Stewart Binns - Anarchy

Fulham Palace, 1 September 1186

My Dearest Thibaud,

Forgive me, perhaps I should not be so familiar now that you wear the blue cape of a cardinal of Rome. I imagine it tempts one’s vanity to be addressed as ‘Eminence’. I am accorded ‘Lord Bishop’, which is quite enough for the son of a steward, although I have been greeted as ‘Beatitude’ a few times and even ‘Holiness’ on one famous occasion in front of the entire Chapter of St Paul’s, which found it difficult to contain itself for several minutes.

I am so pleased for you. Ostia is a very agreeable place to enjoy your elevation to the most venerable College of them all. Perhaps you will invite your humble friend to visit you one day. We have both come a long way since our days together at Cluny: you, one of the most powerful men in the Church, I, someone of at least modest influence here in England. I am so proud of you and what you have achieved; for my part, and I hope I do not appear to be too conceited, I am content with my own modest success here in London.

I am sure you have many crosses to bear, each probably far greater than mine. But if I may, I would like to add a little to your many duties. There is something I need to share with you and, if you will indulge me, I would like this letter to introduce a very important subject.

But first, I have some news about me you may find interesting, although, sad to say, it is far from good news. Thankfully, contentment with my past and my modest contribution to the Holy Church are important to my peace of mind as age takes its toll on me. My eyesight is now very poor. I can see enough to get about in bright sunshine, but darkness is just that for me: candles are a mere flicker before my eyes, they illuminate neither face nor feature, unless the flame is held very close.

My monks write everything for me, so if my Latin is not what it was, do forgive me. To my immense regret, I am unable to read anything written in my name. Sad to say, I am becoming feeble and have to use a stick for my short perambulations around the palace gardens. Mercifully, there is always a young monk nearby to steady me if I falter, or gather me up if I fall – an embarrassing mishap that has happened more than once.

If my duties require me to go to London, I am transported to the quay in a litter like a prince and then rowed in my rather splendid barge up the river to the city. I often imagine I am your good friend Orio Mastropiero, the Venerable Doge himself, in his robes of gold, being rowed along the Grand Canal in his galley of state. I have never been to Venice, but your descriptions of it are so vivid, I can imagine it in detail. I know my false pride is a sin, but I’m sure you will forgive an old man a small flight of fancy.

You would be impressed by my parish church of St Paul’s. It is not as grand as some in Normandy, nor as majestic as the great cathedrals of antiquity. But it is a towering edifice built, I am told, on a site that was originally consecrated in the time of Rome and a pagan place of worship before that.

In fact, London has a remarkable collection of churches and chapels. Many of the smaller ones are ancient Saxon in origin – charming little buildings with timber frames and thatched roofs – but, since the Conquest, they are gradually being rebuilt in stone. Bishops from the provinces, powerful earls from the Marches and the wealthy city merchants are also building in stone. This creates an arresting visual contrast: the small beige and brown thatched hovels of the lower classes, who are still almost exclusively English, are cast into gloomy shadow by the gleaming creams and greys of the palaces and churches of the governing elite, who are of course predominantly Norman.

I feel sorry for the English. They have suffered greatly, and many still do. But they have boundless resolve and preserve their culture with a tenacity that verges on the fanatical. Most Normans now speak English fluently, and many young Norman knights find the English propensity for drinking and debauchery very seductive. This is to the chagrin of the older generation, who complain that our old Norman disciplines are being lost in a land that is still so English in its ways. The Celts in the north and west are similar: also often feckless like many of the English, they are perhaps even more fierce and independent.

Overt resistance from the English is long gone, but an undercurrent of sullen resentment remains – a glance, a deference denied, an occasional outburst – for they are a proud lot. I admire them, as do many of my kin. The Welsh are still troublesome, even to the hardiest Marcher lords, and the Scots still raid the north with impunity. I often think it must have been like this when the Romans ruled here. It took them centuries to pacify the natives; we Normans have only been here for two generations, and we still look and sound like an alien presence.

We govern from our towering fortresses, build our glorious cathedrals to celebrate the power granted to us by God and we have sequestered all the land with ruthless efficiency. But we are still foreigners – even the grandchildren of those who came with the Conqueror.

In the burghs, life seems normal and, on the whole, prosperous. But among the peasants, especially in the remote areas, the English seem untouched by us. There are still bands of outlaws, often leading squalid lives, and the families of dispossessed English landowners scratch an existence in the wild places. Occasionally there is an outbreak of violence among the English loyalists. This is dealt with by the torture and execution of the rebels, which only adds more heat to the cauldron of simmering discontent.

We Normans believe in a strict regime – often too strict, in my view – but when a miscreant’s head is impaled on a spike above the gates of London, or his corpse is left to sway in the wind from a gibbet over the Thames, the mood of brooding hostility from many of the native population is palpable. Apparently, among themselves, we are called the ‘Bastards’ after the Conqueror – an epithet he deserved of course, both literally and metaphorically. Sadly, some of my kin have earned the appellation as well. I have seen them behave with a rare brutality, and usually without sanction from the King or the law.

Much of the story I would like to share with you centres on the continuing problem of our rule in this land and the reluctance of the English to accept its permanence. I will return to that, but let me tell you a little more about my circumstances here.

London continues to thrive, but with that comes an ever greater burden on the clerics in my diocese for, as you know, with wealth comes poverty and, in the wake of both, sin. London is a sinful place: alehouses and brothels multiply; disease is rife and villainy proliferates. I know this is yet another reference to Ancient Rome, but I often think that London must be a mirror of Rome in its pomp and squalor. We do not have the Colosseum, but we have bear pits and cockfights, fisticuffs and wrestling – both of which usually result in death or maiming – brawls and murders daily, quite apart from various judicial executions and mutilations by the score. I had always assumed Rouen was a depraved city, but London makes it seem more like a monastery; though I confess, I’ve known a few of those to be a little decadent.

Amidst London’s new buildings and on its streets and quays you see a menagerie of people from all over the world. In the port of London, one is just as likely to hear Greek or Arabic spoken as English or French. I am told there are men to be seen on the Venetian trading ships who are as black as soot.

King Henry’s Lord High Treasurer, Richard FitzNeal, an odious little miser, who prays for my imminent demise and covets my bishopric with an unseemly passion, tells me that London is home to more than 25,000 souls. God help us all, no place on earth can hope to retain its civility and well-being with so many greedy ambitions to satisfy and ravenous mouths to feed. Sadly, the lovely Thames, once a more than adequate sewer for the city, is now overwhelmed and the stench downstream from St Paul’s is unbearable. I thank my predecessors daily for choosing an upriver location and the clean water and fresh air of Fulham for our palace. I wake every morning to tranquil birdsong and gentle mist over the meadows of Putney and Barnes. Yesterday was the Sabbath and last night we had a full moon. The river danced, lit by moonbeams; it looked like a great lake of quicksilver and I sat and watched it for hours, listening to the quiet murmurings of the night.