Beneath the southern arches of London Bridge, two men were up to their ankles in mud on the Thames bank. One was finishing up digging a hole, while the other held onto a captive. The poor wretch was dazed, gagged and clothed in prison rags. It was pitch dark, except for a sullen crescent moon and a meagre lamp hanging off the end of the digger’s spade.
“Here, I reckon this will serve. Looks deep enough to me,” said the digger.
“Good, let’s get this knave in and be done with it,” replied the gaoler, who began hoisting the limp body toward the hole.
A young girl hiding away in a nearby timber warehouse watched on. She felt sick with terror and could hardly keep herself from dropping to the ground. But she had to know who it was. Her small neck strained to see through the slot between the wooden panels, blue eyes fixed on the shadowy figures. She searched for a glimpse of hair or the shape of a jaw. Just before the captive was lowered into the hole, the digger plunged his spade into the wet ground. The lamp dangled and revealed the outline of a man’s long and bearded face – a face unknown to her. Relief coursed through the girl’s body. She let herself sink down to her knees.
King John paced back and forth in front of his throne. To his left was the cavernous expanse of Windsor Castle’s Great Hall. Sunlight slipped through the lancet windows, illuminating the stony castle walls. Though the hall was of a size for banquets, presently it was occupied only by the King and his most trusted advisor, Bishop Peter des Roches.
“Do they truly believe that I’ll stand idle while this realm is brought to shame? By God I vow we will take back the lands that are ours, and then some more,” the King’s voice boomed through the entire hall.
The Bishop bowed slightly and offered a response with his usual eloquence, “Your Grace speaks the truth. You are God’s own minister, set to execute his wrath upon those that have done this country wrong. The sins that stain the land of my birth weigh heavy on my heart and we must atone for them in the eyes of God.”
“Yet the northern barons continue to stand in my way and the people show no courage to bear the burdens required. So we are left pulling together scraps, piecing together the means for war.”
“Alas this is true. To wage the campaign we are still beholden to those who have not yet paid their due, Your Grace.”
“Fools!” bellowed the King across the Great Hall. He stopped pacing and looked directly at the Bishop. “What is the worth of gold when the very soul of our land comes under domination? We must collect what we are owed – every last piece.”
“Your Grace, in anticipation of our discussion today, I set myself the task of gathering the names of all who owe their sums. Though there are many who are due, I have pared the list down to those whose debts weigh heaviest upon the Crown.”
“Very good Peter. You are reliable as always,” the King gave a faint nod of approval. “Name them now.”
The Bishop scuttled over to the long wooden table at the centre of the Great Hall. He reached for the parchment roll that rested on its edge, tightly wound and sealed with a golden thread. He took a seat and opened the scroll. He had given a lot of effort to the preparation of the list and relished the opportunity to finally share it with the King.
“Your Grace, the foremost among the perpetrators are …” Before continuing, the Bishop cleared his throat. “The Lord of Dunmow, the Baron of Thirsk, the Prior of Durham, the Bridge House Trust …”
“Stop!” ordered the King. “Robert and William must be managed carefully, but the Bridge House Trust requires no such caution. By what force do those greedy fools think the commerce they love so dearly flows so readily and comfortably across their bridge? The Crown’s! They must pay what is owed and be brought to heel. Perhaps an armed visit is in order.”
“Your Grace, while I agree that they must produce what is owed, might I suggest that we hold back the use of force until a further plea is made for them to meet their duty to the realm. If there is indication that force could be used, then the Trust may purposefully sabotage the current trade taking place through London – commerce that remains vital for our coffers at this time.”
“Very well, I will take your counsel, Peter. You are wise in such matters. See that it is done. But if you are unsuccessful, I will be inclined towards force, sabotage or not. Now then, continue with your list.”
“I understand, Your Grace. I will mark my words to them carefully,” the Bishop answered with a slight bow, before continuing to read.
The men of the Bridge House Trust sat in their usual places, around the table of carved oak. It was late in the evening and the room was dark. A letter from Peter des Roches lay open, illuminated by candlelight. Though the atmosphere was one of frustration and the sound of the abacus clicked in their minds, the men of the Trust bantered with one another in their usual camaraderie.
One man with furry eyebrows and a protruding forehead started out loud above the conversations, “Gentlemen, your attention, please. Now that this month’s accounts are set in order, we may turn to the chief matter of today. You have all seen that the King and his nefarious advisor offer us no respite. We have paid the principal levy, but, as you know, have stood firm against the further demands of late. Yet this Peter writes to us with a final warning. If we do not yield, it will not be another letter next time, but King John’s own knights knocking at our doors.”
The men’s frustration spilled over, with complaints of the King’s conceit and curses on his advisor passing around the table. One man with a scar on his temple responded: “So these warmongering fools still have their sights set on France. They remain willing to damage the wealth of the richest patch of land in the realm, so they may chase after more lands elsewhere.”
