The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  It was unexpected, such a comment from quiet Edgar. Was it the girl’s doing again?

  Blue was grinning, pleased to be the teller of the tale though the telling was neither Blue’s nor Edgar’s but as if they rolled into one voice.

  ‘It were close run,’ he said. ‘There they were, coming down on us and still Dai said hold. They’d plans to circle us but we forced ’em into the neck of the little valley we were in. No more than spoon-shaped but wi’ trees and rocks. It were as good a place as any along that road. They came pounding up. We could hear the hoof beats, close and closer, and their horses panting and snorting. Close enough to see their sides steaming sweat. Then Dai gives the shout and his trick wi’ the wire brought most of them down. Caps owt A’ve seen. Yer should of seen ’em slither and land arse-end-up. We stopped ’em brusting through. Then there were the archers. You had the men well in ’and, Tom Archer. Arrows? Air were thick wi’ em.’

  Rémi grunted, hoarse-voiced.

  ‘Says he did his share,’ said Blue. ‘And so you did, little runt. You’d one end of the wire and pulled it tight at the right time.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair, looked towards Edgar. ‘And so did you, altar boy. Keeping them beasts quieted was hard work.’

  Edgar flushed bright red.

  ‘We had a spot of close fighting after and that’s when Tom ’ere took it – and young Rashid. He was like to be killed except Giles wapped the bastard as was pounding him and laid ’im out.’

  ‘All turned out well then,’ said Giles. He’d bruises and scratching but nothing serious. He was well pleased. This was why he’d been taken on the journey – guard and keep safe, that was what Tom Archer had said. But that strange man Heinrijc Mertens! Why Tom had wanted to be in the man’s employ, why he had wanted to go on this journey – well, that was no man’s business. He was Tom’s man and that was all that mattered. He’d been Tom’s man for years now. A good master, in spite of the black moods that came on him, and he paid well so if he chose to travel in these God-forsaken places, so be it. Besides, they’d been to places he never thought existed and met strange people and stranger thoughts it would be better to pretend were never there, or he’d fear for his soul, if he still had a soul. He’d hoped he’d see the men whose heads were beneath their shoulders, or the men who had only one leg with a foot so big they used it as a shade from the sun. He’d seen such things once on a wonderful map full of terrors and wonders.

  There’d not been a glimpse of either of them but it was a world of wonders all the same. Like these hans with their bathhouses and clean, fresh water and meals and rooming for hundreds and hundreds of beasts and men and all free for three days. There was nothing like that in England, only the rapacious lords running riot in the land, and filthy water and grubbing for food for such as him, and death to any who disobeyed or disbelieved. Better to be here, in this big, broad land, even amongst the Muslims. Better to be amongst Muslims who did not consign brothers to the fire.

  As for the journey, it had been too quiet so far – a few run-ins but nothing to count. This was better, though Tom had come off worse for the encounter. That rush of riders and the moment when they hit the stretched wire: he’d never forget it. The slither and screams of the horses; the flubbering of flesh as they fell to the ground trapping their riders beneath them; the flailing of arrows in the air, his own as well because he was Tom’s man; the riders behind crashing into those floundering and crashing in their turn. So simple a plan, so devilish. He wondered who this Dafydd the Welshman was, where he had come from, where he had learned his craft. He wasn’t a lord’s son, for sure. Then the close hand-to-hand fighting, and the Welshman with his falchion, a peasant sword if ever there was one but lethal with its axe-like, curve-edged blade designed for slashing and chopping. Merciless. That quiet, brown man suddenly become a lethal, merciless killer and not a sign of emotion on his face. A dangerous man.

  ‘Thowt we’d nivver get here afore darklins,’ said Blue. ‘Thowt yer’d be a ghost walkin’ afore that, altar boy.’

  ‘Why does he call you that?’ Kazan had nestled closer to Blue while he told his tale. Edgar was on her left side.

  ‘Call me what?’ Edgar picked nervously at a ravelled thread on his jerkin.

  ‘Altar boy. An altar boy helps the papas, doesn’t he? In the monasteries?’

  His pale face flushed. She saw the colour creeping up from his throat into his face, into his hair. He burned.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, quickly. ‘Dai says no questions. I should not have asked.’

