‘And then you found out he – she – was a girl after all?’ Eric was open-mouthed.
‘Yes, but Dai had always known. He helped her.’
‘That is most unusual,’ Philippa said.
‘She’s an unusual girl,’ said Edgar.
‘She is our sister and our very dear friend,’ said Agathi, unexpectedly bold. ‘We wish she were here with us now. We miss her, and all of our dear friends.’
‘She is coming to England? To Lincolnshire?’
‘In search of her grandfather, the storyteller, Will-the-Wordmaker. Perhaps you have heard of him? He is a Lincolnshire man.’
‘Heard of him? Of course we’ve heard of him! He’s well known in these parts. Or he was. He’s dead, Edgar. Word is, he died this winter, out on the Fens. They found him frozen stiff in the morning mists. Your Kazan has a wasted journey.’
Edgar shut his eyes in agony for the bright girl he knew. Her grandfather dead. And Dafydd? Only God knew what had happened to him. The poor girl. Poor Kazan, bright warrior, bright star. He hoped Giles was with her still. He prayed for Dafydd’s safe return. Agathi wept. ‘But she will come to us, husband, wherever we may be. She will find us.’
Later still, in the new, quiet chamber that had been built for the family’s use, he spoke with his eldest brother.
‘Our father was adamant to the end,’ Alfred told him. ‘You were dead to him. We are sorry for it, Edgar, but so it is.’
And so it was. Foolish to hope for more. When had his father ever spared a thought for him, the youngest son? He dared the question that was tormenting him.
‘How did he die, brother?’
Alfred sighed, gustily. ‘Nothing to do with you, Edgar, be sure of that, though he was much afflicted by your flight. No, this was a hunting accident late in the year. We were all there, Philippa as well. It was a grand chase but suddenly Oswald stumbled – you remember his black stallion? Father was thrown headlong. He was badly injured; he lingered for some days in great pain and the doctors said there was nothing that could be done only give him poppy to ease his suffering. Tell truth, it was a relief when he died. We had the horse slaughtered, of course.’
Why ‘of course’, wondered Edgar. The horse had done no wrong. His father was a stern man who could not love him but who was, after all, a man who cared for his people and lavished love on sturdy black Oswald. He was a man who had died in agony. That must surely be cause for grieving; and grieve he did, standing in the chancel of the church before his father’s tomb. His effigy was life-sized, the stone and paint still glaringly new-worked. A pillow supported his head held up by angels. His feet were supported by a dog and a lion. Next to it was Edgar’s mother, another life-sized effigy though the years had softened and deepened the colours on the stone. Hand-to-hand, palm-to-palm in eternal prayer. Had she really looked like this? He didn’t know, had never known. It was a thing not talked of.
Outside, grey mist settled on the manor, snow quietly falling on deeper snow.
The next day brought worrying news. Mass was done and they were in the courtyard bidding the guests farewell when a messenger arrived from Bradwell Manor. Bedraggled horse, bedraggled rider, both exhausted by their frantic journey to bring dire news. ‘I didn’t expect trouble from there,’ Alfred said. He was shocked. ‘Philippa insisted I set up a reeve of her own choosing there, one of her father’s men. He is totally dependable.’
But there was a serious problem: the reeve had been found dead in the icy pond the day after Epiphany. Not found till the morning because of the festivities. Everything pointed to unnatural death, said Alfred. To murder. And the murderer? Cedric, hayward and pinder, had accused a villein called Bernt who, he said, had good cause to hate John Reeve. Bernt had been robbing the copses of good timber. Cedric had seen that underwood was cut from elm and maple and hornbeam. He had reason to believe Bernt had plans to fell two of the full-grown black poplars that had been marked out as timber for the new building work here at the Home Manor. The reeve, honest man that he was, had found it out and had saved the trees. Now, John Reeve was dead. Bernt was stubborn and silent but Cedric had arrested him, and confined him in the narrow cell in the undercroft. ‘It’s a plaäce with a great-big oak door and a listy lock John Reeve had made to saäfen the valuable stores, maäster. Now it keeps Bernt kibbled an’all. Cedric said I was to stuttle mesen and ride here fast as I could, even though there wasn’t a glimmer o’ daylight, because yer’d be wanting to know straight off.’ The man stopped for breath. He daren’t say how frightened he had been, riding alone through the dark; his fear of dead and living alike, especially the wild gangs that haunted the High Dyke road; relief when the first pale light glimmered in the eastern sky; his gladness when he reached Rochby, even though he had no good news to bring.
