The Heart Remembers

by Margaret Redfern

  Dai watched her into the flat-bottomed boat that would take them up the Canalazzo and across the lagoon and up the river to Padova.

  ‘Here, sior. We must wait here for Sanuto.’

  It seemed an endless time. No moon. Night cries of birds and beasts. Reeds and canes rustling and rattling. Water. Always water. Always the salt-water air and seaweed and algae, and water trickling and murmuring and oozing between the stalks of the reeds, soaking them. Fog settled over the lagoon as it settled over Venezia, obscuring truth, creating illusion.

  ‘It is lucky there was la guerra dei pugna – the fight of the fists – today,’ Rizo said. ‘Every autumn this happens. The Castellani and the Nicolotti. You know this?’

  ‘Yes. I have seen it before.’

  Impossible not to witness these brawling battagliole if you were in Venezia any time after Lammas and before Epiphany – but nothing religious, now, about these encounters. This one had erupted out of nowhere but others were planned weeks in advance, smiled on by the Forty who doubtless saw it as a way for rivalries and dissatisfactions to be resolved. Today, a scuffle in the fish market had started it, insults exchanged, and sharp words, a blow then someone had brandished a pistolese that they called here a cow’s tongue, and one of the gondoliers raised his spiked boat pole. And suddenly chaos, disruption, baskets flying through the air, slap of fist on flesh and pushing and punching and kicking and a writhing entangled mass falling into the canal only to be replaced by other brawlers. So much noise that it brought the Council to see what was going on. From the safe shadows came a hail of stones that had, Dai supposed, been stuffed inside roomy work aprons. As if they had known, he thought suddenly, as if they had come anticipating trouble. It was in the midst of the uproar that Rizo and he had slipped quietly away. He glanced across at Rizo.

  ‘Very lucky for us it was…’ he said.

  ‘It is good sport, sior. Me, I support the Nicolotti, but most I like the dumplings and chestnuts that are for sale on the Canalazzo.’ He met Dai’s eyes with the bland look Dai was beginning to recognise. His head came up. ‘Listen!’

  A splash of oars, a low whistle, and Sanuto was with them. Not long after, they were pulling the boat on to the shore of a desolate island. Reeds, sand, little else. Sanuto whistled again. ‘Rado?’ he called softly.

  ‘Who is with you?’ The low voice came from the darkness of the reeds.

  ‘Sior Davide. We’ll explain on the way. Time to get out of here.’

  Radovan was consumed with guilt. ‘I never wanted anything like this, sior,’ he said again and again. ‘I wanted only to protect your ladies. Now Kazan will be so angry with me for putting you in this danger.’

  ‘Kazan is angry, but not with you.’ He sighed. ‘I hope she keeps her anger quiet, Rado. She wants Marco’s blood.’

  Unexpectedly, Rado said, ‘She is a wonder, your Kazan. I have never known any woman like her. So honest, such a way of looking you in the eye and yet she brings peace and harmony amongst us all. Is she safe? And your friends, sior Davide?’

  ‘I sent them away. They should be in Padova by now; setting out on the mountain journey tomorrow. Keeps them safe from questioning, doesn’t it now?’

  ‘You will join us in Padova,’ she had said and he had not replied. Let her believe that or she would never leave.Notlies, but not the truth. Was there ever truth in this place?

  Leaving. What is that? While the heart remembers, there is no leaving.

  Kazan. Çiçek’s daughter. Fynghariad. Keep safe. Go with God.

  The brown-robed brother tried to hide his amazement. He was a stunted little man with a snout of a nose. A monastery pig, thought Francesco, intent on rootling out juicy gobbets of gossip. ‘Of course, sior,’ he said smoothly. ‘Your visit will be in the strictest confidence, as you ask.’ He looked around the bare little room, chill on this morning of November fog. There was a wooden bench. He gestured to it. ‘If you care to sit, sior, I shall find the one you seek.’

  Francesco da Ginstinianis nodded impatiently. It seemed a long time before Brother Jesolo opened the door and ushered in the man he had come to speak with so early in the morning.

  ‘Not in monks robes yet, sior Thomas?’