Another man growled, “Moreover they deign to threaten us directly? Does this deranged King not understand that holding the bridge as we do, our Trust could place all London in a stranglehold at a moment’s notice, should we choose?” At that, the men broke out into a babble of agreement, identifying all the ways they could counter the King’s advances.
The man with the protruding head raised his voice and quietened the discussion, “Gentlemen, gentlemen – I understand your frustrations. But we must settle ourselves and come to a decision. My proposal is that we pay the increased levy laid upon the bridge’s toll. For now, the tradesmen have the means to bear it. The King is so mad for war that he would not hesitate to meet us with arms, even if this harms his own coffers. Let us yield this time. But should he press us further, then we must indeed return to the question of how we might stand against him.” The room settled at this considered assessment of the situation.
The man with the scar spoke again, “You are right and you speak wisely. Yet if we yield, let it be known to every merchant or traveller who crosses our bridge which hand places this burden upon them.”
“Yes, this is the most sensible course before us. But it is true that the people ought to know of their King’s selfishness,” one man said in support.
“We must not suffer the bridge’s good name being needlessly stained,” added another.
“Then we are agreed, gentlemen. Let us use what remains of our meeting to draw up our response to this slavish Peter and the notice we will place upon the bridge. But before that, one final matter. Our tributary is due next month and the Clink Prison has put forward an unusual but nonetheless fitting and appropriate candidate.”
At this, a young man who had been silent until then abruptly stood up. The interruption was made out of nervous haste rather than audacity. He looked sheepishly towards the chairman with his hands clasped together across his torso and began to speak.
“Sir, if you would be so kind as to forgive my interruption – I beg to ask, must we go ahead with this tributary? The news from the King is unwelcome, but the bridge stands firm and profits pass over it with every hour. As the newest member of this Trust, I felt a great weight upon me at last month’s announcement of the tributary. It did not pass no matter how much I attempted to resolve the issue in my own mind afterwards. And so today, too, I feel the same heavy burden as you raise the matter. Is there not another way?”
All eyes around the oak table circled and turned on the young man. A few snickers could be heard, while others glared intently at the ruddy youth. The chairman’s furry eyebrows lifted upwards and with a slight smile he answered as a teacher would a student, “Come now, dear boy. You know this is an ancient protocol of our forefathers. It is a ritual that guards the integrity of the bridge and with it the flow of profits you speak of. The stones hold fast with a spill of blood, but we cannot be accused of maintaining savageries of the past, for we offer tribute only from among those criminals who warrant it. So unless there are any other objections to the recent selection, the tributary shall proceed as it always has.” Silence ensued. The youth lowered his gaze in embarrassment and sat down without another word, his eyes remaining fixed on the dark oak table. “Very good,” the chair concluded. “Now let us draft our response to Peter.”
King John was strolling through his armoury. He had been alerted to a new shipment and wanted to inspect the arms for himself. Bishop Peter des Roches accompanied him. “We have two hundred more spears and a hundred and fifty shields since the month past, Your Grace. The smiths say the iron is true, and each piece will hold firm in the press of battle,” explained the keeper of the armoury, who remained poised to answer any questions from the King and Bishop. King John walked slowly amongst the racks, one moment lifting an iron shield and inquiring after its origin, then examining a helm to assess its rust. After a while of engaging the keeper in such conversation, he turned to the Bishop.
“The new shipment looks sound, Peter. Tell me what support has financed this strengthening of our stores.”
“The Bridge House Trust raised their toll levy after our letter to them the month past, Your Grace. Our armoury has benefitted from the increase. Though I should add, they established a sign indicating that the higher tolls arise from the Crown’s needs, rather than their own. This was, of course, a way of ensuring any grievance from the merchants passing through the bridge lands with us.”
“To hell with the merchants and their petty woes. I have no care for their grumbling. What matters is that we possess the means to carry out our war.” With this the King ran his hands thoughtfully over the ridges of a heavy steel chainmail armour, hanging nearby. Then, with a swift and sudden movement, he turned around to face the Bishop again. “I think we are close to being able to take this battle forward, Peter.” His eyes gleamed intensely, filled with visions of the future. The Bishop smiled and bowed his head ever so slightly.
Meanwhile, on London Bridge, the grumbles which the King cared not for were being heard each and every day. It was summer and the traffic across the bridge was thick with carts, horses and all types of traders peddling their goods. The bridge wardens bore the brunt of the complaints and had become accustomed to it. To begin with, travellers would cluster round the noticeboards at the two gatehouses. There the few literates among them would read aloud for everyone the sign that the Trust had put up regarding the increased toll. Word went around quickly, however, and soon enough hardly anyone checked the sign. All the tradesmen and travellers coming to London Bridge knew that the King was reaching into their pockets. They would mutter among themselves about costs and unfairness as they queued at the toll post.
On the same hot summer’s day that the King surveyed his new arms shipment with cold delight, a fish merchant on the bridge had become especially enthused. He marched ahead of the queue toward the bridge warden and set down his cart, heavy with mackerel, onto the worn stones near the warden’s booth.
