The Storyteller's Granddaughter

by Margaret Redfern

  All the same, caravans passed them heading towards the mountains, a last journey to the north before winter closed the routes. Earth tremors, landslides? Such things happened, especially on that route. No doubt the road was already cleared. Business was business and the roads must be kept open.

  The Venetian fleet? Ah, they were lucky, though the captains wouldn’t say so. They had met with the meltem on their way here, and that had delayed them. They had been forced to take shelter for many days until the wind had blown itself out. And now it was the turn of the lodos; it had blown too strong for safe sea journeys and had kept the fleet at anchor for days now.

  ‘Fettle oursens and yer can still maäke it,’ Blue said with satisfaction.

  ‘“No matter how strong the wood, the sea can smash the ship,”’ Mehmi crooned. He grinned at them. ‘That’s Yunus Emre’s words, not mine. He visited my father once and played and sang for us.’ His dark eyes glittered with excitement. Yunus Emre, never to be forgotten, the poet who travelled from village to village and whose songs were in Turkish, not Persian, so that ordinary men could better understand. Yunus Emre, who had fired him with the desire to play and sing and travel, and now Attaleia! He had never dreamed he would ever see this place. His heart yearned to tell his father of his travels; to thank him again and again for setting him free to fly. Let the white horse come. Let it go free. Let go of your grief. Set that free as well. Tonight, he would play and sing in honour of his father. And who knew? Perhaps there would be a rich merchant or landowner who would hear him and take him into his household? Perhaps – his mind reeled at the thought – he would be paid well, and the money he would take back to his father so that there would be no more hunger. His father could eat aruzza every night to the end of his life if he wished.

  The last stretch of straight, flat road to Attaleia, hooves and feet clopping over one of the slender, high-pointed bridges of this country; past more orchards and gardens kept and farmed despite the wars, and then they were in the shadow of the city walls, huge high walls, long and thick with battlemented tower after tower after tower. City walls that had been there for many years, more years than anyone could remember. But wasn’t that the way of it in this country? Build and rebuild. Use the cut stone of the older buildings to replenish and renew; waste nothing, especially well-cut, well-shaped stone. The lower stones of the city wall were so enormous they’d been shaped by giants, some said, but Dai knew it was ancient building. He had seen the like before. Impressive these might be but he’d a Welshman’s dislike of cities. Once inside these walls and lodged in the Merchants’ Quarter, come the curfew, the gates would be locked for the night; they’d be prisoners till morning, though that was never said. Jews, Greeks, Turks, merchants, the Bey and his court, together and separate in their own high-walled, heavy-gated sections of the city. The rest of the Muslims lived in the main city.

  ‘What do you think, then?’ he asked the girl beside him. She had insisted on freeing her arm from the sling, insisted on riding Yıldız, and he had been equally insistent that she keep close by him, surprised by her docile agreement. More tired and uncomfortable than she’d say, most like. He saw her shiver.

  ‘It is big. Very big.’ Her voice was doubtful. ‘Do you have such cities in your country?’

  ‘Not as big as this but something like,’ he said, ‘built by the Sais for the Sais. We Cymry aren’t ones for cities and towns. Never have been.’

  She thought about this. ‘You are like the yürük?’

  ‘Not exactly. Maybe. In some ways.’

  ‘Same but different,’ she said. ‘That was what my grandfather used to say. Nene told me so.’

  ‘Same but different.’ He mouthed the words carefully. ‘Seems to me that’s what we all are, isn’t it? Same but different. Us lot here, the whole heaving mass in there,’ he nodded at the city gate, ‘all the whole wud world. Same but different.’

  She smiled. ‘Different but the same is better.’

  ‘Well now, wise woman, let’s be in so you can see for yourself the “different”.’

  It was their turn to pass through the heavy, fortified gateway and into the busy street.