‘You’ve done well,’ Alfred told him, and the messenger heaved a great sigh.
‘But what a time to bring such news!’ Alfred fumed. The messenger had been sent to the kitchens, the horse to the stables, both to be given fodder. Eric and his family were long gone. Alfred had spoken with Philippa privately for some time; an altercation, it seemed. Edgar heard Philippa’s voice raised: ‘You are a fool. You owe nothing, husband.’ Alfred’s answer was inaudible but Philippa snorted with contempt. In the end, she had swept Agathi away to the new private solar.
The brothers sat together in a window embrasure in the hall. ‘I have not the time now to go to Bradwell. I wish to God I had listened to Philippa and got rid of the manor! Leased it at least! There’ve been poor enough returns these past two years.’ He gritted his teeth, sucked in angry breath. ‘We plan to remove to her father’s manor when he dies, and leave this wretched northern holding. Oh, I’ll set a reeve in charge but I’ll be glad to leave this place. Nothing but misery after mother died. Before that, it was a happy home. She was beautiful and joyful – but you won’t remember that. She died giving birth to you.’ For a moment, Edgar was reminded of his father’s anger, then Alfred was sighing and brushing aside his bad temper. ‘Not your fault, brother,’ he said, but Edgar was sure that Alfred thought that it was. His brother was frowning, thinking. ‘There are problems, Edgar, serious problems, but I think you are the man to resolve them.’
‘Me?’ Edgar said, startled.
Alfred nodded. ‘I must stay here at Rochby. Plough Monday’s come, and though the reeve here is an excellent man, I like to be on hand; see all are back to work. After all, I am in authority here now. I have other plans that I hope will serve Rochby well: I intend calling on the retainers for fighting service. Father insisted on paying retainment service to gentlemen only, and I have kept to this. With my riding household, I can muster a good number of fighting men to serve our young King Edward. The young men here, our guests, will be part of that. The tournament was only a beginning.’ He smiled, anticipating reward. What a king to serve! Youth, vitality, so handsome that women adored him. Such an athlete, such prowess at the tournament; a hunter, whether boar or venison; falconry, fishing…was there no end to this king’s virtues? And best of all he valued valour and virtue, not birth. Now there was Edward’s courageous determination to confront Philip of France for what was rightfully his…if, Alfred thought, he served loyally, and with courage, surely he should be rewarded?
‘I need someone to go as proxy to Bradwell, and immediately. Edgar, I ask you to be that person. Would you become the reeve of the manor at Bradwell? With the old reeve dead, the manor is much in need of care. Tell the truth, it is Philippa’s idea. She has a clever head, my wife.’ He glanced sideways at his brother. ‘But perhaps you do not care to take on such a role?’
Edgar wryly acknowledged that this brother of his would not gift him a manor, not even a small, unprofitable manor that he wanted to be rid of. Alfred was his father’s son, and money and land mattered more than anything. Maybe, Edgar thought, he could lease the manor later, after these problem times – maybe buy it. For now, it was enough to be reeve and discover what was amiss. But was he really the
man to resolve these problems? Dai was the man for that, and Dai was only the good God knew where. Venezia? Escaped? Worse than all, was he captured and convicted of crimes he had not committed, condemned to death like the unfortunate innocent glassmaker of Murano?
It was a heavy start to a new life in England.
‘You must discover the truth, Edgar, and bring the murderer to justice. Perhaps this thief Bernt is the murderer. It seems likely. The sokemen are loyal enough, and bound to the land.’
‘Not free men?’ Edgar was surprised. He had always supposed they were.
‘Not entirely. They are bound to give us fifty-five days’ work each year. It suits us better that way. However, there are only six families to help stave off the threat of revolt amongst the villeins.’ He shrugged at Edgar’s surprise. ‘I told you, the manor is much reduced in lands and in tenants. As for the villeins, they must be kept well under the thumb. Find the murderer, bring him to justice, and the manor will once again be productive.’
‘Have you considered making your villeins freemen?’ Edgar asked. ‘Free men, with a share of the land?’
