The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  An intake of breath. This was something they had not dreamed on; holy men were holy men. Then Blue guffawed. ‘Eh, altar boy,’ he roared, ‘we’ll set yer right – woän’t we?’ He was grinning wide-mouthed, yellowed teeth showing. ‘Fust place we coöme to, we’ll set yer right. We’ll mek a man of yer, waäit an’ seä – right bors?’

  ‘That we will,’ Giles smirked, ‘and no choir boys – unless anyone here has a taste for ’em?’ He looked around the table, one eyebrow raised. There was loud laughter, even from Mehmi.

  The girl knew she was blushing. Her face felt as hot and red as the tandoor ovens. Nene had told her how men talked together. She had listened to the old stories, heard the lilt of love poetry, but that had been about love and longing for a beautiful woman. This? This was different. No love; only raw lust. Were all men the same?

  ‘Hey Fustilugs,’ she heard, ‘we’ll tek you wi’ us an’ all. Look, lads, he’s all a-glimmer. ’Appen ’e’s one fer t’ choir boys? Looks like one ’issen, doän’t ’e, wench-faced recklin?’

  ‘Virgin more like,’ Giles said. ‘That so, Kazan?’

  ‘Leave the boy alone, now,’ Dai said. ‘Let Edgar finish his story. We’ve yet to hear how you escaped, Edgar.’

  ‘Eh, yer right, Dai. Go on, lad, tell us the rest on it.’

  ‘It was quite easy in the end,’ Edgar said. ‘One of the men had a son who was my particular friend. Ivar, his name was. It was he who helped me to escape.’

  ‘Did you climb over the abbey wall?’

  ‘That would have been no use. There were no roads, remember. I needed a boat and a guide and Ivar brought me both, and clothes to wear and what pennies he could steal from his family. One night after Compline I crept out of the dormitory and through the abbey grounds to where Ivar was waiting by the water gate. That was the abbey sewer and the stench of it is in my nostrils still. The great monastery, and the water around it, and the strange bridge we have there, timber built and three-cornered, straddling the two great rivers of the Nene and the Welland; all so silent. We went under the bridge and there we were, floating down to freedom. The moon was full – not the best night for an escape – but the mist rose up from the marsh and we sailed into it. It lifted and fell, lifted and fell and swayed and twined itself around us and pressed itself against the side of the boat as if the water wraiths had come to keep us company – or drag us down to their homes under the water. We neither of us spoke. It was all silent except for the dip and swish of the boat and the rippling sound of water, with Ivar using the oar to keep us in the channel. And the sounds of the night birds whistling and hooting and sometimes there was a rush of wings through the mist. When the mist lifted the moon shone through, pale; it was like looking through the great veil at the greatest mystery of all.

  ‘We sailed down the waters to the sea and the sun rose. The whole of that watery land was like a great burnished mirror. Where did water end and sky begin? It was peaceful. I felt at peace.’ He smiled, remembering, his eyes blue and far-seeing, gold curls a nimbus round his head.

  He was beautiful, Kazan thought, this Edgar. ‘What then?’ she breathed.

  ‘Why, then we came to the coast and I found a ship bound for Flanders willing to take me as ship’s boy.’

  ‘What of Ivar?’

  ‘He went back home. I wanted him to come with me but he said he belonged to the land. He was a fen man like his father and his father before that.’

  ‘But you went as ship’s boy…’

  ‘Yes. I am not a good sailor. They didn’t get a good bargain out of me. It was rough seas all the way and I was sick most of the time. I even began to wonder if the abbey life was not the best one after all. But it was not for me. Now don’t you think me wicked? I was a gift to God and I’ve run away from Him.’

  The question was spoken to all but it was at Kazan that Edgar was looking, and for Kazan’s answer that he waited.

  ‘There was wickedness, certainly, but not of your doing. Your father did not make of you a gift; he did not want you with him, and you should give to God only what you most love, what you most desire, or the gift is worthless.’ The golden eyes were gleaming bright. ‘Great wrong was done by your father, and by the monks who would not listen to you. There are more ways of serving God than that of life in a monastery. That is what Nene used to say. Each to his own. Find gladness in your living. That is what she said. It is in gladness that you worship and honour the life God gave you and for which you are intended.’

