They rode on to the protective moat and wall that surrounded the hall and its service buildings; on to the gatehouse. The stout wooden doors were open and through them Edgar could see the stone-built hall with its high roof rearing over all the other buildings. It was oak-shingled, not the thatch he had expected to see. And there was new stone-build, halted now until the spring, the last courses of stone protected against ice and snow. From the look of it, the hall house would be doubled in size.
There was great activity in the courtyard and he remembered that Epiphany was only just past. Horses, sweating and steaming in the chill winter afternoon, grooms at their heads, and hounds, wet and panting after a day’s hunting. A group of young men was disappearing into the open door of the hall and their voices came cheerfully on the air. There must be guests here still. A man-at-arms stood to attention.
‘Is the master home?’ Edgar asked.
‘He is.’
‘Tell him Edgar, his youngest son, is come home with his wife and asks for shelter.’
The man looked perplexed. ‘His youngest son, sir? It must be the old master you speak of. He’s been dead nigh on these last two years. It’s his son Alfred who’s squire now.’
‘My father is dead?’
Agathi grasped his hand. She had barely understood the man’s speech but Edgar’s words were clear to her.
‘Aye, sir. I’m sorry it’s news to you. Shall I tell the master you’re here?’
‘Yes…yes…tell him.’ Edgar looked at the man again. ‘I don’t remember you.’
‘No sir. I came with the mistress, sir. With the Lady Philippa.’
‘Lady Philippa?’
‘Yes sir. Lady Philippa. The squire’s wife.’
More changes than he had anticipated, Edgar thought. He squeezed Agathi’s hand. ‘My brother is the new squire and it seems he is married.’
It was a happy meeting with his brothers. Both brothers, for Eric was here as well with his family. A seven-years-older Eric, married and the father of three clamouring children, but the same cheerful, careless Eric of his boyhood, boisterously overjoyed to see his youngest brother again – and a married man! ‘A pretty wife indeed – worth running away from monkhood, hey, Edgar?’ Alfred frowned at the reference to his youngest brother’s past and hushed his tongue-tripping younger brother, but Eric laughed loudly and hugged Edgar to him again and again. ‘We searched for you all over,’ he said, ‘when they brought the news you’d flown the cage. Not a sign! Not a whisper of a rumour! Father was gnashing his teeth and pulling his hair out – wasn’t he, brother? You must tell us how you were spirited away. What stories you must have to tell, hey?’
‘But not in company,’ Alfred said, austerely. ‘Edgar’s story is for the family only.’
‘Hey, long-mouth, you never used to be such a dull dog.’
‘I am Lord of the Manor now, Eric, and have a position to keep.’
‘Well, you kept your position with magnificence these past fifteen days and nights.’ Eric was unabashed. He said to Edgar, ‘He promised Matty and me all the feasting and carousing we could wish for. Nothing like the old days. Father must be burning in hellfire at such profligacy! The best food, the best wines, the best company; music and dancing and games; hunting and a tournament, Edgar!’
It was the custom at his father-in-law’s manor, said Alfred. His wife had determined to introduce the custom here at Rochby, though it was not as grand as her father’s. ‘I think it was successful.’
‘To be sure, we had a good day of it. A pity you couldn’t secure that dancing bear for your guests.’ Eric’s eyes were blue, like Edgar’s, though lighter, and mischief sparkled in the glance he flickered towards his younger brother. ‘My daughters had high hopes of seeing a cavorting bear. But we had sport enough with the guests. You couldn’t move without bumping into priors and chaplains come from over three counties.’ He would save ’til they were alone the titbit that not an archbishop nor a bishop swelled the number of guests. Plenty of minor knights and squires and their ladies, to be sure, with greedy eyes on the tasty morsels set before them, but no one of real importance. City reeves, sergeants-of-arms, merchants and franklins, gentlemen and gentlewomen of the same standing. ‘We had trumpets announce each course, and pipes and rotas, and a whole choir of cherubs. Still, you’ll see for yourself at supper, brother. Where is that magnificent wife of yours, Alfred? And mine, come to that? I thought they’d be here by now to greet these new guests. Matty!’ he yelled, and to a passing servant, ‘Find that wife of mine and tell her – no, request her – to come here to me. There’s a surprise waiting here for her.’ He was grinning like the boy he used to be. ‘Philippa tells me proper husbands must request, not command.’