Alfred snorted with derision. Where was the economy in giving freedom and a parcel of land to ten rebellious villeins and their families?
‘They would work all the harder,’ Edgar said, ‘if they were working for their own livelihood. There would be no opportunity for rebellion, and no cause. And hard work it must be, if this manor is as hard-set as you say, and must recover.’ He did not say that he disliked the idea of serfs. They had rights under the law, true, but they were bound men for all that, and therefore little better than slaves. His head swam with memories of the lakeside at Beyşehir in the high plateau of Anatolia where he had first seen Agathi, pale and wretched slave, but so beautiful she had stolen away his breath and his heart. Slave through no fault of her own but taken by force. These villeins were bound to their lords through no fault of their own.
‘Is that what the monks taught you, little brother?’ Alfred asked. ‘Make all men equal? Where is the wisdom in that? God decrees order. Each man in his place if we are to keep the country secure. Every right-thinking man knows this.’ When Edgar didn’t answer, he continued: ‘The tenants – the sokemen – would not think kindly of land being handed out willy-nilly to wretched villeins. Then we’d have a different rebellion on our hands. Or hadn’t you thought of that? Maybe you’ll think differently once you’ve seen it, brother.’
7
Attaleia
February 1337
I am not permanent here; I came here to leave…
(Yunus Emre, 14thC)
Winter voyages were hard come by but there was a man who said there were passages to be had. ‘An Arab ship, efendi. Perhaps your Christian friend does not like this?’ He was a small, wiry, dark man from the countries east of Anatolia.
‘Muslim, Christian, it’s all the same to us. And to the Mevlana,’ Mehmi added.
‘The Mevlana?’
Mehmi’s thin, fine-boned face was lit by his smile. ‘My father was a fervent believer in the wisdom of Jalal al Din Rumi, the Mevlana, who is buried in Konya. Many people from my country are followers of the Mevlana. My Christian friends also honour him, and find comfort in his words.’
The man’s face brightened. ‘This is good to hear. I know of the Mevlana. My wife is from Urgüp where people carve their houses out of the rock itself. Her father was a follower of Jalal al Din Rumi, and his father before him.’ He was himself a devout believer in Allah and his prophet Mohammed, and followed the Shi’a way of Islam, and a line of Imams appointed by the Prophet Muhammad himself. Or by Allah. Not elected leaders, as the Sunni would have it. As the captain of the ship believed. No, when the Great Prophet died, leadership should have passed directly to his cousin. But in the end, all Muslims were brothers who shared the same faith. ‘There are berths, efendi, for you and your friends, and the captain will make the hanım efendi comfortable.’
‘We thank you, brother.’
A winter voyage. Mehmi wondered if the Fenman was crazy after all, as Thomas had said. And to risk their lives in the winter weather was the desperate act of a crazy fool. But there was Blue’s woman, Hatice, once a slave, now turned driver whipping him on, and the boy Niko just as eager, just as crazy. As if, thought Mehmi, time were the enemy. And maybe it was. May’appen, as the Fenman would say. Enemy to him whose father was dead, his beloved father, none better. What should Mehmi do now but travel on, take time as it chanced? These friends of his, friends who longed for their companions, he would join them. After all, they were his friends as well, his good friends, born out of conflict and trouble and trust and loyalty. It would be a blessing to be with all their good company again, even if it were in the dark, cold country beyond the holy land of Islam. He wondered what the golden girl was doing, the sharp, bright warrior Kazan. And Dafydd, the quiet brown dangerous man his father had loved as a man loves his son; and Dafydd in his turn had loved Kara Kemal as if he had been his own father, with no difference of race or religion or blood. Dafydd, his brother-in-love, who did not know of their father’s death.
‘Tomorrow, then, efendi. Be early. The ship sails at dawn and the captain is a man who likes all to be ready before time. The weather-wise men say there should be a calm voyage for some days at least, and he wishes to take advantage of this.’
‘We shall be there. Early, tell him.’
Another leave-taking, except that this time Sakoura and his wife stood on the quay and the four of them, Blue, Hatice, Mehmi, Niko, were the ones to stand on the swaying deck of the ship watching the figures grow smaller and smaller on the quayside until they were swallowed up into blue distance.
