The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  It was an evening of talk and plans, everyone keen to contribute, everyone indignant when they heard the story of her capture and escape.

  ‘You make a habit of escaping,’ Giles joked. ‘The bandits – and now you tell us from Vecdet himself.’

  ‘Yer did all that all aloöne by yersen?’

  ‘I was not alone – well, not all the time. There was Niko. And there was the good father of Mehmi.’

  ‘Eh, young Fustilugs, weren’t yer frit?’

  Frightened? She stopped. She had intended denying her fear; would her friend Kazan have admitted to fear? Surely not. No boy or man admitted to fear. But there was such a constriction in her throat it was difficult to utter any words, let alone careless bravado. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘I was frightened.’

  ‘So would we all have been, Kazan,’ said Thomas. ‘You are a brave boy.’

  ‘Kazan the not-so-fearless-warrior,’ murmured Mehmi but his voice was comforting, not mocking.

  ‘But why did you leave your tribe?’ Edgar innocently questioned. She drew a breath. Now was the time to confess but she thought again what they would think if they knew she was an imposter. Impossible, now, to say who she was, to expose how she was betraying their trust, but the lie lay heavy on her, a wearisome burden, even though a part of her whispered how reluctant she was to give up the freedom of this boy’s guise; freedom and friendship with these men, and their admiration. But at least she could tell part of the truth, ease her conscience that way.

  ‘I promised to find my grandfather who I never knew. He came from your country, Edgar, and yours, blue man, but when he was a young boy he went to your country, Dai. That is how I know of your country. He was a great storyteller who travelled the world searching for his lost brother. His name was Will. Will-the-Wordmaker.’

  She was not prepared for their reaction.

  ‘A’ve heard of him, A have, though not nivver fer many a year. Will-the-Wordmaker. Well, A nivver did.’

  ‘He came to Swineshead Abbey in his old age. The Crowland monks spoke of him.’

  ‘You speak as if he is dead.’

  ‘As far as I know, he’s alive and well though he’ll be an old, old man by now.’ Edgar’s face was alight with what he knew. ‘He made quite a stir when he told the monks that the last, true Princess of Wales was made a nun in Sempringham Abbey. That’s not so far from Crowland. It’s one of Saint Gilbert’s abbeys. Our monks were full of it but no one ever knew for certain if there was truth in it, or if it was just another of his stories.’ He turned to the Welshman. ‘Did you ever hear of that, Dai?’

  ‘No. Not a whisper. Taid – my grandfather – only said that Gwenllian, the infant daughter of our last prince, Llewelyn, was taken when she was a babe, no one knew where. There was talk of a nunnery but never a place. His brother Dafydd’s sons and daughters were spirited away from our country at the same time. There was word the boys were kept close prisoner in Bristol castle, poor devils. Y Groes Nawdd, too, a splinter of the true cross, our most holy relic. Edward Longshanks took that from us as well.’ His dark eyes darkened to blackness, remembering. ‘But this storyteller, this Will, Taid spoke of him often. Taid rescued him from drowning – pulled him out of the Mawddach Falls when this Will was but a dwt and my taid a young man himself.’

  ‘You all know of my grandfather? But this I cannot believe! It is impossible!’

  ‘It is God’s will,’ Edgar-the-altar-boy said solemnly.

  ‘There was a brother, as Kazan says. A music maker he was, as great as any of the Welsh bards though he was English born.’ Dai paused. ‘No – he was half Welsh, that was it. He couldn’t speak but he could make music out of the air itself, Taid said. He was taught by Ieuan ap y Gof, one of our greatest bards, Mehmi.’

  Mehmi smiled. ‘I think…I truly believe…I remember my father speaking of this wonderful music maker. And a companion, I think, a small man with a wizened hand who used to be a music maker himself.’

  ‘That’s him. That’s Ieuan ap y Gof. His hand was ruined in the first Welsh War. How does your father know of them?’

  ‘They were in Konya. He saw them in Konya.’

  ‘My grandfather heard of this but when he arrived in Konya it was too late; his brother and your music man had already left.’

  They were silent, barely able to comprehend the forces moving about them, nor the time shifts, the much-longed-for meetings missed by a breath. And now this, their own meeting, and all with their own tales to tell of Will-the-Wordmaker.