A plump-cheeked, smiling woman arrived in the hall, two young girls following her on short, stubby legs. Eric’s wife was a plain girl but serenely good-natured. ‘What’s to do now, husband, with your “request”?’ You are as demanding as your son!’ She was shaking her head at him, not deceived by the words of the message. Then she saw the golden-haired man standing there, a beautiful, slim girl next to him, silver-blonde hair shining in the light from the sconces and candles. ‘Edgar! Is it really you? Are you come back to us?’ She rushed at him, her arms flung round his waist, hugging him to her, laughing with joy. ‘Eric has worried so much about you! You naughty boy, Edgar, to torment us so. Not a word from you for years, and now you arrive here and we must leave tomorrow! This is not well done, my brother.’ She turned to Agathi. ‘And welcome to you, my dear.’
‘This is Agathi, my wife.’
‘Your wife! Now you bring us a wife! A sister for us!’ She clasped bewildered Agathi to her, kissed each cheek. Edgar said to Agathi, in Turkish, ‘My brother Eric’s wife, Matilda. As mad as he is, and as generous.’
‘But your wife does not speak our language?’
‘A little,’ Agathi said in her careful French. ‘I can understand if you speak slowly. And Edgar helps me.’
‘I’m sure Eric has been chittering on like crickets in summer.’ She used the local word, Edgar noted: chittering. He remembered her as a no-nonsense girl, honest and loving. Blue would like her, he thought suddenly, and his heart lifted. He smiled at the two little girls standing by her side, thumbs in wondering mouths, hands clutching their mother’s skirts. ‘And these dwts, these are your daughters?’ He used the Welsh word without thinking.
‘Dots, Edgar?’
He laughed, shrugged, exchanged glances with Agathi.
‘A friend of ours,’ she explained, ‘he says such words. It means “little one”. We have another friend who comes from your fen land. He would say “recklins”, I think.’
Eric laughed in his loud, infectious way. ‘May’appen,’ he said, ‘but more likely “bairns”. Yes, these are my two tiny tormenters. My little recklins. Little Matty, named for her mother, and Margaret, named for her grandmother, though we never call you that, do we, sweetheart? It’s Greta.’
Two girls and, at last, a longed-for son, though Eric loved his daughters as much as he loved his infant son, and he beamed on the girls as they romped about the hall though Matilda frowned and chastised them and said they were not fit to be in polite company. Edgar heard his brother say to his wife, very quietly, for her alone: ‘Tomorrow, sweetheart, we shall be in our own home. Have courage.’
Into the clamour swept Philippa, Alfred’s wife, and she was magnificent. Some years older than Alfred, she was a tall, thin woman with a proud bearing, a beak of a nose and pursed lips that mouthed words of welcome. She was dressed richly, in high fashion. Elizabeta da Ginstinianis, Edgar found himself thinking and, after that, he silently thanked Heinrijc Mertens for the gifts of clothes he had made to Agathi. She would have need of them here where such things mattered as much as they had in Venezia. One thing good about his father, Edgar thought, he had cared little for social advancement. Land, yes, and profit, but he was a fair lord, if cheese-paring. Make do and mend, he said; look after the pennies
and the groats would take care of themselves. Alfred had made a good marriage, if you counted lands and riches. He had married the daughter of a southern lord of good birth and with several profitable manors in the southern counties. Alfred was fortunate to have secured her as his bride, though she was some years older. ‘Our fathers worked hard for this,’ he told Edgar later that evening. ‘With our joint lands, we can plan for a profitable future. We are to be at war with France, it’s rumoured, and that gives me the opportunity to be recognised at court. This is a great time.’
Edgar remembered Heinrijc Mertens’ resigned acceptance of war and death and destitution. A great time? He said nothing.
He tried to be generous but it seemed to him that the Lady Philippa was proud and haughty and had nothing but contempt for these cold, north lands and countrymen. Contempt, as well, for the returned brother, the runaway. Worse, she showed her contempt for Agathi. She smiled, true, but there was ice in her smiles, and icicles dangled from her lips when she spoke. She cast her eyes up and down the fashionable winter gown Agathi wore but her only comment was, ‘Now so many of our guests have left us, we are few women here, and tonight we dine in the new chamber that has been built for our use. You will join us there for tonight’s meal.’