  Always after the solitude and emptiness of the high plateau he was confused by the noise and busyness of these streets thronged with the clatter of heavy-wheeled carts pulled by straining oxen; over-laden mules and donkeys and men, too, brisk about someone’s business, wearing padded hats on which were balanced copper trays piled with merchandise or mysterious bundles wrapped in cloth and bound with rope. Others were street-sellers with trays laden with sweet pastries dripping in sugar syrup and honey and nuts; the just-ripened apricots with the sweet almond kernel for which Attaleia was famous and which would be dried and exported to Egypt; nuts and fruit and figs and olives and flat bread smeared with soft white cheese and sprinkled with pungent herbs…no one in this place would ever go hungry, he thought. This was a man’s world; there were few women to be seen on the streets and those few were accompanied by older women or the men and servants of the family. Obediently, they walked with lowered gaze and guarded modesty, their bodies and ornaments covered from common sight. It was, as well, the custom for the rich and well-to-do to veil themselves. He glanced at Kazan’s proud, tilted head, her uncovered hair once again gleaming gold-copper-bronze; it was a custom unknown to the women of the yürük. He thought of the equally regulated western world and wondered how she would take to being female again after her boyish freedom. Stormy times ahead, he forecast.

  Everywhere, it seemed, was the clamour of buying and selling. And everything was there to be bought and sold, at a price, and all was taxed, imports and exports. Caravans unloaded at one end of the city and transport to the harbour had to be paid for – fixed rates, no haggling here. As well, thought Dai; haggling took time and time was against them.

  Time to unload and pay off the muleteers and cameleteers. Time to store their goods in a warehouse that included transportation to the harbour in its charge. Time to find a berth. Time to find lodgings for the night. Time, if any, to scour the markets for the spun gold and silver that were specialities of Attaleia. The fleet was sailing next day. All being well, and if the weather signs were right, out of the bay before noon. How to cram in all they had to do before then? Lucky for him he knew the place, knew the best places, best men to deal with. All the same…Dai pulled at his lower lip. ‘Best like this,’ he said. ‘Twm; you, Giles, Blue to the harbour. Find us a ship. How many of us?’ He counted them off in his head. ‘Seven. No – eight – Brother Jerome comes with us. Baggage space? Horses? Can you sort all that? Good man.’

  Kazan tugged at his arm. ‘The chestnut,’ she said. ‘Rüzgâr. She is not mine. I took her without permission.’

  ‘Can’t turn her lose, Kazan, and you won’t be wanting to sell her.’

  Sakoura was standing patiently waiting ready to dismiss his men. ‘I can return the mare,’ he said. ‘Next summer, the next time we pass that way. Amir will know where to find the Karakeçili.’

  Amir! Dai had forgotten so easily the promise made to take news to Amir’s wife patiently waiting in Alaiya.

  ‘Do not disturb yourself, master,’ Sakoura said in his quiet, measured way. ‘It is an easy matter for me to visit his wife, take news of Amir and Raschid.’

  ‘You are a marvel, Sakoura.’ Everything quietly and efficiently dealt with, including the homing of Blue and Hatice and Niko. A message had been sent to his home telling his wife to expect three extra in her household. A marvel of a wife, Dai thought. ‘Rémi, come with me. We need to sort what dues we owe the muhtesib.’ The official in charge of the market, for its law and order, for the customs charges levied on exports, would expect them. ‘Edgar, take the women and find lodgings for the night. Brother Jerome, best go with them.’

  ‘No need, master. We have one of the courtyard houses. There is plenty of room for all of you, and we shall be honoured if you would share your supper with us. I am sure I shall be given permission to take you
as my guests. The Merchants’ Quarter is already full to bursting. If I can be spared for a little while, I shall go myself to make the arrangements. Niko and Kazan, these little ones with wounded wings, are tired, I think, though they pretend otherwise.’ Sakoura hesitated. ‘You will all be our guests but please to remember, master, the hour of the curfew.’

  And non-believers must not be in the streets of the Turkish quarter, Dai thought, though Sakoura was too polite to say so. ‘That is very generous of you, Sakoura.’ Dai felt a great wave of relief sweep over him. He rubbed his forehead, tried to get his thoughts in order. It was not long before sunset and the curfew and locked gates. ‘Rémi, we’re for the bedestan.’ It was where all business was done.

