George Tavern was a good and solid business. “He’s going to become a brewer,” she told the guild, and they did not dare to argue. And so the Bull Brewery was born.

  As for the prospect of being a bride again, she became quite girlish about it.

  1386

  The idea was Chaucer’s

  He had been worried about his friend Bull of late. Tiffany was married; two years ago, Bull’s wife had died. The merchant was feeling rather lonely. Once or twice Chaucer had got the impression that his old friend might have been drinking. And so, in the spring of 1385, he had been delighted when fate provided him with a new official position, and the perfect excuse to take Bull out of himself. “You’re coming with me,” h
e said. “To Kent.” For Chaucer had just become a Justice of the Peace.

  The role of Justice of the Peace had been evolving for some time. It was a good, commonsense system, in which local gentlemen of the shire, aided by professional sergeants-at-law to advise on the legal niceties, presided over the county courts; and Geoffrey Chaucer was eligible because as a royal servant he had been granted a small estate in Kent.

  Bull had finally agreed, but before he left, there had been one important decision to make. Who should manage his affairs while he was gone? Since marrying Tiffany, the foundling had exhibited a surprising aptitude for business and before long Bull had found real pleasure in teaching him all he knew, but one thing had displeased the merchant. Though the young man had agreed to dispense with his own name of Ducket, and take that of Bull, he had refused to join the Mercers Guild, despite the fact that Bull could have got him in. “The Grocers Guild is where I served my apprenticeship,” he declared, “and it’s the trade I know.” Nothing would change his loyalty. The fact that the Grocers were currently running the city and the Mercers were not did not make Bull any happier, and Bull was not sure he wanted to put his affairs entirely in the younger man’s hands just yet. The solution he hit upon, however, suited everybody. He called in Whittington.

  Whittington was in his thirties now, a man of substance already and a member of the Mercers Guild. He and young Ducket had always been friends. “I want you to watch over my affairs jointly while I’m away,” he instructed them. “You can always send for me if you’re in any doubt.” Feeling confident in the arrangement, he had departed cheerfully enough.

  How delightful it was to be in Kent. Just for a moment, when he had met the justices at Rochester Castle, Bull had been afraid he might not enjoy himself. They were a large party, who, apart from the five sergeants-at-law, were mostly courtiers or members of the greatest landowning families in the shire. Rich as he was, Bull had never moved in these circles; but Chaucer came immediately to his rescue. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “I am such a newcomer to this county myself that I asked my dear friend here to ride with me and guide me. He was born a Bull of Bocton, an ancient Kent family, I believe.” The effect was instantaneous. “Been here longer than we have,” one landowner declared. “It must be your brother I know,” smiled another. By the end of that day, they let him feel as if they had known him all his life.