  ‘That yer grandad then, Fustilugs? The storyteller?’

  Her eyes shone golden in the firelight. Her hair glinted gold-copper-bronze. Is this what is meant by alchemy? thought Dai. Here is mortal flesh, the base metal, turned to the pure gold of this girl’s soul. ‘That is my grandfather,’ she said.

  ‘No wonder you want to suck our stories out of our souls, boy,’ Thomas said. ‘It is in your blood.’

  ‘We all love to hear stories. That is what he said, my grandfather. It makes children of us all, he said, and we forget to fight, and that is truth. Sharing tales and laughter is what makes peace amongst us.’

  ‘He’s right an’ all, Fustilugs. A’ve not nivver met a man yet as doesn’t love a good taäle.’

  ‘And your story, and Edgar’s, see how we loved listening to your stories,’ she said eagerly. ‘See how we shared in your adventures and your misfortunes.’

  ‘And you are going to England to find him?’ Twm persisted.

  ‘That is what I have vowed to do. And now you have told me where to find him, in this abbey you speak of.’

  ‘But yer’ve nivver not known him, Fustilugs. How’s he going to know it’s yow?’

  ‘I have this token.’ She scrabbled under her tunic and pulled out the tiny jade axe swinging from its leather thong.

  Giles leant forward. ‘I’ve seen these. They’re from the far countries, far away in the east. They say the sun sleeps in that land until it’s ready to rise the next day.’

  ‘Do they say so?’ Twm murmured, his one brow raised in disbelief.

  ‘I only say what I’ve heard.’

  ‘A’ve heärd as theer’s men theer as has one greät foot as they uses fer a sunshaäde and there’s others as ’ave long bird beäks and legs ’as end in claäws, just like a bird. A’ve heärd that.’

  ‘I’ve seen none of this and I’ve travelled far enough.’

  ‘I’ve heard there was a man who vanished into the Far Lands and he was not heard of or seen until many, many years had passed. When he returned to his family, they did not recognise him. And the tales he told! He was mazed… So I’ve heard,’ said Edgar.

  ‘I think it is the Venetian you mean – his name was Marco Polo,’ said Dai. ‘And his tales were true, though he said nothing of big-footed men nor bird-headed men. Heinrijc Mertens knew of him. This is a well-crafted piece of jade, Kazan.’

  ‘They say this stone protects those who wear it,’ she said. She slanted a mischievous glance at Twm. ‘So I have heard.’

  ‘Do they say so?’ Twm said again, but he was smiling. ‘Tell us more about your grandfather.’

  ‘But I want to hear about him from you, Edgar, and you, blue man and you, Dai the Welshman, whose grandfather rescued mine from drowning in this river with the strange name.’

  ‘Waterfall. It was the Mawddach waterfall.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve no gift for telling tales, Kazan. My Welsh tongue is tied if I try.’

  She was disappointed. ‘But you could tell me why he was there, in your country.’

  ‘That I can do. He and his brother had come with Edward’s army – that’s the first Edward – to build his new-fashioned castles, but they ran away and made their way to Cymer Abbey, where the rivers meet and flow down to the sea. That is my bro – where I come from. They were looking for Ieuan ap y Gof, who had been Ned’s music teacher.

  ‘Ned?’

  ‘That was the brother’s name.’

  ‘The brother who could not speak but who made b
eautiful music. I know.’

  ‘They slipped and fell – it was winter and icy and only boys they were; hungry and weary boys. My grandfather and his friends were nearby, pulled them out, put them on a cart and took them to the monks at the abbey.’

  ‘And there Ieuan ap y Gof was waiting for them.’

  ‘You already know this story, is it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only that they went to Wales and that was where they parted from each other. The brother stayed with the music man and my grandfather went back home to his mother and sisters and always regretted the choice he had made. He said he…’ she frowned, trying to remember the strange words, ‘he made the wrong choice and shut out the saint. And some years after there was a great flood in his country and all his family was drowned and he had nobody so he set out to find his brother. But he never did. It is a sad story.’

  ‘It is sad that he has never seen his grandson,’ said Edgar.

