tangle of muddy lanes leading inland from the wharves, the same dank spread of drab houses. However, London’s houses were more substantial, stout timbers replacing Dublin’s daub and wattle. The servant took me down a lane leading to the river, and if he had not stopped at the door of the building, I would have mistaken Brithmaer’s home for a warehouse, and a very solid one at that.
A small spy hatch opened in answer to our knock. When the servant identified himself, the massive door was opened and, as soon as I was inside, closed firmly behind me. The palace servant was not allowed to enter.
I found myself blinking to adjust to the dimness. I was in an antechamber. The place was dark because the barred windows were small and high up in the walls. The man who had let me in looked more like a rough blacksmith than a fine jeweller and I quickly concluded that he was more of a guard than a doorkeeper. He grunted when I gave him my name and gestured for me to follow him. As I crossed the darkened room, I became aware of a muffled sound. It was an uninterrupted chinking and clinking, a metallic sound, irregular but insistent which seemed to come through rear wall of the room. I could not imagine what was causing it.
There was a small door to one side, which led on to a narrow stairway, and that in turn brought us up to the upper floor of the building. From the outside the house had seemed workmanlike, even grim, but on the upper floor I found accommodation more comfortable than in the palace I had just left. I was shown into what was the first of a series of large, airy rooms. It was clearly a reception room and expensively furnished. The wall hangings were artfully woven in muted golds and greens and I imagined they must have been imported from the Frankish lands. The chairs were plain but valuable and the table was spread with a patterned carpet, a fashion I had never seen before. Sculpted bronze candle holders, even some glass panes in the windows instead of the usual window panes of horn, spoke of wealth and discreet good taste. The sole occupant of the room was seated at the table, an old man quietly eating an apple.
‘So you are to be the queen’s viewer,’ he said. By his dress and manner he was clearly the owner of the establishment. He was wearing a dark grey tunic of old-fashioned cut with comfortable loose pantaloons. On his feet were well-worn but beautiful stitched slippers. Had he been standing, I doubted that he would have come only halfway up my chest, and I observed that he had developed the forward stoop of the very old. He held his head hunched down carefully into his shoulders and the hand that held the apple, was mottled with age. Yet his small, narrow face with its slightly hooked nose and close-set eyes, was a youthful pink, as if he had never been exposed to the wind and rain. His hair, which he had kept despite his age, was pure white. He looked very carefully preserved. It was impossible to read any expression in the watery, bright blue eyes which regarded me shrewdly.
‘Do you know anything about jewellery and fine metals?’ he asked.
I was about to tell this delicate gnome of a man that I had lived for two years in an Irish monastery where master craftsmen produced exquisite objects for the glory of God — reliquaries, platens, bishops’ crosses and so forth — made in gold and silver and inlaid with enamel and precious stones. But when I saw those neutral, watchful eyes, I decided only to answer, ‘I would be pleased to learn.’
‘Very well. Naturally I am happy to accede to the queen’s request. She is one of my best customers. We’ll provide you with board and lodging — rent free of course, though nothing was said about paying any wages.’ Then, speaking to the doorkeeper who had stood behind me, he said, ‘Call Thurulf. Tell him that I want a word.’
The servant left by a different door from the one we had entered through and, as he opened it, that same puzzling sound
A small spy hatch opened in answer to our knock. When the servant identified himself, the massive door was opened and, as soon as I was inside, closed firmly behind me. The palace servant was not allowed to enter.
I found myself blinking to adjust to the dimness. I was in an antechamber. The place was dark because the barred windows were small and high up in the walls. The man who had let me in looked more like a rough blacksmith than a fine jeweller and I quickly concluded that he was more of a guard than a doorkeeper. He grunted when I gave him my name and gestured for me to follow him. As I crossed the darkened room, I became aware of a muffled sound. It was an uninterrupted chinking and clinking, a metallic sound, irregular but insistent which seemed to come through rear wall of the room. I could not imagine what was causing it.
There was a small door to one side, which led on to a narrow stairway, and that in turn brought us up to the upper floor of the building. From the outside the house had seemed workmanlike, even grim, but on the upper floor I found accommodation more comfortable than in the palace I had just left. I was shown into what was the first of a series of large, airy rooms. It was clearly a reception room and expensively furnished. The wall hangings were artfully woven in muted golds and greens and I imagined they must have been imported from the Frankish lands. The chairs were plain but valuable and the table was spread with a patterned carpet, a fashion I had never seen before. Sculpted bronze candle holders, even some glass panes in the windows instead of the usual window panes of horn, spoke of wealth and discreet good taste. The sole occupant of the room was seated at the table, an old man quietly eating an apple.
‘So you are to be the queen’s viewer,’ he said. By his dress and manner he was clearly the owner of the establishment. He was wearing a dark grey tunic of old-fashioned cut with comfortable loose pantaloons. On his feet were well-worn but beautiful stitched slippers. Had he been standing, I doubted that he would have come only halfway up my chest, and I observed that he had developed the forward stoop of the very old. He held his head hunched down carefully into his shoulders and the hand that held the apple, was mottled with age. Yet his small, narrow face with its slightly hooked nose and close-set eyes, was a youthful pink, as if he had never been exposed to the wind and rain. His hair, which he had kept despite his age, was pure white. He looked very carefully preserved. It was impossible to read any expression in the watery, bright blue eyes which regarded me shrewdly.
‘Do you know anything about jewellery and fine metals?’ he asked.
I was about to tell this delicate gnome of a man that I had lived for two years in an Irish monastery where master craftsmen produced exquisite objects for the glory of God — reliquaries, platens, bishops’ crosses and so forth — made in gold and silver and inlaid with enamel and precious stones. But when I saw those neutral, watchful eyes, I decided only to answer, ‘I would be pleased to learn.’
‘Very well. Naturally I am happy to accede to the queen’s request. She is one of my best customers. We’ll provide you with board and lodging — rent free of course, though nothing was said about paying any wages.’ Then, speaking to the doorkeeper who had stood behind me, he said, ‘Call Thurulf. Tell him that I want a word.’
The servant left by a different door from the one we had entered through and, as he opened it, that same puzzling sound
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