  ‘Not yet, sior Francesco. I may need these clothes and this life a little longer, if the rumours I hear are true.’ His dark face seemed more hard-angled than ever, his dark eyes alert and watchful.

  ‘They are true. Sior Davide is to be arrested this morning.’

  ‘Accused by the so noble Marco Trevior.’

  Francesco inclined his head. ‘For plotting the assassination of said Marco Trevior and for conspiring with Pietro da Silvano to acquire the secrets of the glass-makers of Murano.’

  Tom uttered a sound of scorn. ‘And you who know him can believe Dafydd guilty of such crimes? He is falsely accused.’

  ‘The Ten will conduct the investigation. Witnesses will be questioned. Once an accusation is made, especially one so serious, you know that the law must follow due course.’ He paused. ‘As it did with the sior Pietro. You knew of his execution?’

  ‘The friars spoke of it last night but yesterday, no. That he was arrested, yes. Heinrijc Mertens sent a letter. It was waiting for us at the Bank. It was…unlooked for news. Dafydd could not believe it of sior da Silvano.’

  ‘Nor can I. He was a man my father trusted absolutely, and his nephew was a good friend of mine. Now da Silvano is dead and Guiseppe nowhere to be found. It is a sad homecoming.’

  ‘He was proved guilty beyond all doubt?’

  Francesco hesitated. ‘It must be so,’ he said at last. ‘The Ten do all in their power to investigate.’

  ‘Including torture?’

  ‘If they have to. They dislike to do so but it loosens men’s tongues.’

  ‘But not always to speak words of truth.’ Tom closed his eyes against the thought of Dafydd, his friend, arrested and imprisoned, tortured to force him to confess. Impossible. ‘He is innocent,’ he said again, ‘and that is what he will say. There are those who will speak in his defence.’

  ‘There is a problem.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Witnesses who could speak for sior Davide have vanished in the night. The sailors Rizo and Sunato cannot be found.’ He paused again, stared intently at the dark faced man in front of him. ‘Neither can sior Davide.’

  Tom stared back. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I went early to the fondaco this morning, as soon as I heard of Marco’s intentions. My father spoke with his late last night. My father, you recall, is one of the Council of Forty. It worried him. Like me, he has much respect for sior Davide. It is not perhaps correct but I wished to speak with sior Davide before the custodi came to arrest him. He was not there.’ He stared intently at Tom. The silence lengthened. Tom raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You imagine him to be here, taking refuge in the Friary? He is not. I wish he were. What news of the others?’

  ‘They left with the German merchants at the time of the Marangone. They were lucky. They left before the guerra dei pugna made travel along the Canalazzo impossible. Impossible even to walk along the fondamento when such fights take place.

  Tom grimaced. ‘He has got them out of this city. That is Dafydd. He will get his people to safety first. Then he will offer himself to the Ten.’

  ‘You are certain of this?’

  ‘Yes.’ You and your conscience, Dafydd. It will be your death. ‘I believe he has some days of Grace, according to your Venetian law, before he must give himself up.’

  Francesco da Ginstinianis nodded. ‘Normally seven but I think it may be less than this because of the seriousness of the accusations.’ He looked down at the unevenly paved floor of the small room. ‘I agree with you, sior Thomas,’ he said suddenly. ‘Sior Davide I know as a man of honour.’ He raised his head, looked Tom in the eye. ‘He would never commit an act of treason. Never.’

  Tom stared back. ‘Your sister is betrothed to Jacopo Trevior?’

  ‘Ye
s.’

  ‘Yet you put more trust in the man who is accused of attacking your family?’

  ‘They are not yet my family, sior. I say these things in confidence, you understand?’

  Tom’s eyebrow lifted again. He nodded.

  ‘My father agreed this betrothal while I was away with the fleet. I did not want it. There is bad blood in the Trevior family but they are becoming rich and my father is failing and wants his daughters settled well. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But these Trevior…I do not know, sior, if I wish my family to be so connected.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Jacopo, he is decent but weak. Marco is wild, as so many of our young nobles are wild, but I tell myself it is only the foolishness of youth.’

  ‘The truth is,’ Tom said with deliberation, ‘he rapes the nuns and the young women of the workers and considers it sport. He would rape the noble women, if he could.’

