Contents
Title Page
Also by Margaret Redfern
Dedication
Acknowledgements
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Select bibliography
About Honno
Copyright
The Heart Remembers
by
Margaret Redfern
HONNO MODERN FICTION
Also by Margaret Redfern and available from Honno
Flint
The Storyteller’s Granddaughter
as always, to both of you, of course
Acknowledgements
Once again, grateful thanks
to the Internet and its ever-increasing book-hoard and bona fide websites
to the writers of books that have delighted, instructed and inspired me
to the staff of Lincoln Central Library for their generous help
to all at Honno for their patience, help and guidance
also:
to Debbie of Lincoln, herbalist and wise-woman, and the joyful expeditions into the lime-woods of Lincolnshire
to the Roving Apothecary, historic culinary and medicinal herbalists, the very best part of Lincoln’s Christmas Market
to the unknown, chance-met thatcher who patiently corrected my erroneous notions of thatching
to my walking boots, the trusty companions of many years tramping
And to so many more chance-met folk who provided just that little extra fact (or fiction)
1
Venezia
Late autumn, 1336
No ship, beaten and conquered by the waves,
ever made land more happily than me
(Petrarch: 14thC)
Thick fog stifled all sound save slap of waves and crack of rigging and shouts from sailor to sailor, from boat to boat, swinging the lead, checking depth, checking channels, but all sound disembodied, souls of sailors lost at sea, not flesh-and-blood-and-of-this-earth. There was urgency in their calls: they must not run aground on the mudflats, not now, not so close to journey’s end.
Shapes rose up out of the nothingness, resolved themselves into reeds, a bank of mud and silt, the bow of a boat sailing too close alongside. From somewhere came a bleating of flocks of sheep kept on the salt marsh. Without warning, the mass of a building ghosted before their eyes. It floated in fog, miraculous and disturbing. A sudden clamour of unseen bells close at hand. Another, further off. Another and another until the air was crammed with the clamour of invisible bells, some clangorous, some melodious, some cracked, some near, some far off and faint and all deadened by the clammy, salt-laden fog that drowned the lagoon.
As if the bells had power over the elements, the fog shifted and lifted infinitesimally and the prows of the fleet were visible at last. To the watching girl it seemed ominous, eerie. What was this watery world they had entered? It was different from rough seas and crashing waves; different from becalmed waters and jagged reefs that threatened to tear the fragile hulls plank from plank; different from the friendly wind that kept them on course, hour after hour, day after day, night after night, past a coastline of rearing white-rock mountains and the days when swags of cloud squatted on mountain tops, such heavy-laden cloud it seemed the mountains were crushed by the weight. There were times when harbours beckoned, safe and sheltering, stout fortresses guarding their entrance, where fresh water was taken on board, and fresh food, and a chance to stand on solid ground, though it felt strange after the lurching, shifting boards of the boat.
The ‘berths’ they had been promised were on deck, and the patronus was reluctant to take them when he realised two young women were of the party. He had to yield to Francesco da Ginstinianis, whose father knew the Welshman and whose family were of the elite, the inner circle of Venetian nobles. He smouldered; he was of noble family too, he, Marco Trevior, the younger son maybe but he was ambitious. One day, he promised himself, one day he too would be one of the Forty that ruled Venezia. Perhaps, even, if he played the game right, he might be elected one of the Council of Ten, the supreme ruling party, only last year declared a permanent office. His family was eligible, after all, and would be even more so if his brother Jacopo stirred himself to make sure of da Ginstinianis’ vinegar-faced sister. A connection with that family would be useful. Very useful.