  ‘Do you really believe this, Kazan?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Have I not run away myself from a life I did not want? Me, I do not feel guilty. It was not a life of my choosing and I do not believe it was of God’s choosing. Would God wish me to be unhappy? Now I give thanks to the good God who sent me to you.’ She yawned suddenly, putting a hand in front of her mouth. ‘But what happened then, when your ship arrived in harbour?’

  ‘Another evening, another story, Kazan. Come, you are falling asleep where you are.’ Dai’s voice.

  ‘But this Blue is very comfortable. He makes a good pillow.’

  ‘Come Kazan – or should I carry you?’

  ‘Indeed you will not. Goodnight, all of you, and I thank you, Edgar, for your story. It was well told. I would like to see these marsh wraiths but the demons…no!’ She shuddered. ‘Those I do not like. Yes, Dai bey, I am coming.’

  13

  All day parched with burning love

  All night a restless sense of separation

  (Mevlana Jalal al Din Rumi, 1207–1273)

  She had never in her life slept close to any man, not father nor brother. When she went hunting with the young men she slept separately with the women. And now she must share the sleeping space with this stranger, this brown man with the soul-seeing eyes. She followed him from the courtyard into the huge chamber along which lay the shadowy sleeping alcoves. He paused at one. The ledges were covered well enough with a straw mattress. Coarse-woven wool blankets were folded ready. ‘Ours,’ Dai said. ‘We find they come in handy, and warm enough though they’re not the best quality.’ He handed one to her. ‘Don’t mind the men,’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s good-hearted they are for all their coarse talk.’

  She felt herself blushing again. ‘I know that. Thank you for…for ending their talk.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll give you room to make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  He left her alone in the dim shadowiness. It was so different from the tent – different from the winter quarters. She had never been inside such a huge building, never imagined sleeping in one. She felt trapped, suffocated. She spread the cover over the thin mattress then pulled off her soft skin boots. She hesitated, pulled the beautiful crimson and blue patterned jerkin over her head and lay down in her borrowed breeches and undershirt and wrapped the rest of the blanket round her. Outside in the corridor torches in wall sconces cast feeble light and longer shadows; within the sleeping alcove were dark shadows. It was much later when one shadow separated itself from the rest; the brown man had returned. She heard rustling as the man arranged his own bedding, stripped off his own outer clothing. She heard him ease himself on to the mattress; sigh with relief as he rested his body.

  She lay in silence, listening as his breathing became regular, deeper. Not the light inhalation of Nene, no little sighs or murmurings; instead, this deep, regular drawing in of breath and its exhalation. If she stretched out her hand she would touch him. In…out…in…out… She wondered if it was possible for her to sleep with her nerves stretched taut as the ropes of the black tents. In…out…in…out…her own breathing was falling into the same rhythm. In…out…in…out… The girl had no sense of sleep overwhelming her.

  He left her alone in the sleeping alcove. She needed space and time and there was little enough of that in the great hall of the han even without his presence. He walked through its dimness, past the alcoves where tired men stretched out their bodies, out into the courtyard, dark now and qu
iet. There was the snorting and coughing of animals; the trickle and splash of water sounding louder in the night, the usual mutter of voices and stifled laughter of the late-to-beds. Blue was not among them tonight; he’d been as good as his word. Wasn’t it always so, once his word was given? The sky was clear and a bright sickle of moon hung high above him.

  So this was what was meant by ‘exquisite agony’. He’d heard it said that professional torturers knew their skills so well they could inflict pain passing all endurance yet death did not come. He’d known pain enough in his own life, of body, soul and heart, but not like this. Not this piercing agony of heart and soul. She was here, the marvellous maid, the shining, bright-as-dawn girl – fashioned of gold and bronze and copper, more lovely than the Mawddach, her cheeks curved as perfectly as the white sickled moon above him. Even in her wretched filthiness he had known her at once, the girl he had thought to be miles away in the nomad camp. Kara Kemal, how right you were. My son, who are you to decide what is and what is not to be? Only Allah the all-compassionate, the all-knowing decides.

