Blue smiled at the sight. ‘A’ve seen that done afore, in the country weer men like you coöme from. Worked, too.’
‘You have seen the magic of indigo, blue man. Truly it is magic. This that I do now, this bandage of cloth dyed in indigo, will help the wound heal faster than any other cure.’
‘Aye,’ Blue sighed. ‘Magic it is.’
Now they rode out of the gateway that led to the Suleymanşehir road and the two days’ travelling before Suleymanşehir itself where there would be another of Amir’s endless supply of cousins to guide them through the mountains and down to Attaleia. And tonight – tonight – there was a small han where the hancı was known to Amir. If all the hans were full then Yusuf would find them a safe place to camp and food to eat and fodder for their animals. That was good to know, said Dai. This stretch of the route was always busy, especially at this time of year, and even though there were more hans than usual they were mostly small and soon filled.
Soon they were winding up into the mountains and Konya lay like a dream behind them in its great fertile bowl high up in this central plain of Anatolia. From the Greek Quarter came the distant sound of bells tolling for the Sabbath, yet another sign of the tolerance of the Sufi because the Muslims held the ringing of bells in abhorrence. ‘The angels will not enter any house where bells are rung,’ they said. Not even Edgar had protested at travelling on the Sabbath. They had been double blessed, he said, first by a Christian priest who had slept in the same lodgings then by the Sufi imam at the tomb of the Mevlana because all had agreed they could not leave Konya without paying their respects. Curiosity, said Twm, but he stood silent before the great tomb with its rich covers and high headdress, and he was silent for a long time after they left.
There had been unseasonal frost that morning, melted now. Above them the sky was clear and the sun was warm but it was ‘back end’, as Blue said. The summer had gone and winter would soon arrive, and the snow and ice that would freeze the land until spring returned.
Amir had predicted right: the larger hans were full but Yusuf found them a place to camp outside the walls of his own han that was too small even to have a hamam. Another caravan was already encamped nearby. ‘It’s safe enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Not like that Karaman road. You were lucky there. A shame about the boy. He’s a good son.’ He was as terse as Amir, as terse as the cousin-in-marriage had been voluble. ‘Store your valuables with us. We’ll set a guard tonight. With your own men, and those of that other caravan, you’ll be safe enough. They’ve dogs enough to guard a fortress.’
There were no clouds; only the clear night sky and its stars blinking and a thin hanging moon that would soon belly into a half crescent. It was chill enough to send their breath smoking into the air and they were glad of the fire they had made and were feeding with faggots sent out to them from the han. There was, as well, the promised meal and fodder for the animals.
‘It’s a fine night for us,’ said Twm, ‘and that’s a blessing.’ They didn’t carry tents or coverings so it would be open-air sleeping. Might be another frost, come morning.
‘We’ll roll up snug all together,’ Blue told Kazan. ‘Yer’ve as much meät on yer as finger-boy there.’ That was his new name for Rémi-the-signer. ‘Not enough on yer to feed a crow.’ He pinched her arm with his thick, hard fingers so that she yelped. ‘Yer nobbut a recklin,’ he told her.
‘And what are you?’ she flashed back.
‘Eh, a fine flitch o’ ham, A reckon,’ he said, ‘wi’ haändsome trotters.’ He looked ruefully down at the big hand on the skinny arm and they laughed together before her face clouded.
‘Nene would say we had star-blanket for a cover,’ the girl said. She spoke sadly. ‘She said if we listened, maybe we would hear the stars singing.’
Mehmi was already cradling the tanbur against him. ‘A star-blanket for cover and stars singing and the tanbur to keep them company, heh?’ he said, and ran his hand over the strings so that they shivered and whispered. They drew closer to the fire, to the singer Mehmi, waiting to hear his songs. At first, it was songs to the Christian God because this was the Holy Day of the Christians and there was no church for them. ‘But we are in the land of your prophets,’ said Mehmi. ‘We are on the road your St Paul travelled when he was preaching to the unbelievers.’
