The Heart Remembers

by Margaret Redfern

  Inside the kitchens was clamour and alarm. The new reeve was here without warning, and he a brother of the squire! There must be a meal fitting for him, and what was there to give him? The bulk of it had been sent to Rochby, and salted meat needing soaking overnight before it could be cooked, what was left of it. There were provisions John Reeve had stashed, they all knew that, but no key to be found.

  ‘Now then,’ said an under-cook who had been spared from the Rochby kitchens to come with the party, ‘yer telling me yer can’t organise an ’arvest supper for a fambly o’ fieldmice? What matter that the best provisions have been sent to Rochby? Surely there must be something left for the young maäster? Yes – the young maäster! Don’t yer ’member the young maäster?’

  The older men remembered the young boy with the curling golden hair and eyes as blue as the bluebells that grew in the woods in spring. A gentle boy, the young squire, clever and gone for book-learning to the abbey at Croyland, and now he was here to restore order and harmony to this sad manor. Nothing had been heard of him for a while now. It was said he’d turned runaway, and his stern father like to one mazzled by it all, and dead now, too late to see his recklin returned with a pretty young wife, a foreigner but Christian, they said. And now she had sent orders that the whole village was to share in the evening meal! And without her husband’s permission. Should they follow her orders?

  ‘Yer mun do as the mistress says,’ said William Cook. ‘She’s a quiet-spoken one, fer sure, but she’s a good woman, wi’ ’er head screwed on, and a good wife for our young maäster, and ’ee thinking the world o’er. Yer mun tek ’eed o’ me. Even if we served up oatmeal gruel, I think yer villagers would be greätful, from the look o’ them.’

  The stories went round, licking the servants as the hot fire licked the cauldrons. Oluf was there, the silver-curly-haired son of the villein Bernt and his wife Ellen. He was tending the bellows where the fat-bellied cauldrons were sitting on their brandreths over the fire. He saw the woman Agathi come into the kitchens, walking calmly, quietly about the place, stopping to talk with this man, that boy, until she came to him. He glowered at her. A good woman, they said, but his father was bound and imprisoned in that dark cell, and that pretty young husband of hers was doing nothing to help him. He’d believe Cedric Hayward. Like his brother the Lord of Rochby, and that woman he’d wed who ruled him.

  ‘Tell, Oluf,’ he heard her say, slowly, carefully, quietly. ‘What here? Tell to help you baba. Help baba and tell.’

  Oluf shrugged. Her words were difficult to follow, this strange, beautiful, foreign wife of the new reeve. She was fair and fragile, the women said; how could she cope with managing a manor? But she had taken care of the old grandmother, taken care of them all, given them a warm place to sleep over the cold winter. She had sent the tiny bairns to the warm kitchens so that they were not out in the freezing wind and ice-cold cotts. She had set pert Joan to watch over them, make sure they didn’t get into mischief while the women and older bairns moved what they needed into the hall. A stringy-haired, mucky-faced pest, Joan was, an orphan taken in by big Hilda, and look at her now, sticking her tongue out at him. And Hilda had called her a sensible body, well able to look after the bairns! He ignored her and concentrated on the bellows he had been set to blow. Now the new mistress had come to see how the preparations for their supper went. His mouth watered at the savoury, herby, meaty smells drifting through the kitchen then he heard her quiet voice asking questions that should never be answered, and yet there was no other way of saving his father. ‘Help baba and tell.’

  He looked about him. That Joan was trying to stop a quarrel that had erupted between two of the bairns. Pinching each other, he knew that’s what it would be with those two. Mawks in her head if she couldn’t see it. Needed a wap on their arses; that would sort ’em. But there she was, playing on that elder pipe her da had made her, and thinking that would fettle ’em. That interfering beesom of a wife of greasy Hugo-the-sokeman had her sticky nose in a pan. He hoped the steam scorched it off. Cedric was nowhere to be seen. This gentle woman was kind, though she was a strange one who spoke in a strange language that only his mother could understand. ‘He’ll kill me if I tell.’

  ‘Kill? Who?’ She looked at him, at his frowning face and rigid body. ‘Cedric Hayward?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘How d’yer know?’

  ‘I know.’ She nodded. ‘Not good man.’

  His face flushed red with anger. His chin came up in the way that reminded her of Niko. ‘John Reeve was a cruel man, and Cedric is just as cruel. They were the thieves, not my father, but there is no one to believe us.’

  She frowned, trying to follow his rapid words. He sounded like Blue, and though she could not speak his language, at least she could understand some of it. ‘John Reeve is thief?’

  ‘Yes – and Cedric, but no one dare say a word. All of them are cowards. I am not a coward. But if I tell my mam will suffer and my da will surely die.’

  ‘You must tell, Oluf. Truth must tell.’

  He wasn’t sure he had understood her. She spoke some French, and he knew a few words, but his own language she spoke badly. A few words here and there. He eyed her, wondering if he dared trust her.