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘The monks. It is known in the city. The sailors Radovan and Rizo and Sanuto.’ He flung the names in the face of the man. ‘They know the truth but dare not speak out against him. They protected our Kazan and Agathi on our journey here. Radovan told Dafydd of the rape of his sister. He urged him to protect our women. This is the truth of the conversations between Radovan and Dafydd. We did not tell Agathi and Kazan. It was enough for them that they were two women alone on the ship.’ He thought a moment. ‘Kazan did not like Marco Trevior. She is an innocent. She did not know why.’

  Da Ginstinianis was silent. Tom waited. At last da Ginstinianis said, ‘Sior Davide must be proved innocent.’

  ‘Yes. And returned to his home and sior Heinrijc Mertens who loves him as a father does a son.’

  ‘What can we do, sior Thomas?’

  ‘I do not know, sior Francesco. We must stand as witness but we need more than that.’

  ‘We must find him. These friars – they would give witness?’

  ‘Perhaps. They know the monasteries and nunneries raided by Marco and his friends. But this is seen as a minor crime by your Venetian law.’ Tom turned impatiently in the small room. He strode to the door, not even head height, and leaned against its frame looking towards the main door of the Friary, closed on the street beyond. Faintly came the city sounds of cartwheels grating and mules’ hooves clopping on stone; snorting, marauding pigs; the hoarse shouts of traders and workers. Overhead were wheeling, screeching gulls and clamorous pigeons in a sky that was steadily darkening. More rain, more fog. In the distant mountains, there would be snow. He hoped Giles had the sense to provide them all with furs for the journey. The cloaks they had were well enough for a summer journey, even the autumn chill, but not for the bitter cold of a winter journey through the mountain passes. What it must have cost Dafydd to let them go with only Giles to protect them. Edgar would do his best but he was no swordsman, not after monastery life. Then there was the danger of rock falls, avalanche, wolves and bears, snow storms, robbers…and here he was, safe in the friary, a new life of peaceful reflection ahead of him. No. He needed these clothes and this life a little while longer. He turned. ‘He sent Rémi back to the fondaco yesterday afternoon. Dafydd intended going to the island of Murano to find out what news he could of da Silvano.’ How he wished he could have spoken with Dafydd last night. ‘He must have discovered something to send him into hiding and the rest to safety.’

  ‘Then we should go there as well.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Of course. I am known. You are a stranger.’

  Tom nodded. ‘I should be glad of your company.’ He looked at the sad-faced Venetian. ‘They looked so happy and beautiful in their new finery. I haven’t thanked you for that.’

  Francesco sighed. ‘I saw them. As you say, very beautiful.’ His mouth lifted. ‘I think perhaps Kazan was not so comfortable. I think she would prefer her peasant clothes.’

  Tom’s face softened. ‘I am sure of it.’

  ‘She is…’ The Venetian hesitated. ‘Unusual,’ he said at last.

  ‘She was brought up by a Christian grandmother who made her home with one of the yürük tribes.’ Tom saw Francesco’s startled expression.

  ‘But she has an English grandfather?’

  ‘She has – none other than Will-the-Wordmaker. You have heard of him?’

  ‘I have heard him! Many years ago now when I was a small boy.’ The man had magic in his voice, he remembered; young and old alike listened open-mouthed with wonder.

  ‘The brothers told me he knew sior Giotto – and that sior Giotto painted his likeness in one of the chapels in Padova. She was so excited when I told her. She would have had me go with them just to see her grandfather’s image.’

  ‘But you would not?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘I believed my life was here.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It is still here, until Dafydd is proved innocent. When do we go to Murano?’

  ‘As soon as you are free to go.’

  ‘I am free now.’

  Rizo stared at him in horror. ‘Sior Davide, if you give yourself up it will be your death.’

  ‘You are safe here,’ Rado said. ‘It is outside the city boundaries.’

  They were huddled in the small space of a mud-and-reed cottage on the marshes of the Venuto. A hearth in the centre of the room puthered thick, choking smoke but it was warm, steaming their sodden clothes to dryness, and the pot balanced over the fire bubbled promisingly. Eels were easy come by in these marshes.