He contemplated his passengers: three tough-looking men well used to handling themselves, used to travelling, with the scars and bruises to prove it – a recent sword slash marked the face of the Welshman. There was a slim, blue-eyed younger man as well, with a mop of golden curls. A thin, dark youth without the power of speech. A simpleton. What had he to do with the world of money and merchandise? And the two young women, one with hair like pale gold, the other whose hair shone gold-copper-bronze in the early morning sun and whose dark eyes met his brazenly. She was too bold by half, this one. Such manners would not be tolerated in Venezia. If he had his way, he’d soon tame her. Both wore the clothing worn by the peasant women of Attaleia; loose breeches, a long tunic, a kaftan over that. Shapeless clothing. Nothing like the beautiful young noble women of Venezia. Not even like the working girls, who had their own attraction. He smiled to himself, remembering the way thin material ripped away to reveal rounded breasts and soft flesh yielding under his busy fingers. He promised himself another night out with his friends, like last autumn, when five of them had climbed over the wall of one of the nunneries. Nuns were willing enough, once they realised they had no choice. Good hunting, good sport, and a clean escape – not like his friend Moreto who was caught in bed with five nuns and a huge erect member as red as his face, and a fine to pay.
But that was for later; now he was a patronus with the fleet, his first command. On a cog, he sternly told his passengers, the cargo was stowed below deck and passengers had to take their luck in the open air, whatever the weather, sunshine, rain or storm, sheltered only by sleeping bags made of hide and pelts, leather-side outwards. It was no place for any woman. There was one latrine, over there on the starboard side, jutting out over the sea and open to view. He couldn’t make special provision for them. Sior da Ginstinianis had not thought of these things, this lack of comfort, of seemliness, but since it was agreed…he shrugged.
The girl didn’t mind. It was preferable to being entombed below deck. Here on deck she could see the stars and the moon, she could feel the wind and spray on her face. Their horses had been stabled on the capacious round boats, their baggage crammed into whatever space was available on this alum-carrying cog; alum as ballast, destined for the glass-makers of Murano. She had got used to the smoking, round-bellied cooking-pot and the open fire that was so carefully guarded. She had got used to the jutting public latrine on the starboard side, and the makeshift canvas sheeting which two of the crew rigged up for them. When a white-faced Agathi tearfully confided that her monthly time had started again, after barren months when she was taken as slave, it was the girl who had begged the Welshman to find linen for them, these two, the only women aboard the cog. She remembered his moment of silence, the deep flush that rose in his throat and travelled up into his cheeks.
‘I should not speak of such things to a man, I know this, but wha
t am I to do?’
‘Exactly what you have done, cariad.’ He was gone for no more than two gusts of wind that rolled the ship to leeward; he returned with a small roll of fine linen.
‘This is too much and too fine.’
‘Happen so. It’s what I could get.’ A sidelong glance. ‘For you as well, Kazan,’ he said, awkwardly. She in turn had felt her face redden. This was talk that should not even be between man and wife. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as awkwardly. They had not spoken of such things again. Instead, they had been anxious for Edgar-the-seasick, pale and feeble at the start of the voyage, staggering onto the quay at Candia, the first port-of-call, listless and helpless at sea, clinging to the railing and gazing wistfully at the beyond-reach land. How had he ever travelled so far from home? He never did find his sea legs, as the sailors promised him, but the wretchedness and vomiting subsided.
It was when they were harboured in Candia that the strange thing happened. Two Venetian galleys were due to join the fleet. Damaged by the meltemi on the outward journey, they had needed repairs, and Candia had an efficient arsenale. Several of the crew had stayed behind and now there was a re-shuffling and re-appointing of crew-members. A well-built young sailor was one of those to join their own cog. He came on board cheerfully enough, swinging his kitbag from one hand and lithely leaping the last few feet.
‘It is Radovan,’ someone murmured, and there were expressive looks one to the other. A too-hearty voice welcomed him, and another. Curly-haired Rizo blew out his cheeks but he was the one who reached for him and hugged him.
‘We thought you had gone back to Spalato,’ he said.
‘No such luck. I need the work.’
It was then the patronus appeared. He stopped dead in front of the young sailor, his eyes disbelieving.
‘What is this? What are you doing here?’