  Edgar breathed in heavily, breathed out again. His hands stilled. ‘Why not?’ he said, and his voice was hoarse. ‘Why shouldn’t you know? Everybody guesses at it anyway.’ He looked around at them all, unexpectedly defiant, his face still flushed and his blue eyes bright. ‘Why does he call me altar boy? Because I was one – until I ran away.’

  No one moved or spoke. They looked away from him. No one told their secrets. It was the unwritten code: it was Dai’s Law. The girl was unheeding.

  ‘You ran away?’ She was interested not shocked, settling herself more comfortably against Blue’s bulk – cwtching, Dai would call it – preparing to listen. ‘You did not want to be an altar boy so you escaped?’

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced down at her. ‘Aren’t you shocked by my wickedness?’

  ‘No. Why should I be? I think it was very clever of you to escape from a life you did not want. How did you do it? And why were you there in the first place?’ The golden eyes gleamed up at him, curious and bright like a falcon’s except that this was no bird of prey. A golden-eyed kitten, maybe, or a child waiting for a bedtime story, curled up against the big man who made no protest but rather shifted to give the boy ease. And there he was, twitching again at his sleeve, smoothing a fold of cloth, a small peacock parading in Remi’s best clothes. Edgar was surprised into laughter, startling the men because this was pale quiet Edgar who so rarely spoke let alone laughed aloud.

  ‘What’s to do, altar boy?’ Blue asked, and Edgar laughed louder. He shook his head.

  ‘Kazan here wants my story. Well, he shall have it.’

  12

  Edgar’s story

  ‘My home was in the flatlands of Lincolnshire. You know as much – I’m the only one of you who can properly understand our friend Blue here, though Dai is not far behind. My father owns two manors and the land rights. Not great manors but a good enough living. I am the youngest of three sons. My mother died in childbirth and my father never cared very much for me because of this. I think perhaps he blamed me for her death. He loved her very much. He didn’t want me about him when I was young.’ Edgar shrugged. ‘That was not important. It was all one to me. I was happy enough with my books and music and the archery practice and riding and hunting – the usual life of the youngest son of an unimportant Lord of the Manor. Besides, my brothers looked after me. They made me spears and swords from the sedges and plaintains when I was little. It’s a game we used to play,’ he explained. ‘The plaintains have a knobby top and we would have fights, hitting one against the other to see whose top was knocked off first. Alfred fashioned me a wooden sword when I was older and Eric used to make me spillcocks at Lenten. They used to sneak out for the Feast Day of the Holy Innocents and go with the village children begging for titbits and gifts of money. When I was old enough they took me. We dressed up in old clothes and smeared our faces with soot then walked from abbey to priory and to our parish church and to the manor houses. Once, we went to our father’s door and laughed because even our servants did not recognise us. Or maybe they did.’

  ‘But the monastery, Edgar!’ a husky little voice prompted him. ‘This is very interesting and you shall tell me about your children’s games another time but now,’ determinedly, ‘I want to hear about your escape.’

  ‘And so you shall, little blue brother. When I was thirteen summers my father called me to him and told me my eldest brother would inherit the manors and lands, according to custom. My middle brother was t
o marry the daughter of our neighbour. His lands ran with ours, and we had known the girl since childhood. She was happy to marry my brother – no hardship, though it was to secure the land and property. As for me, it was my duty to atone for the death of my mother by entering a monastery. To begin with I would be a student and later I would take my vows. The monastery he had chosen was as far from our chief manor house as was possible. A Benedictine house but the choice – well – it says it all. Crowland, the abbey founded by St Guthlac. Of course, you don’t know the story of Guthlac and the island of Crowland.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ he slanted a glance down at the boy who already had words of protest on his lips. ‘Then you will better understand the rest.’ The boy sighed and settled against Blue’s bulk, face expectant. He paused, thinking how best to explain.

  ‘Guthlac was a holy man of long ago who wanted to be in the most desolate place he could find and so he searched the Fens until he found the very spot he wanted. It was a dreary, dangerous land of bottomless black pools and deep marsh and in places there was raised land and it was here, on one of these small islands, that Guthlac lived. He and his companions dressed in skins and ate scraps of barley bread and drank a small cup of muddy water after sunset. They were very holy men.’