  Tom, Giles and Blue made their way through the narrow crowded streets to the broad flight of stone steps that led down and down to the quayside and the harbour. They could see the Venetian fleet below, with its huge round boats and smaller cogs safely at anchor under the protecting battlemented walls and towers. Single-masted, two-masted alike, all with sails furled, whether lateen or square rigged, all jiggling and jostling together with the smaller ships of the Egyptians and Cretans and Turks, all penned in together for a whole seven days by the gusting lodos. Small fishing boats with old-fashioned trailing steering oars were lashed side by side, and despondent fishermen sat whittling pegs and mending nets, waiting for the break in the weather. Tomorrow, they told each other, tomorrow the sea would be calm and the harbour would empty. Already, the round ships were loading, their hulls open and ramps down. Later, when all was loaded, the openings would be sealed and caulked against the seawater. Water butts, fodder for the animals, came first. Provisions for sailors and passengers would come later. The horses would be cajoled on board in the morning to be stabled in threes in canvas slings for the voyage. Room enough on these huge ships for more than sixty horses; better stabling than the smaller boats. Double decks and better stabling for humans but all berths were full, they were told.

  ‘Been here days,’ a sailor grumbled. ‘Bad enough on the journey coming here but now waiting and waiting for that cursed wind to fall. Every day for days and days without number. Time enough for every pirate ship between here and Venezia to ready themselves for raiding.’ He chewed on his lip, as camels did, then sucked in weather-beaten cheeks and spat noisily into the harbour water. He rubbed his nose. ‘How many did you say? How much baggage? How many animals?’ More chewing and hawking and nose rubbing followed by a quick-voiced exchange with a fellow seaman. ‘There’s the one you want. He’s the one who can help you.’

  He pointed to an important-seeming burly man striding along the quayside towards them, holding his cloak tight about him. He was impatient when they stopped him, glaring at the three men. He was tired and anxious; how much longer would they be held here? The fleet should have been well underway on its journey home. Every day of delay meant a loss of profit and worsening weather. And now, when all seemed settled, a new group of merchants demanding berths and baggage space and stabling as if there was never-ending space.

  But it seemed there was room after all for a small number such as they were, if they could get their goods on board before evening. The horses? ‘Bring them early in the morning. One of the cogs – you’ll have to make do,’ they were warned. ‘Tight squeeze in the berths.’ Short, sharp speech. No time to waste on words.

  ‘As long as we sail, and arrive safe, we’ll be content.’ Tom was shaking hands on the deal when he heard his name shouted across the harbour. ‘Thomas! Thomas d’Eyncourt! It is you!’ A lithe young man leaped down the last of the harbour steps, clearing three together. He pushed his way past the quayside crowd towards them. ‘I can’t believe my eyes! You vanish in the night, not a whisper of your whereabouts, and now all these years later I find you in this heathen place.’

  Giles was conscious of the way his friend had frozen into stillness. His dark face was tense, his speech clipped as if he spoke through clenched teeth.

  ‘Roger de Comfrey.’

  ‘What are you doing here of all places, Thomas? Hey?’

  ‘Like all the rest here, securing a berth for tomorrow’s sailing.’

  ‘Merchant man are you now, then? Pilgrim?’

  ‘Neither exactly.’

  ‘Neither exactly?’ the young man echoed. ‘You’re as spare of speech as ever, Thomas. Tell me, what exactly? Heaven and all the saints, man, you appear out of the air as suddenly as you vanished into it. Can you blame me for curiosity?’

  Thomas eyed the smiling, carefree face in front of him, a face not seen for many years and little changed. A thatch of brown hair, clear grey eyes, a wide mouth that curled into smiles and dimples that any woman would envy. The years had been good to Roger de Comfrey, that was clear. A beloved only son, he’d been a squire in the same manor as Thomas in the old days. ‘Not quite sure what I do. Man-of-all work, that’s me. And you? What are you doing here?’

  Roger de Comfrey pulled a comical face. ‘Shackled to my mother. She’s always been one for iffing and butting and last minute journeys, more so since my father died five winters ago. First of all it was a journey to Winifred’s shrine at Shrewsbury. That was not so far from our home but three years ago nothing would do but to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady at Walsingham, and she insisted I travel with her. Now she’s taken it into her head to go to Jerusalem. A long pilgrimage! At her age! As for waiting for the spring when most folk would set off on such a journey, oh no. Not mother. I might not live through another winter to see the spring.’ He wickedly imitated his mother’s high-pitched, breathless voice. ‘So here we are, on our way to Antioch, when this cursed wind makes up its mind to let us travel.’ He looked at the two men with Thomas, liking the look of the soldier-like younger man. He looked a second time at Blue, taking in the big man’s size and broad shoulders. ‘You’re a mite on the short side, aren’t you, little feller?’ He grinned amiably, his dimples flashing, sure no offence would be taken, because none ever had been taken. He had always had that easy way with him, Thomas remembered. Take nothing seriously and nothing serious will take you. That had been his motto.