The young man Radovan reddened, deeper and deeper, then the colour drained so that his brown face seemed yellow. His body, that lithe, agile body, stiffened into stillness.
‘You,’ he said. ‘I was not told that you were the patronus of this ship.’
‘And I was not told that you were to be my extra crew.’ Marco Trevior was furious. This man was trouble. He was a man of Croatia come to Venezia for work; the son of a carpenter, he was a mean deck-hand, one of those who lived in the poor quarters of the city, and as arrogant as if he were one of the nobles himself. ‘I shall see about this.’
Trevior stalked back to the quay. Dai could see him in angry conversation with Francesco. He gesticulated towards the cog, raised a fist, turned and strode about the quay before he came back to Francesco. The Venetian authorities took seriously the Crime of Speech, that intemperate, angry speech that could lead to violence, to disruption, especially amongst the nobles. This must be a serious problem, if a noble was so openly disturbed by the presence of a worker. Usually, their paths would not cross. The officials were the ones who bore the day-to-day brunt of the poor, and their anger and frustration. The nobles were out of reach. Whatever the cause, Marco Trevior was storming back to the ship, his face as black as the winter clouds over the Mawddach. Radovan was to stay: Trevior had to accept it, and there would be tension the whole of the voyage. Not good. Dai had hoped for a peaceful journey though, truth to tell, he did not like this Marco Trevior. Why, he could not say. He was a polite young man, true; brusque, but that was no fault. He was good at his job, respected as a patronus, though it was clear he was not liked. More than that, Kazan did not like him.
‘His eyes,’ she said, ‘they watch us, me and Agathi, as if we were vermin. As if he searches beneath our clothes for our skin.’
Dai was alert at once though he did not tell her why. He made sure the two young women were with them always, slept close to their men, were flanked by them, were accompanied whenever they reached land. He made her promise to stay always together with Agathi, never to stray far from himself or Twm or Giles or Edgar. What, he wondered, was the quarrel between these two men from such different backgrounds?
After that, it seemed things settled. Either that, or Radovan kept out of the way of Marco Trevior. There was only one more incident, a strange encounter between Dai and the young Croatian.
They had harboured in Spalato, with its new city centre and ancient fortified palace. It was good anchorage, and good to be on dry land. The warmth of Attaleia had long gone but this was a fine autumn day with clouds scudding before a freshening westerly. The man Radovan approached him carefully.
‘A word, sior,’ he said quietly. Dai nodded, and without speaking they both moved into the dark shadows of the harbour buildings. ‘I must speak quickly,’ the young man said. ‘Trevior always keeps watch on me. It would not look well for you to be seen with me but I must warn you.’ He looked around him, at the quiet quay. Nothing. ‘Your two women – look after them well in Venezia. This man, this noble, Trevior.’ He spat. ‘He is not to be trusted, especially where women are.’
‘This is a grave accusation.’
‘Not in Venezia. A small fine is all that is demanded, and a woman’s life is ruined, and that of her family.’
‘Tell me.’
‘We came from this town, from Spalato, my papa, mama, my sister, me. We are of a decent, hard-working family. We looked for work in Venezia. My papa, he was a carpenter, a fine craftsman, and they are much in demand. I have no such skill, though I tried hard to please my papa. Instead, I took work on board the fleet. Our plan was to invest our wages in goods. Perhaps I could have an education. Venezia was our great hope. Then that monster came. He saw my sister and lusted after her. He raped her. For such as him it is a petty offence, and the Venetian laws do nothing. If she had been a puella – a young girl – then it would have carried weight, but a young woman of marriageable age? That counts as nothing. A fine that these nobles can well afford. That is all their punishment. For us, it was dishonour. I was not there to protect her. I was away with the fleet. When I returned home my family was destroyed. My father died of grief and shame. My mother could do nothing. My sister has no chance of marriage. I am the sole wage earner and I do what I can to keep a roof over our heads.’ He gazed fiercely at Dai.
‘A terrible thing to have happened, and it’s sorry I am for your family, but there is nothing I can do,’ he said.