  ‘But he was a storyteller,’ said Blue. ‘Everybody knew him and his stories. He maäde foölk laugh and cry with his stories. Like yer says, Fustilugs, everybody loves stories and they forget to fight when theer’re listening. That’s not sad. That’s a miracle, that is.’

  Mehmi smiled to himself at the big man’s words; they would cheer him when he remembered his father’s face at their parting and inspire him to sing and play as well as he could so that he would win for himself a reputation like this Will-the-Wordmaker.

  She couldn’t sleep. She was again by Dai’s side, but this time she had seen Twm’s raised eyebrows and knew what it signified. Secrets, she thought, were very difficult to live with. But when they were shared, what marvels happened. Like this of her grandfather. ‘Nene,’ she whispered, ‘if only you had known about this brown man and his grandfather who saved mine.’ She raised herself up on her elbow. She knew he wasn’t asleep though he was lying very still with one arm behind his head. ‘What else do you remember?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing now. Later. Go to sleep, Kazan.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Go to sleep. Tomorrow we must rescue your Niko, remember?’

  No, she thought, I didn’t remember. Here am I, warm and safe, and I had forgotten him because of the stories of my grandfather. She huddled into her guilt and was quiet but there was no chance of sleep or slumber.

  17

  Lullay lullay little child lollay lullow

  into uncuth world icommen so ertou

  (Anon, 14thC)

  Next morning, reeds shivered and rustled in a wind that blew from a swollen grey sky. ‘That wind’s snide this morning. It’s the back end right enough and theer’s some weather to coöme.’ Blue was cheerful, chuckling with anticipation over the morning’s plans. That fat-arsed, trouser-farting, brusting-bellied shithouse. Try to make Fustilugs a slave, would he? Take his clobber and his horse?

  Vecdet’s caravan was hurrying to leave. The tent in the marsh meadows was almost packed, mules burdened. Most of the slaves stood roped one to the other, shuddering in thin clothes in the cold morning air. There was no sign of Niko, nor the pale girl who was his sister. Others were hauling on the ropes, straining against the wind that whipped through the billowing fabric. Guards stood with whips at the ready.

  Twm rode the short distance to the house they knew was Vecdet’s lodging. It overlooked the lakeside and the slaves’ tent. Edgar was with him, outwardly attentive and servile; inwardly, tense and alert.

  ‘I wish to speak with your master.’ Twm was aloof, arrogant, very much the noble man in fine clothes.

  ‘What is your wish?’

  ‘My wish is to speak with your master.’

  The servant scurried away. Twm raised an eyebrow, watched the slaves struggle with the last stretches of the wind-blown, dew-laden felt of the tent. A corner snapped out of the hands of one man and into his face then it blew free and the guards cursed and threatened. The servant returned, Big Aziz with him. He looked formidable, a man as big as Blue and harder though his words were polite: his master had much to attend to this morning before they could leave. He regretted he could not spare time to entertain guests.

  ‘I have not come to be entertained but to do business. Surely your master has time for business? It will not take long; a simple transaction only.’

  That was a different matter; he would speak again with the master. Meanwhile, perhaps the young efendi would care to have his horse attended to? Twm nodded and dismounted. Edgar stood by the bridle until a slave came to take the horse.

  Big Aziz came a second time. The master would see him for a short time.

  Watching from a safe distance, they saw Twm and Edgar disappear into the shadowy entrance. Dai was impassive, expressionless but the girl knew he would be on edge until he saw his two men reappear. She remembered how she herself had disappeared into the great tent, but that had been herself alone and unprotected, and in a lonely place. Here was the middle of a busy town. Surely no harm could come to them here?

  Inside the lodgings, Twm and Edgar were led into an upstairs room. It was light and airy, with windows covered with an ornately carved, fretted wooden screen. Through the fretting came glimpses of the lake and the shoreline and the huddle of miserable men and women and, somewhere amongst them, a young boy and his sister. There was a cushioned seating area and there sat Vecdet, a solid, square, swarthy man with a thick fleshy neck like an ox. His chins were resting on his chest and his belly resting on his thighs and his buttocks spreading over the cushions. His rich robes were warm against the cold. His loose-lipped mouth was pursed with annoyance and speculation.