‘Philippa, of course you won’t!’ exclaimed Eric. ‘What? Our brother and his wife just arrived, he long absent and she a stranger to us? And you say we don’t all eat together in the hall? Alfred, tell her this can’t be!’
Alfred winced. He forced a smile at his wife. ‘Indeed, my dear, I think it would be thought more fitting by all if you women joined us in the great hall tonight.’
Philippa inclined her head. ‘As you wish, husband.’ To Agathi she said, ‘Perhaps you do not have appropriate dress for tonight? Perhaps I may help you?’
Agathi said, ‘There is a gown in the baggage. I think it will be adequate.’ To Edgar, later, she said, ‘This one is so much like Elizabeta da Ginstinianis. I like your brother Eric’s wife more.’
‘So do I, sweetheart. I’m afraid we have an ordeal ahead of us tonight.’
Agathi smiled. ‘Worse than the donkey Veçdet and Big Aziz?’
‘Same but different,’ said Edgar.
Trestle tables were set out, with the top table raised on a dais. ‘Father didn’t bother with a raised top table but Philippa considers it of utmost importance,’ Alfred told him. ‘It is what she was used to in her father’s house. You will join us there. The prior had to leave this morning but we have his chaplain still with us, and Lord Geoffrey of Irnham has condescended to join us tonight. We have knights and masters-at-arms still with us. My mareschal is supervising, as you see.’ He waved a hand towards the harassed man instructing his men to turn out the dogs. ‘We have a groom of the hall who should,’ he frowned, ‘have tended the fire long ago. Why this delay, man?’ he shouted, and the groom cringed and hurried to the hearth in the centre of the hall. ‘Philippa would like to have a wall hearth built into the side wall,’ Alfred said, ‘but there is so much building work going on elsewhere she has agreed to wait a while. Besides,’ he added wistfully, ‘I like a central hearth. It is very cheering.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Edgar,’ he said, and stopped. Now what, thought Edgar. He waited. ‘Philippa – my wife – she likes everything to be correct. Her family, you know. Everything of the most tasteful.’
‘Speak out, Alfred. What’s the problem? Your runaway, renegade brother? Be assured, I shall make my peace with the good brothers of Croyland.’
‘Not that, though of course tongues will wag.’ The thought of wagging tongues tightened his mouth. He started again. ‘Actually, we wondered – Philippa wondered.’ He stopped again. ‘Your wife, is she Christian or…’
Edgar smiled politely. ‘Or…?’ he prompted, and watched Alfred’s face mottle with deep purplish red embarrassment.
‘It’s the blessing, you see, at the start of the meal. And the prayers at the end of it. And,’ he continued desperately, ‘mass tomorrow morning. Philippa means only kindness.’
‘Calm yourself, Alfred. Inform your wife that mine is a good Christian. A Greek Christian, but Christian for all that. She’s no heathen infidel.’ He saw the relief in Alfred’s face. What would he think if he knew that beneath Edgar’s calm words lay burning anger? What would he think if he knew that Edgar counted amongst his friends Muslim and Christian alike? Aye, Jews as well.
The wall behind the top table was hung with a splendid wall hanging, rich with red and black colour, and run through with gold thread. ‘We had it put up for Christmas but it must be taken down tomorrow,’ said Alfred. ‘It’s too precious to be ruined by fire smoke.’ The gold thread gleamed in the light from the sconces that flanked the wall hanging. Edgar looked again: not the wrought-iron sconces he remembered, forged long ago by Jack-Smith. These were beautifully crafted pieces, engraved and tooled in gilt copper; the four evangelists, seated, leaning slightly forward, holding a writing tool, about to scribe, it seemed, words spoken by the Holy Spirit. The evangelists were paired, so that St Luke solemnly regarded St Mark, and St Matthew stared at St John, from either side of the wall hanging. The twelve apostles sat facing towards them along the adjacent walls.