  And his own answer: Well, I’m here and she’s there. Allah has decided.

  There is always room for faith. Kemal’s answer to everything

  What had driven her from her home with the yürük? From all that was familiar and loved? True, her grandmother was dead and she said it was her grandfather she was seeking – a Sais taid! But if it were only that, only the quest, the father chief would not have let her leave alone, disguised as a boy with her glorious shining hair cropped short. She needed protection and comfort; he would do his best to keep her from harm. Lead her to her heart’s desire? Not him, that was for sure. Breuddwyd gwrach. Nothing but old woman’s dreaming. What was he to her, plain, brown man that he was without the gift of words or music with which to woo her? A free man yes, as all Welsh were free, in spite of England’s rule, but a woeful Welshman outside the land of Wales. If he tried to speak the words in his heart, they came out crooked. He’d have no sleep tonight. She would lie close to him and if he stretched out a hand he would touch her, so close to him she was; yet he must be far apart. There must be not one sign from him of this agony of love and desire for the shining maid.

  ‘Dafydd?’

  ‘Twm.’ He answered as quietly as the dark man had spoken his name.

  ‘Not abed, then?’

  ‘Nor you. Is the wound paining you?’

  ‘It’s well enough – well enough to travel tomorrow. We’re running out of time, Dafydd. We’ll arrive too late – we’ll miss the fleet.’

  ‘Time enough. Konya next day’s end, then it’s an easy road to Suleymanşehir and down to Attaleia.’

  The fountain trickled water into the silence between them.

  ‘I’m sorry I was churlish tonight.’

  ‘So you were.’

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘No. No reason. You’re angry enough with yourself and it’s true – I was close to mollycoddling you like a broody hen.’

  ‘You mean for the best. I am angry with myself. If I hadn’t taken so long to strike he’d never have caught me out like that. Still, best left. Couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘I’m giving Kazan time to settle. Not used to buildings, let alone a great place like this. No starlight.’

  ‘You should have let him sleep with Blue – his snores would have lulled the boy to sleep fast enough.’

  Dai laughed. ‘Thought I’d spare the boy that, first night at least.’

  ‘He’s a strange one – with a knack for loosening tongues. Could be dangerous.’

  ‘You always say that. But Edgar was the better for it, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘True. Another one for Heinrijc Mertens, I suppose.’

  ‘Not this one. To England in search of a grandfather.’

  ‘Moonshine. And you’ll go with him, I suppose?’

  ‘It’s on my way home, isn’t it now?’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘So do I. In deep water I am this time.’

  ‘Sometimes, Dafydd, I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Sometimes, Twm, I don’t understand myself. Nor you – or why it is you stay with me. I’ve reason again and again to be grateful to you. Mertens made a good choice. I’m sorry for your wound.’

  ‘Aye well, no matter.’

  Silence again. Twm seemed in no hurry to leave him. Not looking forward to a night of pain, Dai thought suddenly, and keeping himself quiet so as not to disturb the place.

  ‘Look at us all crowded in here,’ Twm said suddenly. ‘Christians, Muslims, Jews, like hens in a coop. There was a time not long since when we’d spill each other’s blood as freely as we now trade goods. And what were we doing in those Holy Wars but warring one against the other for profit? Kings, princes, noblemen, holy men…what’s to choose amongst them? It’s the poor devil of a commoner that suffers. Not even any value as a prisoner – no ransom for a poor man though his blood is freely spilled for his masters.’

  ‘Trading goods is better,’ Dai said. ‘There’s been blood enough spilt. Those bandits today, probably wanting no more than bread to put in their dwts’ mouths. They’d a hungry look about them.’

  ‘I thought so too,’ Twm said slowly. ‘Tell the truth, that’s what put me off my stroke. He seemed no more than a boy to me, at my sword’s end, and fearful.’

  ‘Kill or be killed, isn’t it? It’s a “wud” world, as Blue would say. It is that.’