‘Even though he was at first an unbeliever himself,’ Twm said. ‘That moment of revelation, how strange that must have been.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, Kazan, there’s one who didn’t choose for himself.’
‘But he was shown his true life, Thomas Archer, and he was brave enough to live it.’
‘On the road to Damascus he found his way. Yes, perhaps you are right, boy.’ He was quiet after that, leaning his head on his hand, half-asleep seeming while Mehmi played.
He played a love song praising dark eyes and crimson lips that had them quietly yearning for what they did not have. Then he ran his hands over the strings. ‘An old, old song from one of the old stories. Well, an old song made new,’ he said. ‘This is for our friend Kazan.’ He bowed his head over the tanbur.
‘Warrior rising from your place
‘What warrior are you?
‘Warrior on the prancing Arab horse
‘What warrior are you?
‘Shame it is for a warrior to hide his name from another.
‘What is your name warrior? Tell me!’
She recognised it immediately: it came from the story of Salur Kazan, one of the great warriors of the Oğuz Turks of long ago, in the days when they had lived in tents and ridden the plains and fought tremendous battles. It was the time when Bamsi Beyrek of the Grey Horse had won the love of the Lady Çiçek. She dipped her head, wondering what Mehmi would sing next, wondering if he had guessed her secret.
‘I am the hero Kazan, the falcon-like warrior.
‘I am the hero Kazan who rides a bright star.
‘I am the hero Kazan whose bright arrows fly fast.’
This was new. The muleteers and cameleteers were nodding, smiling, casting glances at Dai to see how he would take it but he was smiling as well.
‘I am the hero Kazan whose boasting words fly faster than arrows.’
There was a roar of laughter and Kazan was laughing and indignant. Mehmi’s last words were almost unheard.
‘A weaver of words is Mehmi the Minstrel.’
‘Again, Mehmi! Sing it again!’
‘Oh Kazan, bright star, hero, warrior!’
‘Hey, Fustilugs, yer can ride and shoot but do yer ever hit yer target?’
‘My hero!’
‘Enough! Let the boy alone! Is that what you were working on, Mehmi?’
‘Of course. A worthy subject, don’t you think?’
‘A victim, Mehmi.’
‘Then a worthy victim, Dai.’ He laughed, and slanted his look towards Kazan sitting near him. The girl gave him back look for look.
‘It was well made and well sung,’ she said, ‘but not well enough to sing again.’ Then she laughed, joyously, and they all laughed with her, and it was as if peace and harmony and love flowed about them.
Later. The fire was burning low and Edgar was piling faggots on it to build it up because the night was cold. Blue stopped him.
‘Yer’ll slocken that fire, cramming it like that. It’s all of a heäp, like a bull turd. Yer needs to tent it. See?’ He poked a sturdy branch under the heavy loading of faggots and watched as a flame ran through the burning embers and caught. ‘A likes to sit by the lalley-low.’ They had drunk from flagons of sweet red wine and it was not what they were used to. ‘But it’s English ale A’d be drinking,’ slurred Blue. ‘That’s for me.’
‘I thought anything for you, Blue,’ scoffed Giles.
‘Ah well now, that’s where yer wrong, innit, bow-man. English ale, that’s what A’m after. In an English tavern.’
‘Why not go there?’
‘Why not? Why not? Because theäy’d get me for sure. A can’t go back theer.’ He slurred the words. ‘Theäy�
�d be after me.’
‘Why is that, blue man?’
‘Why’s that? Why’s that? Yer’ve heärd altar boy’s story an’ now it’s mine yer after. That it, Fustilugs?’
‘That is what I want to hear,’ she said, leaning forward, patting his arm.
‘It’s not like altar boy’s and A caän’t not tell it like ’im. Yer’d think me a nowter.’
‘He means you’d thing he was nothing,’ Edgar explained.
‘But no, it is your own story, your very own, and this I would like very much to hear.’ She looked around at the dim shapes huddled by the new-blazing fire. ‘That is what we all want.’ She shot a mischievous glance at Dai. ‘Isn’t it now?’