  ‘Why does this make your holy men more holy?’ the boy asked. ‘They sound very sad and silly to me, without joy in their lives.’

  Edgar nodded. ‘So it seemed to me as well but it was heresy to say so.’

  ‘Stop yer blethering, pipsqueak. Let the altar boy tell his taäle.’

  Kazan poked his tongue out at the rebuke but subsided again.

  ‘The Fens are well known for fever and ague – there’s a need for shivery spiders, hey, Blue? But this was also a place where demons lived. Terrible demons with blubber lips and fiery mouths and scaly faces and beetle heads and sharp long teeth and long chins. They had black skins and humped shoulders and big bellies and cloven hoofs and long tails at their buttocks. And there were legions of them and they all attacked Guthlac and his companions. Biting and switching their filthy tails and nipping them by the nose and giving them cramps and rheums and shivering agues and burning fever and putting dirt in their meat and drink – oh these were evil demons. Guthlac and his companions prayed and sprinkled holy water but it wasn’t enough. Guthlac was carried off to the very jaws of hell. And it was then St Bartholomew appeared to him in a vision and gave him a whip to beat off the devils.’

  ‘This is a terrible story and a terrible place, Edgar. Are there really such demons in your country?’

  ‘It is how it was told to me. Should I doubt the stories of our saints? He beat off the devils with the whip St Bartholomew gave him and founded a great monastery.’

  ‘And your father sent you there?’

  ‘That’s the one my father chose. I think he liked the idea of demons attacking me.’

  ‘A’ve heärd of yon boggards. A’ve heärd ’em howling on glistery nights.’

  ‘But Guthlac lived a very long time ago, Edgar, did he not?’ broke in Twm. ‘I believe the land is much changed now.’ His voice was as dry and disbelieving as only he could make it. Edgar’s throat and cheeks flushed poppy-red, even in the torchlight.

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘Edgar, I think you do not want to tell your story.’ Kazan was reproachful.

  ‘And if he doesn’t, it’s his choice, isn’t it now? Let Edgar be.’

  ‘It’s all right, Dai. I’ve promised you my story. It’s just – well – I’ve not spoken of it till now. It doesn’t come easy.’ He was silent, considering.

  ‘It’s true what Tom says. Guthlac and the demons were a long time ago and since then the abbey has grown and the monks have worked hard to dig dykes and ditches to drain the land. It’s planted now with apple trees and vines and oats and flax, and it’s a pleasant enough place to be in the summer months. But there’s no causeway, like the one that was built at Ramsey Abbey. There’s no way to reach Crowland except by water. Then there’s flooding in the winter months when the salt tides are high and driven by the bitter north-east winds and the fields and pastures and meadows are overflowed and drowned and returned to watery marshes and black pools and deep and boggy quagmires. Easy to believe, then, that there are still demons there in the Fens. Easy to imagine you can hear them howling on glistery nights, as Blue says.’

  His audience shivered. Giles stirred the brazier so that flames and bright sparks shot skywards and they all moved closer to its light and warmth. ‘Go on, Edgar.’

  ‘It wasn’t a peaceful place. Always, there was always conflict with the people who lived thereabouts – and with the other abbeys. Always there were quarrels and violence and litigation. Who was responsible for what drainage? Whose boundaries ended where? Who had the rights to graze cattle and sheep and when? Who had the right to cut turves and cut down wood and alders? Quarrel after quarrel after quarrel; dispute after dispute, sometimes settled in favour of Crowland, sometimes in favour of Spalding or Peterborough or the landowners.’ He chuckled suddenly and unexpectedly. ‘It was only last year that Thomas Wake of Deeping had his men mow the rushes on the Crowland meadows and they made off with them together with hay and turves and cattle. And there was no fair last year because of Thomas Wake. When the Father Abbot took it to court, Thomas of Deeping said there’d been falsification of the documents that gave the land rights and I suspect he was in the right of it. Holy men can be as corrupted as any mortal. Anyway, while it was trundling through the courts, there was plenty of night-time damage done – setting fire to turves, moving the landmarks, levelling one another’s trees. As far as I know, it’s still going on. I don’t think it will ever stop.

  ‘And there was I in the thick of it, where I’d had no wish to be in the first place. How the days dragged, every day the same, every night scrambling into robes for Matins and Laud and dawn creeping in with Prime and those readings in the cloister every day until I thought my head would split.’