‘I know that. I do not ask you for anything. I only warn you. I have seen the way this man looks at your women. They are safe enough now. I have friends on this ship. We will look out for your women, and shall do what we can when we reach Venezia, but after that it is you who must keep them safe.’
‘I thank you, Radovan.’
The young man laughed without merriment. ‘You know what Radovan means?’ Dai shook his head. ‘The joyful one. This is the meaning. Someone somewhere got it wrong, I think.’
‘There is always room for faith.’ Dai grimaced. How simple-minded that sounded to the Venetian religion of money and commerce. The world of the Sufis was far away. He knew a pang of loss. He sighed. ‘An old friend of mine always says this. He looks at death but still he says there is always room for faith.’
‘I shall remember this,’ Radovan said, gravely. He looked about him again. ‘Now I must go. If he sees me talking to you he will say that I am speaking ill of Venezia and I shall be punished and you will fall under suspicion.’
‘But I am your witness.’
‘You are a foreigner.’ He paused on the point of leaving. ‘Your Kazan – she is a great marvel. We love her very much. We shall take great care of her and so must you.’
He was gone, and that was the last time Dai had speech alone with him.
Two months it had taken the fleet to sail from Attaleia to Venezia and now here they were on a damp, fog-ridden November morning, a whole month behind the usual schedule.
‘The camels are coming,’ he said, the quiet brown man, the Welshman, standing next to the girl at the rails. ‘Look there.’ Towards them came a small fleet moving spirit-like across the waters of the lagoon. ‘C
amels they’re called,’ he said. He gave the local word: cammelli. ‘They’ll cradle us, keep us buoyed up, and take us into safe harbour – flat-bottomed, see, get us across the shallow water and up the Canalazzo to the quayside of Rivo Alto.’
They turned past the island of San Giorgio, where the walls of the Benedictine monastery loomed so ominously out of the fog and the bells of the newly built campanile clanged out the morning call to prayer. It still seemed strange to the girl, these bells, and not the call of the muezzin from the giddy height of the minaret. The shadowy shape of land took form. They were entering a broad channel, the Canalazzo, which wound its way through the whole of the floating city. They had told her about it but even so she stared in amazement. ‘Where are the city walls and gates?’ she asked and the sailors chuckled, true Venetians proud of their watery empire.
‘There are none,’ Sanuto declared grandly. She had learnt their names, the little names they called each other. Sanuto’s was easy; when he smiled, and he often smiled, his teeth showed large and white in his mouth. ‘We have no need of them. The waters of the lagoon are all the walls and battlements we need. Kings and princes cannot touch us unless they come by sea and these waters have protected us from the first, by God’s will. He has preserved us so that we may live in these watery marshes. He has enabled us to raise a new and mighty Venezia.’
They had filled her head with stories of this city of miracles, talking in the harsh, fast sing-song dialect of true Venetians that was at first so difficult to understand. They told her which ships carried ballast of precious stone. ‘Venezia, she is a city born of the sea. She has no stone.’ There was pink granite and porphyry from Egypt to be used in the new buildings that were replacing the old wooden city. ‘To front the bricks,’ Rizo-the-curly-haired explained. ‘All stone is too much money and even our miraculous floating city must sink under the weight of it.’ Other stone was bought or stolen – a flash of Sanuto’s grinning teeth – from Carrara, from Verona, taken from the old buildings of the lagoon islands. Other stones were taken from the Padova hills that once used to spit fire, and these were used to pave the campi and calli in place of grass. There were even marble bridges crossing some of the canals in place of the wooden spans. ‘And some say there is to be a stone bridge across the Canalazzo, a stone bridge high enough for all ships to pass under it but I do not see how this can be.’ Zanino shrugged. ‘The bridge we have is a wonder. It is wood, true, but its middle can be raised so all sailing craft can go through and dock at the Rivo Alto quayside. That is where we shall go.’
The Heart Remembers Page 1