London Folk Tales (3 page)

Three years passed in this way, and never a whisper of it was leaked over the sea to Britain. Then one morning a starling chick on its first flight fell down and broke its wing. Branwen saw it and secretly nursed it back to health. Day by day she talked to it, and told it all her troubles, until it had listened so long that the bird itself learned how to speak her tongue. And then she sent it home to tell her tale to her brother Bran.

That was how the war began between those islands and between those men. And when it was done, such were the losses on both sides that there was barely anyone left alive – even Bran himself was dying on the battlefield. So he told the seven men who still survived to cut off his great head and carry it back home, and all around his isles. He promised them that whilst they went, his eyes would stay alive to see, his ears to hear, and his mouth to speak. And when the time came that the life and soul went from him, he told them to take him eastwards, to ‘Gwynfryn’, the white hill, and bury him.

Then Branwen’s heart burst with the sorrow of it all, and the sense that she was the cause. But the head of Bran continued to live for all the time that it was carried on its journey home, and for those seven years of pilgrimage around his lands. And throughout this time he told his men stories and sang them songs of old, and gave such wise advice that he consoled them all. Those seven years seemed to them no more than seven hours, such was the good company they had together – all thoughts of troubles gone.

Then the moment came when the doors were opened to the memory of all that they had lost, and the head of Bran fell silent, and the flesh began to rot. They carried it then towards the east, over the hills, and across the flatter lands, following a river that grew ever wider until it poured out into the eastern sea. But before it came to that, there was a settlement on the northern side of the river, beside a white hill, and they knew they had come to Gwynfryn, and they buried the head there, with his face towards the east.

They say that settlement was once called Troynovant, and then had many names, of which London is the latest. And upon that white hill a White Tower was built, and other towers and defences grew around it to make the Tower of London as we know it today.

It was said, too, that Bran’s head would keep this island safe from all invasion, so long as it remained in that place. Some claim Arthur moved it, when he was king at Camelot, but others say that he did not, and that we stay, to this day, protected by its power.

Either way, we can rest assured that if Britain is not saved by his remains, then it will be by symbolic representations of the ancient king.

For ‘Bran’ is ‘Raven’ by another name, and those black birds of wisdom have been at the Tower of London for as long as the tale has been told, further back than any can remember. Indeed, King Charles II, who knew the legend well, made a royal decree that a minimum of six ravens must be kept at the tower at all times. Nowadays they are looked after by a special official, the Yeomen Warder Ravenmaster. Amongst other things, he attends to clipping their wings, which I am told is for their own benefit, as opposed to an attempt to prevent our royal winged defenders from trying to fly away.

There are plenty of stars in London but they usually stay at the Ritz and dine at The Ivy. The real stars, the kind that twinkle, the ones we wish on, are hidden behind a layer of smog. But Londoners always see the moon. She does not forget us.

Civilisations are like the moon. They begin no bigger than a thumbnail in a vast sky, and then become an apple of light as big as a cartwheel, and then decay to a rind and go back into the dark. Occasionally a human being becomes as famous as a civilisation and every time we tell their story, they shine as bright as a moon.

Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni, ruled in the east of England. She was very rich. She was rich because she was a queen, she was rich because she was a mother, but most of all she was rich in herself. She was big – about 6ft tall – with legs as strong as the hind legs of a hare, and arms as free as the strong, beating wings of the sacred geese and swans that strutted and pecked between her many dwellings. Her laugh was as deep and low as a wood pigeon cooing over its eggs. At first glance, Boudicca’s eyes flashed like green water through the trees, but on second glance, you might notice flecks of brown in the green, like tough pebbles holding back the skip of the river.

Like the black crow of the dark forest, its eyes bright but hooded, Boudicca didn’t know what was coming her way. Like a root that curls round an obstacle and continues to thrive, she fancied she could subsist alongside the Romans. Her husband tolerated them and she followed his lead. They made her laugh, with their hard hats and hard lines, their regiments and their rules. It was ludicrous the way they tried to untangle the gorse and the bramble, pave over the marshes and fight the wind and the river. Didn’t they know how much easier it was just to watch how the water bubbled up from the depths of the lake, and then follow its curves and patterns like a fish? Each to his own, but Boudicca vowed she would never be a Roman. She would follow the signs of the seasons, the path of the stars and the voice inside herself.

When her husband died, he left half of his wealth to the Romans, and the rest to his family. It didn’t occur to Boudicca that anyone would dare defy his wishes, but she was wrong.

Early one morning, the sun was still behind the mountains, the pigs were grunting and the geese were padding their yellow feet in the yard and Boudicca was fast asleep with her daughters. She was lying on her back, her arms and legs spread wide; a daughter on each side, their soft hair like copper feathers brushing her arms. Had her eyes been open, she might have seen the blade of a knife split the heavy skins acting as a door, but it wasn’t until boots kicked through the soft carpets to the dust of the floor, that she finally opened them. By then it was too late. A multitude of calloused hands grabbed at her and she was dragged away from her daughters, like a hen separated from her chicks. She fought back, howling, beating with her strong legs and swift arms, but she was utterly outnumbered.

Boudicca was strapped to a pole and beaten, but no matter how hard the rods bit into her back she was always conscious of the cries of her daughters, like fox cubs screeching in the night, as they were dragged through the dust by mauling soldiers who broke their soft skin and tore their bright hair. And when she was finally released from the pole, she crawled through the dung of the yard to where her daughters had been thrown onto the stones like rich scraps from a banquet table. Shivering in each other’s arms, they watched the Roman robbers stack their possessions onto carts – their torques, armbands, bracelets of gold, hides, fleeces, finely woven cloth, bowls, benches, tables of oak and mirrors of bronze. Helplessly they looked on as the Romans speared Boudicca’s holy birds, spit the pigs, tethered the cattle and rode all of it away.