  ‘A knaw summat about that,’ Blue broke in. ‘We’d an owd priest when A were a lad who droned on like an ’umble bee in a jug. A could nivver ’ear nowt what he said.’

  ‘Stop yer blethering, blue man,’ Kazan said in a quaint imitation of his voice so that they all laughed.

  ‘Go on Edgar,’ Giles said. They were all listening intently.

  Edgar sighed. ‘There was no escaping: Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline, bed and start again. Demons. Demons in my head and in my bed, night after night until I thought I would go mad. The novice master despaired of me. I swore I would fly from the place. I pleaded with them to let me go but they saw me as unclean, filled with devils. Besides, my father had paid a great deal of money to have me schooled there. Money talks louder than God. That autumn, great mists rose up from the sodden land and days would pass without our being able to see more than a hand’s breadth in front of us. That’s how I felt my life was – drifting through mist day after day until the day I died. I was already in purgatory.’

  Edgar was silent and so were they, imagining his life in that desolate place; a life he had not chosen. He glanced round at their serious faces. ‘You should see them at table,’ he said suddenly. ‘No speaking – that’s the rule – but they have sign language down to a craft. Look, it’s like this. You want bread? Brown bread? Make your thumb and two forefingers round as a compass and touch your cowl with your sleeve. Butter? Draw your two right upper fingers to and fro on your left palm. Yes, like that! Do you want cheese with that? Hold your right hand flat-ways in the palm of your left…’

  ‘What about a drink, altar boy?’

  ‘Blow on your right forefinger and put it on your nether lip.’

  ‘How about a hot drink?’

  ‘Side of the right forefinger into your mouth. Keep it fast and closed.’

  ‘Ale, Edgar!’

  ‘Make the sign of drink and draw your hand from your ear downward.’

  ‘A glass?’

  ‘Sign of a cup with the si
gn of red wine…like this…’

  ‘Fish, altar boy. It’s Fish Friday, after all, innit?’

  He wagged his hand like a fish’s tail swimming.

  ‘Salt!’

  ‘Mustard!’

  ‘Water!’

  They joked and laughed and signed for what they wanted. Edgar seemed a man reborn, laughing and demonstrating and Dai wondered at him. Was this truly pale Edgar? Edgar the silent, the biddable? Some miracle had taken place here, this evening. Dai’s gaze moved to the girl, her cheeks flushed, laughing with the rest, delicately signing for bread. His gaze moved on, fixed on Rémi. He was wide-eyed, his fingers flying as he gestured for salt, bread, ale… He was for the first time in his life one of the men, Dai thought, where the only language was this signed language. He realised the girl was as intent on Rémi as he was, then she shifted her gaze to his, and smiled, and deliberately leaned across to the boy to gesture for water.

  It was a little while before someone said, ‘What happened then?’ and Edgar resumed his story.

  ‘You can’t fight against your father and the authorities of the monastery. They have too much power. I swore I would take the first means of flight. I swore I would not abide in the abbey. I wept. I shed bitter tears. I demanded my clothes, my everyday clothes. Of course, I was refused. I was punished. They were adamant. And so I left. I ran away.

  ‘It was springtime. That is a joyous time in the flat lands. The birds return and the marsh greens over and the sky is a great blue arc – as blue as the lightest, bluest woad. Blue knows. A party of young squires came on pilgrimage. We were a place of pilgrimage, did I say? St Guthlac’s shrine was a marvel of marble and precious metal and jewels. We used to get folk coming and praying for a miracle. But these young men – how I envied them! I was of an age by then – eighteen summers. I’d been five long years in the abbey and it was time I made my vows but I resisted. These young men, they made reverence, that’s true, but then they were free to go riding and hawking. The local men rowed them about in the marsh boats so they could set up the fowls that live there in abundance. And there was fishing and hawking of a different kind. I heard them talk of it – which girls from the villages were ripe for tumbling, which had to be persuaded. I heard them talk of fresh lips and smooth skin and rounded breasts with perky nipples and hot quims until I was ready to faint with longing.’ He looked round at their astonished faces. ‘Well, it’s true – I was – I am a man with a man’s longings and they were not to be satisfied by fumbling the choir boys as others did!’