‘Very fine, aren’t they,’ Alfred said complacently. ‘A gift from Philippa’s father. He – er – rescued them from a ruinous French church. Ancient craftsmanship – just look at the detailing of hair and beard. I assumed we would gift them to our church but Philippa said they might have been made for this hall. Their presence would remind us to thank the good God and his Son Jesus, especially at meal times. And the ones father had Jack-Smith make, well, they were rather crude, weren’t they? He always was one for penny-catching.’
‘What’s become of Jack Smith? When we passed the smithy there was a stranger working there.’
Alfred scratched his nose, embarrassed. ‘Philippa took a dislike to him. Said he was rude and bumptious – and he was, Edgar. You know he was.’
‘An honest man for all that, and a good smith. What happened?’
‘She had him turned off. Her father sent a smith from one of his manors, a far more civil churl.’
‘But is he as good a smith?’
Alfred didn’t answer. The servants had arrived with ewers of water, towels draped over their left shoulders; time for those at the top table to wash their hands.
The trestles were set with pewter at the top table; wooden trenchers elsewhere, thick slices of bread set to the left. Now that the great feasting of Christmas and Epiphany was over, there was no trumpet announcement, and Eric mouthed his disappointment but with such a glint in his eyes that Edgar had to turn away. The Marshall of the Hall was much in evidence, and there was a yeoman usher, and gentlemen of the hall serving on them. ‘Though they are mostly sons from the other side of the blanket,’ Eric murmured in his ear. Edgar tried not to laugh: he concentrated on pottage that had been set down before them. It was boar in a sweet and sour stew redolent with ginger and cloves and cinnamon, almonds and currants, sweetened with honey and sharpened with red wine vinegar. Edgar dipped his spoon in to the communal bowl, careful not to overfill it. Shame on him if he spilt any and soiled the tablecloth.
The pottage was removed, spoons wiped clean with a morsel of bread and the bread eaten. ‘Tell your stomach to prepare itself,’ murmured Eric. ‘The meal is only just begun.’ Roast haunch of venison was set down before them, sprinkled with salt and cinnamon; a capon with a sauce of sprinkled verjuice; the wing of plover with a camelyne sauce; roast rabbit; baked eel…the dishes went on and on, into the next course, and he thought of the simple food served in the hans, where all ate together regardless of rank, right hand only, because to use the left was a great impoliteness. There, the company was ranged around a communal serving board. No status there, no false pride. He remembered Dafydd’s pleasure in the meal, and how he had been starved when he was a child. He remembered how Agathi had told him of the slaves’ meagre food, how they were always hungry. He wondered what she thought
of such excess, so much flesh and fish. There was a monstrously ornate salt cellar prominently displayed, and a silver boat-shaped dole vessel ready for the uneaten food that would be passed on to the poor.
Here, dining daggers were used to slice a bite-sized piece of meat and then its greasy blade was set down on the trencher to keep the tablecloth clean. Thumb and two forefingers of the right hand to raise the pieces up to the lips. A little salt taken on the point of the knife and placed on the trencher. He had all but forgotten the protocol. He looked towards Agathi and saw she was delicately raising a morsel to her lips. She was calm and quiet as always. Then he looked again. Her gaze was fixed downwards, at the table, but he saw the way her lips twitched. She was struggling to stay solemn. He wanted to laugh and cram his mouth with gobbets of meat and behave badly here in his brother’s so-polite hall. But he didn’t. Eric tried to catch his eye once more. Edgar smiled blandly at him and sliced another morsel of venison.
He thought about his brothers, and their welcome. They had thought him dead, and now he was alive and returned to them, but no prodigal: he had come from the east with pennies in his pocket, and a beautiful Greek Christian bride and, thanks be to Heinrijc Mertens, a dowry for his wife. He was no longer the timid youngest brother but a man, with a man’s experience. For reasons he could not explain to himself, Edgar did not tell them the extent of his wealth, nor of his new sword-fighting skills, though he would never be as expert as Giles or Thomas or Dafydd. Nor did he tell them how Agathi had been captured as a slave to be sold to the highest bidder. He did not think his brothers would understand. The masterful Philippa would never understand. When he told the story of their journey through Anatolia and down the mountains to Attaleia, he was careful to keep Agathi’s story from them. But he told them of Kazan, the boy-girl who had joined their caravan, the expert rider and archer who had fooled them all until the terrible avalanche that killed good Asperto and injured Kazan.
The Heart Remembers Page 9