  ‘It’s a violent world. We’ve lived through hard years, Dafydd – you, me, Giles, Blue. Edgar’s too young to remember it all: the years of famine – civil war with nothing to choose between the second Edward or that she-wolf French wife of his. At least the first Edward kept peace in the country.’

  ‘There’s not a Welshman or a Scot who’d agree with you there.’ Dai’s voice was curter than he’d meant it to be. He didn’t want to remember those times. He didn’t want to fall into a dispute. Not tonight. He shrugged. ‘We’re better off here, aren’t we now? Muslim, Jew and Christian, English and Welsh, with trading on our minds, not bloodletting, and good fellowship besides. Even the Venetians and Genoese have a truce.’

  Silence again. Twm’s face was averted, deep shadowed.

  ‘Do you think there’s any truth in what Kazan said?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Do any of us have the right to make our own choices? Find our own happiness?’

  Dai took his time answering. ‘There’s a part I agree with,’ he said, slowly. ‘The world is changing, Twm; we are no longer bound to our masters, nor a fixed place in the world. War and famine has put paid to that, and wealth that comes from trade. Many good men question the priests and are treated with savage cruelty by these so-called holy men. The Pope in Avignon has made bonfires of too many. We have seen for ourselves that those who worship a different god are not all devils and blasphemers.’ He sighed. ‘But it’s not always possible to choose, is it now? Sometimes there is duty, honour, call it what you will. Then it’s patient you must be and wait for God to unravel it all.’

  ‘But if there is no one to whom you owe allegiance?’

  ‘Then Kazan is in the right of it. Best choose your own path, make your own happiness and honour the life given to you. But it’s not all as Kazan says, is it now? It’s honouring a promise made, isn’t it, this journey he’s after making?’

  ‘He seems happy enough with his choice.’

  ‘He has courage, that one. He’d sing his way to death.’

  Twm raised an eyebrow. ‘Sounds as if the boy’s found favour with you.’

  ‘Aye, well, best get to bed. See what the morning brings. Sleep well. If your wound pains you, rouse me. I still have some of the wise woman’s medicine.’

  ‘I’ll be well enough.’

  ‘Mollycoddling again? It was not my intention. Pain is pain and can be dealt with and better so than tossing and turning.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Goodnight.’

  It was barely dawn when she was woken by
a hand on her shoulder, a quiet voice close to her ear. Drowsiness was gone; her eyes were wide open and there was that tautness of nerves again, making her catch her breath.

  ‘Did I startle you? I’m sorry. And sorry I am to wake you so early. A change of plan: Twm swears he’s well enough to leave and there are two caravans bound for Konya leaving together straight after the Morning Prayer. Rashid as well. His father wants to take him to Konya for the Mevlana’s blessing and healing, though the doctor advised him not to travel today.’ He sighed. ‘There’s no fever and he slept well enough but it seems too soon for the boy to travel. But they wish it so, both father and son.’ He sighed again, became practical. ‘The latrines are quiet, if you go now. We haven’t much time – go and get yourself ready. If you’re quick enough, there’ll be time for a bite of break-fast; if you dawdle, you’ll leave without.’

  He left the alcove, clearly expecting her to obey him.

  By the time they were ready to leave, the rising sun was sending thin shafts of light through the narrow slits of windows of the han, settling on eyelids, lighting up dancing motes of dust, shifting patterns across the stone walls. If they couldn’t make Konya by the end of the day, said Amir, there was a small han where they could stay. More of a rest place, really, the gift of a not-so-wealthy lady who was stricken by fever on this road to Konya and nowhere close to rest her weary body. It was his cousin’s village that had taken her in, found a bed, summoned a physician, cared for her until she was well enough to travel. Of course they would not take a penny from her, not one of them, like the man in the Christians’ Holy Book, a Samaritan who did as much for a traveller. How did a good Muslim like Amir know of this? The lady herself of course, a Christian returning to that cold country she came from. She had told them. She paid for a small han to be built just outside the village and the cousin was the hancı – a cousin by marriage to his youngest sister – and he would see them right. They could rest there, stay there the night if Dai wanted, and have an easy journey to Konya the next day.