A ripple of laughter flowed around the campfire at this bright boy and his gift for mimicry. There were, too, sidelong glances towards the Welshman but he was laughing and they were content that the sharp quarrel between Dai and the mischievous newcomer had ended in peace.
‘Come on, Blue. Kazan is right, it is your story we are all wanting to hear.’
‘Ah well.’ The big man took another long swig from the flagon and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘The flat lands, that’s weer it starts. Near enough saäme flat lands as altar-boy ’ere.’ He grinned. ‘Rebel-boy. That’s what A moän call yer now, innit?’ He spoke into the shadows, to where Edgar was curled under a blanket beside the fire. ‘Hey, rebel-boy, A’d be right glad to ’ave yer ’elp telling me story.’ His grin widened until it seemed his cheeks would split. ‘Then we woän’t get no uzum muddled wi’ inab, will we?’ He winked at the girl then blushed fiery red because she darted close to him and kissed his cheek.
‘You are a good man,’ she said. ‘I know this before you tell your story.’
‘Aye, but will yer knaw it after?’
She chuckled. ‘A sinner saved, perhaps. And it is true what you say, blue man: none of us except Edgar and Dai can understand all your words so the good Edgar must help in the telling.’
‘I’m here, Kazan.’ Edgar raised himself from the shadows and went to sit beside Blue. ‘I’d be honoured to help in the telling of his story.’
Afterwards, no one was certain how they understood. Blue’s broad dialect was leavened by Edgar’s retelling and hasty translations into other languages but somehow the Fen man’s voice was what all remembered.
15
Blue’s Story
‘I’m from the flat lands but north a bit of Crowland, where rebel-boy was a prisoner of Our Lord. My father was born a serf and I was born a serf’s son. My mother didn’t live long after my birth. I was a hulking great oaf even then, see, too big for a little body like hers. My father married again but she was a miserable woman. They’d brats, one after another, each as whining and quarrelsome and peevish as the last. Then the hard times came and my father died and they said I wasn’t a serf no more. New law, see. I couldn’t even inherit my father’s serfdom. So then I was all on to find means to feed that woman and her brood. This was the fens and we were used to making land out of water but it was hard work, a hard life and made harder by bad summers and winters. Never known nowt like it. You remember that and all, Dai? Those bad summers and worse winters? Went on forever, it seemed, and no let up. There were those as dwined to death, what with no harvest and the cattle sick and dying and all – remember it, Dai? Well then, you’ve an idea how hard it was.
‘I was working on one of the manor farms by then – for the son, not the father. He’d died that autumn, and not from starving, believe me. The son was strict as the father but a fairer soul. It was the father who had stripped my serfdom from me and cast me out. The son gave me the chance of work and life and if I were a dog’s body, who was I to bother about that as long as there was food to put on the table for that hungry-mouthed lot? Even then she complained. Said as I was eating more than the rest of ’em put together, me with my big mouth and bigger stomach, that I was taking food from the mouths of babes. Well, that weren’t true. I was half starved. It’s hard work made harder when you’re treated like a nowter.
‘I did any job I was told to. Cutting and binding rushes, that were one job. There had to be eight score bundles to make one work. That’s a lot of bundling, believe me. There was turving, log-gathering, wood-chopping, ditch-digging, working the bellows for Aaron-the-smith, carrying the hod for Peter-the-builder…didn’t matter. All one to me and it still didn’t put enough on the table so I used to go out on the marshes when I could, looking for eggs: ducks and coots and dabchicks. Heron eggs, if I were lucky, or water-crows. A few of us did it. You’d to be careful though, balancing on them stilts so as you didn’t fall in the deep pools. I’ve known men drowned that way. And if you were caught – well – you weren’t allowed to take anything from the fen except by favour of the lord of the manor. Not even a bundle of lesch. Lesch? Rushes and reeds and suchlike. Weren’t supposed to sell them to strangers – that were the law. Everything were law-driven. Folk like me, we’d no rights, see, not even to what was God-given. I’d a few narrow squeaks, I can tell you. They knew as I were foraging but they had to catch me, see, and I knew where best to hide, even a hulk like me.