  ‘Cursed wind maybe, for you, but a blessed wind for us. It’s been a slow journey. We’ve just this hour arrived, and lucky to catch the fleet. Look Roger, we’ve much to do if we’re to sail tomorrow. Perhaps we could meet this evening?’ He hoped not; the old life was dead and gone and he feared Roger would want to breathe new life into it. But Roger would no doubt be seething with curiosity. Thomas d’Eyncourt, the squire who vanished in the night without trace and who was standing in front of him, solid flesh and blood. There would be a story here for sure.

  ‘For certain,’ Roger said. ‘My mother is with friends tonight and has already said she doesn’t want her son there “reminding me of what I should and shouldn’t eat and drink.”’ Again the good-humoured mimicry. ‘Your friends as well?’

  ‘Perhaps. There are more of us and a parting of the ways tonight for some of us.’

  Giles listened to the conversation, evasion on one part and keen curiosity on the other. He was amused and curious enough himself. ‘I’m sure Sakoura would wish your friend to join us,’ he murmured helpfully. He swallowed a grin at the expression on Thomas’ face.

  ‘What about the curfew?’

  ‘Another one to bed down for the night?’ Giles shrugged. ‘The house is in the Turkish quarter,’ he told Roger.

  ‘Is it so? That would be an adventure. We’ve kept only to the merchant’s quarter while we’ve been here – apart from church-going, that is.’ His face was bright. ‘Never had a meal in a Turk’s home before. It would be something to tell them back home.’

  An adventure, thought Tom. Something so simple, so harmless, so everyday yet this carefree boy-man saw it as an adventure. What would he think by the time he reached Jerusalem? What would he think of their tumultuous journey? He caught Giles’ eye, saw Blue turn his face away to hide his mirth, caught back his own laughter. No, not a hope of pu
tting him off. Wel, as Dai would say, so be it.

  ‘I’m sure Giles is right and Sakoura would be delighted to welcome one more. His father-in-law is the Turk,’ he added. ‘It is his house where we shall stay. Sakoura is from Mali.’

  ‘Mali,’ breathed Roger. ‘Where the city is paved with gold?’

  ‘You’d best ask Sakoura if that is so.’

  ‘I shall. I’d be honoured to join you.’

  ‘Meet us by these steps. Best not be late. Remember the curfew. Better tell your mother you won’t be back till morning.’ Thomas couldn’t resist the advice. He hoped Roger’s mother had more seasoned companions than this one.

  As they parted company, Blue caught a glimpse of two figures he recognised. A big-bellied, shrill-voiced creature strutting like a peacock on the further side of the harbour wall. With him a mountain of a man. If Blue had been close enough he knew he would have seen a thin seamed ridge stretching from the corner of the man’s left eye down to his jawline. ‘They’re here,’ he breathed. ‘Vecdet and that great oäf he keeps with him.’

  ‘Stay out of trouble, Blue,’ Thomas warned. ‘No time for it – and you’ve a family to look out for now.’

  ‘Aye, A have that,’ he agreed. All the same, it was with a regretful shake of his new-trimmed head.

  26

  In the blink of an eye he was swallowed by fate

  As a speck of straw on to a lump of amber flies

  (Shanameh of Ferdowsi, 10/11thC)

  The merchant remembered them. He would make a good deal for them, he promised. Dai smiled and nodded and mentally subtracted half the amount the man demanded, knew Rémi, shrewd boy, did the same. Trouble was, little time they had for haggling. They agreed on a price for the spun gold that was more than Dai knew he should pay but he knew as well there’d be as good a price in Venezia. Better. He hesitated over a bracelet cunningly worked in twists of gold and silver and copper; beautiful it was, the kind the women of this town kept close covered in the public street and admired in the privacy of their home.