And so the warp pole of war between the Romans and Britons was slammed into the ground as Boudicca planned her revenge, crafted as carefully as a carpet. First the beams of the loom had to be straightened; Boudicca and her daughters healed themselves to full strength. Then the tying and tightening of the warp strings commenced; so they amassed followers, going from dwelling to dwelling, tribe to tribe and rousing them to commit to the war cloth. And then the weaving of the decorative threads began, as the women and men prepared their bodies and their boasts, cursing the Romans, spitting oaths in an out of each other’s hearts like blood-red wool, like night-black thread:

If Rome is an eagle then we are the lions.

If Rome is a wolf then we are the bears.

If Rome is a road then we are the river

If Rome is a rock then we are the ice.

An ever-expanding carpet of warriors gathered. Their hair bristled, limed white and streaked with crimson; their skin writhed with blue tattoos of snakes and leaves. They jostled and joked with each other, juggling with spears or crossing their swords and dancing between the points, waiting for an omen to guide them.

A murder of black crows flew up from the echoing forest and Boudicca mounted her chariot. She stood tall in newly crafted blue and red tartan, a freshly forged golden torque heavy round her neck, her untamed hair catching the rays of the morning sun. She raised her arms towards it, feeling its beams flowing into her blood until it fizzed like liquid gold. One hundred and twenty thousand warriors exhaled with one breath as she spoke, her voice low and rhythmic like wind blowing down from the hills.

‘Andraste, Goddess of Victory, I am speaking to you woman to woman. You know we will win this battle, I know we will win this battle, now show my people we will win this battle!’

And she pulled out from underneath her thick cloak, a hare. She held it by its enormous ears with one hand and while her other hand steadied its great, thumping hind legs, she began to chant in its ear. The crowd inhaled and listened with the holy hare – the hare that runs like the river, spawns like the salmon, and boxes like the bear. Then they swelled out Boudicca’s chant with their own voices, until they were one with the hare, and the hare was one with them.

‘Tell me,’ said Boudicca – pitching her voice just above theirs, ‘if she runs to the right will we win or lose?’

‘We will lose!’ they crooned.

‘If she runs to the left will we lose or win?’

‘We will win!’

‘Then let her begin!’

And Boudicca stepped smoothly down from her wicker chariot and lightly placed the hare on the ground. Raising her front paws and sniffing the air, the hare held the little stage of green grass for a moment, and then dropped her front legs and ran straight through the parting wave of warriors, until she veered surely and swiftly to the left, disappearing into the folds of the forest. Then the army of warriors cheered, and surged ahead to take their first town, Camilodnum, the Colchester of today.

The inhabitants were caught by surprise. Most of them were retired Roman soldiers whose muscles had turned to fat and whose heroic exploits had turned into stories. Some were sitting in warm taverns, the click of a knucklebone here, the chink of a marble there; others were strolling to the baths or the temple, but the swishes of their robes were silenced by cries that raised the hairs on their scarred arms. There was no time to reach for their rusty weapons; they were cut, crucified, hanged and hacked as their statues crashed down around them along with their temples, arenas and squares and Boudicca’s war cloth smothered them with its black and red threads.

‘I spit on your Emperor God!’ cursed Boudicca. ‘Under this stone are the bones of the Trinovantes, our people. Your stones have silenced the gods of earth, air and water – the only voice left is fire!’

The city was torched.

On the other side of the country, the Roman Governor, General Seutonius, was otherwise engaged. This was a man who had put down rebellions for twenty years, driven his troops through icy rivers, tramped over the Atlas Mountains and marched through the burning deserts of the Sahara; all in the name of Rome. He had cauterised all sentiment, all personal interest had been erased in his worship of the Empire.

When he heard of Boudicca’s uprising, and the hysterical accounts of her ever-expanding army advancing on Londinium, he marched his men 250 miles to reach the city well before she got there. Seutonius never wasted time. He needed to perform a risk assessment.

Londinium was in its infancy then; approximately thirty acres on the north side of the river, spread across rising ground above a white hillock. Although it had its fair share of solid traders of fresh produce, skins and ironware, most of its inhabitants were more like bankers, dealing in virtual exchanges and living in timber-framed houses with thatched roofs, wooden floors and fine furniture that sported Mediterranean coloured glass and Samian pottery. Their cellars were stocked with notable wines and when they were not passing gold from palm to palm, they spent their days talking, listening to music and discussing poetry and art.

Seutonius took in their pasty skins and trembling lips and couldn’t help making a comparison to his soldiers – the kind of men that back in Rome would have been blacksmiths or butchers; men made of muscle and sinew; builders of bridges and roads and houses; broad of chest from carrying heavy kit; strong in the arm from working out with swords and spears; and thick in the thigh from marching 25 miles a day. Their only music was marching songs, their only object of contemplation the golden eagle of their standard and the lightning flashes upon their shields.

A vertical line of concentration crossed the horizontal lines of General Seutonius’ craggy forehead as he retired to assemble the facts. He made quick diagrams of Boudicca’s attacks, only speaking to call for maps, and it wasn’t long before he narrowed his eyes, clicked his jaw, cracked his knuckles and came to the conclusion that Londinium must fend for itself – he simply didn’t have enough men to win against Boudicca.

As he rode out of Londinium with his troops, the old and young, women and children all clung to his legs but he shook them off with precise flicks, keeping his eyes on the distant horizon. ‘Those that can, must run,’ he repeated ‘those with means must use the river, and as for the rest of you – help is just not cost-effective, toughen up.’