‘Anyways, that’s how it was and that’s how I thought it was going to be until that day, the day that was the end of the old life and the beginning of the new.
‘Like this it was, see.
‘It was a howry winter’s day, past the meanest Yule I’ve ever known. It was just when winter’s at its bleakest and it seems spring’s never going to come. It was all lowering grey skies and vicious rain that drenched you through to the skin. There was snow in the air. I could smell it. Before nightfall, I reckoned. I remember hoping it would hold off till we was home. I was low enough an’ all. I were that miserable. Couldn’t see an end to it, see – like rebel-boy here said. Seemed like I was already in hell. When the priests were spouting hell-fire I wanted to shout at ’em that they didn’t know nothing. I could tell ’em about hell-fire and it wasn’t nothing like what they were saying. It were freezing cold, for one thing, not burning hot. Cold words and colder looks, and she’d turned the brats against me. Hell’s a cold hearth with no kind word.
‘That day, then, we’d been chopping wood for the fires. The manor couldn’t seem to get enough that winter, although we’d worked hard enough through summer and autumn, building a log pile high as Lincoln church, and that’s high, Fustilugs. Lincoln’s a grand sight, high on its high hill. You can see it from miles and miles away on a clear day.
‘Anyways, we’d worked our way through a wagon load that day, and then the hayward said as we’d to take the load straight up to the manor, to the drying sheds out by the stables. Normal, like, we’d take a load to the farm, especially soaked through like they were. It took us some time and the snow was falling by the time we got to the manor gates. We were white over as well as drenched. We couldn’t have got any wetter and every stitch we had on was clinging to us sodden. We stacked the load and the gaffer sent the rest of the lads off home. ‘Not you,’ he says to me. ‘There’s a load needed in the manor.’ Seems they were running short, what with all the guests they’d had over the Yule and now there were more arrived. Hayward was friendly with one of the dairy lasses so he knew these things. ‘You take a dry load up there and mind your manners, you big oaf.’
‘I didn’t mind. They said as anyone who took owt up to the manor kitchens always got a bite to eat – a hunk of bread and cheese or a bowl of broth – maybe a sup of ale. Better than what I’d get at home. Home. Wasn’t a home. Just somewhere’s I laid my head.
‘Now, I hadn’t never set foot in there. Wasn’t my place. I worked outdoors, where I belonged. But off to the manor, he said, they need a great load of fuel there, and you’re of a size to carry a heavy weight. So off I went. Bent double, I was, with the load. I went to the kitchens, of course, where they took half the load, and because they were busy as flies wi’ blue arses they sent me through the screen to the hall. Leave it there, they said, ready by the fire. Don�
��t touch nothing. As if I ever would, I thought. Not a word about a bite or a sup though I could smell meat roasting and spices and bread cakes and all till I thought my belly would cave in.
‘So I went through the screen and into the great hall. I’d never seen owt so grand. It was proper dark by now. There were torches in the sconces and a huge fire was burning in the great hearth – huge enough to set my clothes steaming. No wonder they needed all them logs. It was one of those manors that had a proper modern hearth and chimney, see, not the old style in the middle of the hall. That’s how I saw them. Wonderful things. Great swags of woven cloth hanging all down the walls with the firelight and the torchlight dancing over them. I can’t tell you. I haven’t the words. It was a miracle. It made me think again about my own dull life and the grind and hardship and here was such beauty I’d never thought to see. Never imagined. Other worlds woven in cloth, and in colours I’d never seen the like of. Blues and reds and greens and yellows and gold thread shining and every colour in between. I think, now, it were tapestries of the scriptures but then I wasn’t right sure. Too used to church walls painted full of damnation, wasn’t I?
‘I went from one to another, just looking. And then I got bold, bolder than I should have, and touched them. Oh, that feel of soft cloth on my finger ends. Magic. I got right close to them and looked and looked and tried to remember every strand, every weft and warp so I could think about it after. See it in my head.
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