  ‘You wish to do business with me?’ Strange that such a man should have nothing but a high piping voice, like a gelding.

  ‘If you are the leader of this caravan, then yes, my business is with you.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘I see you have slaves. I wish to purchase a young boy to serve me. You have a slave who would be appropriate?’

  If Vecdet was surprised by the request, he did not show it. He gave every appearance of being pleased at the unexpected sale. Certainly he had a boy, a good boy, Christian Greek. Highly desirable, were the Greek slaves, and no doubt would bring a good price in Attaleia but perhaps they could make an equally good price now, he and the young master, between them? After all, they were men of business.

  ‘Let me see him,’ Twm said.

  Vecdet clapped his hands, ordered the young Greek boy to be brought to them. But when the boy was presented it was seen that he had dark bruising down the side of his face and he nursed his right arm.

  ‘A good boy, you say?’ Twm raised an eyebrow. ‘This one looks as though he might be rebellious. As for his condition…’

  ‘A trifling matter,’ he was assured. ‘A zealous nature.’

  ‘But I wish for obedience,’ Twm said. ‘A rebellious slave is not for me. What is your price? Too high.’

  He bartered the man down. Still too high. Perhaps they could reach an agreement if he bought two slaves? The boy he needed now but he intended buying a young female slave in Attaleia. Perhaps Vecdet had a young female and they could negotiate a reasonable price for both? Two for the price of one, as it were? There was a young female, and a virgin, but there was no question of any ‘two for one’. This was a slave who would fetch a good price in any market. Did the young master wish to view her?

  The girl was brought, fair and pale and thin with downcast eyes. She submitted to the usual checks of healthy teeth and gums and unmarked flesh. ‘A very useful female, whatever your needs,’ Vecdet murmured.

  ‘But so feeble – not well looked after at all. There’s no saying how strong this pair is, nor how hard they can work before they are no use to me whatsoever. You’re asking too high a price. I shall do better in Attaleia, and have more choice.’

  It would have been almost pleasurable, Twm thought, if so much had not been at stake. It was clear the man longed to be rid of two who must be troublesome. There would be keen competition in Attaleia, Tw
m pointed out helpfully, and if Vecdet were to take them to Candia in this condition, well, odds on neither would make it. He was tempted to push the price lower but remembered Kazan’s face and Dai’s instructions: agree a price, send them to safety with Edgar, get out of there. Then, once on the street, in public view, and only then, negotiate the mare and Kazan’s belongings. Even so, that would be trickier.

  The watchers observed the small party that emerged on to the street. Edgar first, then the girl shivering by her brother’s side: he short and sturdy-seeming, despite his thinness, with curly dark hair and slanting brows and sullen, watchful gaze; she taller, slender, pale as a crushed moth.

  ‘Eyeäble,’ murmured Blue, ‘for all she’s near lost wi’ muck, poor soul.’

  ‘Is that the boy?’ Dai asked, quietly. She nodded.

  ‘He’s nobbut a bairn – more of a recklin than yow, Fustilugs.’

  All she could hear was the cascading waterfall and Niko’s young voice: ‘I wish my sister was brave but she cries all the time. It’s very hard to make a plan to escape when she won’t help.’ Was the bruised face and injured arm because of her, she wondered, because he had helped her escape? She could hardly breathe. Get them away, Dai had said, before you broach the matter of the mare and Kazan’s belongings. Now, the matter of those belongings seemed trivial. Only let all go free and safe. Sure enough, they were walking away with Edgar towards their own lodgings. ‘Where’s Twm?’

  ‘Business still to do. The fool should have come out by now.’

  Aziz followed them out, watched the trio’s progress along the street. His gaze shifted; it seemed he was staring straight at them, hidden though they were in the shadows of the busy bedestan. Blue shifted uneasily.

  ‘A’d like to tek a ding at that un,’ he murmured. ‘A’d like to brust his noöse agaän fer him.’

  ‘Stay peaceful, Blue. It hasn’t come to fighting yet. He may not have seen us.’

  ‘There’s a matter of another of my slaves,’ Twm was saying. ‘I believe we have you to thank for his safe return to us.’