It was a baghlah, with lateen-set sails. ‘A mule,’ Mehmi told them. ‘That is what baghlah means in their language.’ It was a deep-sea dhow, and heavy enough to need a crew of thirty. He prayed this mule would be stubborn enough to kick against the winter storms. But now, the weather was set fair and soon the sun would break through the early morning mist and light the sea in dazzling, glinting flashes of silver and blue and green. This was how he was leaving his country of nineteen summers in search of the friends he had found on that journey through the high places of Anatolia.
8
Bradwell Manor, Lincolnshire
February 1337
Wind sharp, hillside bleak, hard to win shelter;
Ford is impassable, lake is frozen;
A man may near stand on one stalk of grass.
(Anon: 10th-11thC)
The low sun was dropping fast behind a cover of dark cloud. Time they downed tools and got back to the village. Light enough to see by still, but a day’s work was a day’s work, and the men had worked with a will. Darkening land below, dark rim of cloud above and, between, like a strip of bright ribbon, the orange-golden glow of the setting sun. A spinney of thorns was outlined in black against the brightness, as clear as if it had been drawn by Brother Hibald, the best of the Croyland scribes. A shift in the cloud and the round orange-gold sun appeared, pouring its rays through the cloud gap; no warmth in it but no smell of snow in the wind, though it was a snide east wind at that. Snide, he thought, what Blue would have said. What they all said in these parts. Here he was back in Lincolnshire and Blue far away in Attaleia. How he missed him. How he had need of him, of his physical strength, the way he could turn his hand to any task, his fenland speech that all here would understand. Not like his own polite Norman-English. Most of all, he missed Blue’s easy friendship, his coarse humour. Even that annoying greeting: Another howry day, altar boy.
Edgar stood upright and stretched, his fingers finding and easing the sore places. His back was aching from a hard day in the woodlands. They were repairing the fencing that protected the coppiced trees. ‘Dead hedging’, they called it here: stakes set two feet apart and interwoven with long, flexible ethers. Nothing permanent about it but at least it could be made on the spot and it did its job. Make sure bushes and trees grew up around the gappy hedging an
d then it would be sound. ‘Drive stakes in first,’ he ordered. ‘Without stakes, it’s no good.’ They said there was an escaped boar hereabouts, a bad-tempered, vicious beast that had smashed through the flimsy palisades of the sty. Edgar hadn’t caught sight of him; not a whisker, not a twitch of curly tail, no signs of rooting. They must be mistaken, he thought. Another crime to lay at John Reeve’s door.
John Reeve. Now there was a story.
Those first days – all but a full moon ago – were chaotic. He and Agathi, with the servants Alfred thought necessary, had come to the manor on the dankest and dreariest of winter days. They travelled along the High Dyke, the King’s Highway, a worthy procession of outriders and baggage carts because Alfred had said they must arrive safely, and with dignity. They travelled along a road built long ago by the Romans and still in better repair than many modern roads, though stretches of it were renowned for bold gangs of robbers. It would take them to Lincoln but they turned aside and followed a lane that was deeply rutted, treacherous with ice and snow. It led down the slope of the hill into a shallow valley and to the frozen beck and rickety, slithery plank that was the bridge. In front of them was the village. As they came closer, the stench of shit came to their nostrils. Agathi flinched. The outriders blew their trumpets to announce their arrival. Ensigns fluttered. A grand arrival indeed, Edgar thought. It was not what he would have chosen; nor, he knew, would Agathi. There was no one to greet them because he had insisted on setting out at first light the next morning, not waiting for an out-rider to go on ahead. The hall would not be prepared for their arrival, Alfred protested. If the hall was ill prepared, said Edgar, well, they had met with worse on the journey through Anatolia. On board ship for Venezia, truth to tell, was the harder life. Alfred nodded, muttered; he had no experience of travel and foreign ways. He insisted Agathi travel in the Rochby carriage but she had already seen the cumbersome, covered vehicle with its great wheels and shook her head: she preferred to travel on horseback by her husband’s side. ‘That carriage,’ she said privately to Edgar, ‘would surely shake the bones out of my body.’ And so Edgar and Agathi had set out before dawn the following morning and arrived at Bradwell early in the afternoon, though the day was so dank and the sky so lowering it seemed daylight never truly dawned.
The Heart Remembers Page 10