  Eels: Fenland fodder. Years ago, another life it was. Taid had told him of the Fenland eels, long before ever it was he met Blue. Taid heard it from the young boy, from Will, see, who grew up and became the Wordmaker in search of his lost brother. Taid it was who told him the story of the man who filched eels from the Abbot’s own fishery and who was with Will on the long walk from Lloegr to Cymru to build castles for the first Edward. Who, that first night in strange places, brought out a wad of dried eels and how it brought to them all the smell of home, the far off land. What was it that brought home to his mind the bright citadel land, the country of Dafydd where Welsh freely flows? A buzzard wheeling over the Mawddach? Black storm clouds piling higher and higher, sweeping in from the western sea? The smell of damp earth and moss and perfume of blossom and the flowers of spring bright to the eye – daffodils and celandines and burning gorse? Or was it blackened buildings with no roof, ruined by fire and desolation? A hearth with no light, no candle, no songs? An old man’s gaunt face and ruined body, starving himself to death for the sake of his grandson?

  Rado’s mother smiled toothily, free now of anxiety. Her son was safe, her daughter promised to this curly-haired sailor; best of all, they had left the sea-city that had killed her husband and all but destroyed her son and daughter. ‘You must stay, sior Davide,’ she said, awkwardly. Her language was that of Spalato. She had never mastered the harsh, sing-song Venetian.

  ‘I must go back,’ Dai said. ‘To prove my innocence and that of sior da Silvano.’

  ‘But he is dead. What does it matter to him?’ Rizo was above all a practical man who had learnt the art of staying alive.

  ‘It matters. And there is his nephew to consider. He has lost his inheritance and the good name of the family as well as his freedom.’

  ‘And you say you know where to find him?’

  ‘I have spoken with him and promised to return. If I can borrow your boat, Sanuto, I shall make sure of its safe return.’

  ‘I shall come with you, sior Davide.’

  Dai shook his head. ‘Best not. No need to risk your neck, is there now?’

  The old beggar was sleeping. He was curled against the pillar in his usual place, his ragged cloak huddled about him, the hood pulled forward over his face. ‘Wake up, old man,’ said the youth. He shook the old beggar by the shoulder. ‘Come on, wake up. Here’s a man wants to talk with you.’ He stopped, stared. Something was not right. When he let go of the old man’s
shoulder, he slithered to the ground. The hood fell back. ‘May God and his Son and all the saints protect us.’ The youth crossed himself. The old beggar was dead, his throat sliced open. Where he had leaned against the wall were blood smears. Now that he was disturbed the youth saw he was lying in a congealed pool of his own blood, thick and black. The youth gasped for breath. ‘He’s dead. Murdered.’ He turned to the man behind him. ‘See for yourself.’

  Dai stared thoughtfully at the dead beggar, at the wrinkled, sunken face, short grey hair and stubbled jowls. If he pulled back the cloak, looked at the man’s hands, he knew they would be weathered and gnarled, not young and supple.

  ‘Strange, to murder a beggar,’ he murmured. ‘What has he to give?’

  The youth was looking more closely. ‘But this is old Tonso,’ he said. ‘This is not his usual place.’

  ‘Who is here, usually?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He has not been here long. He came from across the water, I think.’ He gestured in the direction of Venezia. ‘Perhaps he has killed the old man.’

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘To take his place back again.’

  ‘Why leave the body?’ The youth was silent, taking in this idea. ‘You must tell the custodi. I shall light a candle for this poor old man. Go now.’

  He watched the youth out of sight. He looked about him. The street was quiet. If anyone was following, watching, they would be hidden in the shadows. He moved quietly towards the basilica. Inside, he walked towards an altar in a side chapel where he had talked the previous day with the old beggar with the young arms and hands. He knelt before the altar and rested his head in his hands. A whisper came from the shadows behind the altar.

  ‘You have come back.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s you should be dead, Guiseppe da Silvano, not that poor devil of a beggar.’

  ‘I saw what they did to him.’

  ‘You saw who committed the murder?’

  ‘Yes. I do not know them but I have seen them before. They are the ones who have threatened the workers of Murano.’ He shrugged. ‘They are hired killers. It is the ones who give the orders who have done this.’