“Another bloody increase? How much longer will the King bleed us workers for his mad schemes?” the fishmonger cried out, lifting a sinewy arm and pointing across the Thames, as though having identified King John himself on the other side. A nearby tradesman who was queuing with a sack of woollen hats called out, “Until the Barons finally give him a good lashing!” Laughs and yelps of enthusiasm rang out.
“Settle down there, man,” snapped the warden, recognising an instigator when he saw one. “Get in line and pay the toll, or move along.”
“Bah – rubbish!” The fish merchant spat on the earth. “I’ll not pay this fool’s levy. And you tell your bridge masters that at this rate, they’ll need two of their sacrifices to keep this bridge going.”
The bridge warden glared at him menacingly and placed his hand over the edge of the baton hanging at his waist.
“Be off with you, fishmonger.”
The fish merchant glared back at the warden for a moment. Then he spat again, and without another word hoisted up the handles of his cart and plodded away from the entryway. Instances like this occurred every now and then, yet still the Trust’s calculation that most crossers would be willing to pay the increased toll held. It did not outweigh the advantages they gained from using the bridge, much to the benefit of King John’s armoury.
It wasn’t long after the fish merchant’s morbid provocation that the two labourers of the dark were indeed back at work below the southern arches of London Bridge. The young girl resumed her position in the timber warehouse, as she had done each and every time for the months past. Sickness and terror gripped her as always, but she fastened her gaze on the shifting bodies. This time she could hardly make out the captive at all, as the light was especially dim. Only the digger’s outline and his spade could be caught in the darkness of the night.
“I can see nothing at all, we need more light,” moaned the digger.
“Aye, but not too much. We dare not draw attention to ourselves.”
The digger took out a small pot of tallow from his overalls, scooped out a piece and pressed it into the lamp hung from the end of his spade. The light expanded and the young girl gripped tightly onto the wooden slot she was peering out above, as her eyes adjusted to the small burst of light. As the gaoler dragged the body closer to the brightened lamp, the girl froze. She could now see the captive clearly. She saw the piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair, strewn across a woman’s face that she knew to be beautiful but which was now hollower than the arches set in the bridge behind.
The girl felt a scream congeal in her throat before it could come out, trapping her into a deafening silence. Her entire body began to shudder uncontrollably. The gaoler placed the woman’s limp body into the ground – the same body whose warmth had comforted the girl so many times. She wanted to flee, but her legs did not move. Instead she kept watching the men carry out their gruesome work and gripped the wooden board tighter until her fingers bled. Only once the final spade of dirt was layered over the body and the two men stopped to rest, did she release her bloodied fingers, letting her arms drop to her sides. She turned around and walked out of the warehouse, as though in a dream and feeling an indescribable horror. Her thoughts were confused and tangled, wavering before her. She stumbled meanderingly through the mud on the Thames riverside, occasionally knocking herself against piles of wood or tripping on fishing nets.
In her state of feverish confusion, the girl began talking to herself, and had a vague consciousness of pulling herself towards the bridge. Eventually she found a narrow lane just short of the bridge, drawing her into a dark Southwark neighbourhood street. A few tavern doors spilled yellow light onto the mud, while bakeries glowed in preparation for the morning ahead. The girl continued to move unevenly toward the bridge, not realising she had knocked over a cart of straw outside one industrious bakehouse. A spark drifted out from the oven and settled onto the bundle of straw. At that crucial moment, neither the girl nor anyone else in London took any notice of the faint glowing thread.
She continued slowly towards the bridge – the image of the hollowed cheeks and blue eyes passing before her, but she could not catch hold of it. Meanwhile the glowing thread quickly worked its way through the entirety of the straw pile and onto the thatched roof of the bakery. From there it wasn’t long before a hellish fire emerged, the scale of which hadn’t been seen in the city for almost a century. It spread across Southwark, with London Bridge one of its principal victims.
The girl was unfazed by the great fire that surrounded her as she moved onto the bridge. A strange recollection was shared by the lucky few who were also on the bridge that night, but managed to escape the clutches of the flames. It was the recollection that amidst the chaos, a young girl walked listlessly while all others dashed madly for safety. And as she walked she could be heard singing – in a strained and misshapen voice –
London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down.
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady.
Build it up with silver and gold,
Silver and gold, silver and gold,
Build it up with silver and gold,
My fair lady.
Gold and silver I have none,
I have none, I have none.
Gold and silver I have none,
My fair lady.
This recollection has endured through time, in the strange way that tragedies sometimes do. The young girl’s haunting words have passed down through generations in rhyme, sung even today by children across the world. Meanwhile King John’s failed war in France and the barons’ plot against his life, foiled by his faithful Bishop, are but footnotes known to few. The girl’s words have even outlived any memory of the Bridge Trust’s frightening ancient protocol, which – amidst great efforts to rebuild London Bridge after the Great Fire of Southwark – they abandoned for its apparent ineffectiveness.