  ‘Soon my man come – you tell him truth. He know what to do. Yes?’ She was very certain of herself, of her young husband, and somehow it calmed him. Perhaps there was hope, after all. Slowly, he nodded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She patted his hand and moved away to where William Cook was cherishing the biggest pot-bellied cauldron sat over the fire, flames lapping around its base. ‘Clingard’ they called it, he’d been told, and it had not been used in years, not since the old days when the lord would arrive with his retinue and friends and there would be a banquet in the hall for all the grand people. And now who would be the guests seated at the trestles in the hall? Sokemen and villeins and cottars and their miserable families! It was unthinkable! Yet this gentle mistress was a woman of sense, and these villagers were desperate. Even the sokemen were at their wits’ end, taxed as they were, and winter provisions sent to the Home Manor. He’d seen for himself how much was wasted, how much dole was given to the poor of Rochby, though they were not as poor as these villagers of Bradwell. Lean times here, sure enough. Well, new customs now the young master and mistress had arrived. Or maybe not. His father had told him of the ancient custom of boon feasts; protection and food given in exchange for labour. Out of fashion now, but perhaps a good idea here in this starved manor. He smiled on the little, fair mistress. She wanted to taste the pottage? Let him take the lid off the pot and give her a spoonful. He’d given orders to wring the necks of a few old hens, hastily plucked and pulled them, carved them into gobbets, used what herbs there were, flavoured it well, though it was nothing more than the ordinary, and likely the flesh would be stringy. Take care now, mistress. It’s hot.

  ‘Is good,’ she said approvingly. ‘Very good.’

  He preened. He tasted. Yes. It was good. He hoped these wretched villeins knew how good it was.

  Oluf watched her as she walked out of the steamy kitchen and into the yard. He saw her walk across the yard to the big oak door of the undercroft, saw her struggle with its weight and open it enough to enter. He frowned, puzzled. Was she going to see his father for herself? Oluf glanced at Joan and the little’uns, sprawled all anyhow on sacking and fast asleep in the kitchen warmth. Safe to leave for a while. He beckoned young Alwyn to take his place and crept quietly after the mistress.

  Agathi had intended doing just that: seeing the prisoner for herself. She heaved open the heavy door enough to let her inside. It was then she heard voices, and groaning. The door to the cell was open, and Cedric had half-hauled the man Bernt out on to the cobbled floor of the undercroft. He was thrashing him, thrashing him with a length of knotted rope. Ellen was there, sobbing, pulling on his arm, begging him to stop. Cedric smashed out a fist. It caught her across the cheek so that she reeled and slipped heavil
y, crashing against the stone walls.

  ‘Yer’ll keep yer norf an’ souf shut if yer knows wot’s best, yer scummy bastard. If yer don’t, remember wot I said to yer? John Reeve promised yer missis to me after ’ee’d finished wi’ ’er, and I intend to ’ave ’er, as promised.’

  ‘Never,’ groaned the beaten man.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Cedric sneered. ‘One word out of yer beak an’ I’ll ’ave ’er, right here in front of yer. Yer’d like that, wouldn’t yer, yer scummy serf? Yer’d like to watch me rut yer wife?’

  ‘Let her be!’

  ‘Or wot? Yer’ll stop me?’ He laughed, and the sound of it was chilling. ‘Who’ll believe yer wasn’t trying to escape, and yer woman ’elping yer? Dat fool of a wench-faced bruvver dat’s been made reeve? ’Ee didn’t choose to see yer, did ’ee? ’Ee’s a coward. ’Ee shouldn’t ’ave left yer unguarded. So I’ll tell me Lady an’ she’ll see to it ’ee’s throwed out.’

  ‘Mistress Agathi is your lady now, and she won’t believe you.’ Ellen had pulled herself upright. She was trembling and white-faced except for the bright red weal across her cheek.

  ‘Mistress Agathi!’ he sneered. ‘I suppose yer’ll be calling that recklin “Maäster Edgar.”’ He imitated the villagers’ speech. They hadn’t noticed the part-opened door, nor Agathi squeeze inside. Cedric raised the heavy, knotted rope again. ‘What’s yer choice, woman? Yer husband’s life is in your ’ands, not mine. Tell ’im to keep ’is mouth shut. Isn’t an ’ard choice, is it?’

  Agathi was shocked into stillness. She was back again in Veçdet’s camp, and Big Aziz punishing the slightest fault, but this wasn’t Big Aziz, though he was as cruel, and she was no captive slave. She had heard her name, and Edgar’s, and understood the man’s sneering laughter. She understood as well the famished leer on his face when he looked at Ellen. She’d seen that look before on the faces of the men who guarded the women slaves. It was why Hatice had ordered her to keep her head down and keep from notice.

  How could she let this happen? She was the wife of the reeve of the manor. She was carrying Edgar’s child. Edgar had a right to govern this manor, to maintain it as he saw fit. Not be at the mercy of a cruel bully. She had to protect her child and Edgar; this young boy Oluf and his mother Ellen; the man Bernt, sprawled on the cold stone cobbles, close to unconsciousness and innocent, of that she was sure. It was no longer the time to keep her head down, to keep from notice; no longer the time to be gentle and complaisant. She set her shoulder to the door and hefted it wide open. A crimson pool of light from the setting sun turned the cobbles red. Agathi walked into its path. Unseen behind her, Oluf struggled to keep the door from swinging shut. He heard Cedric’s voice, and his mam’s, and groans that could only come from his da.

  ‘What you do here? Stop now.’ The mistress, for all she was so gentle and soft-spoken, sounded fierce. Out of the corner of his eye, Oluf saw pert Joan trailing him across the yard, the sleeping children left behind, mazzled wench, and still playing on that pipe.

  ‘Joan!’ he screeched. ‘Joan! Get the women. Run. Quick. Get the women!’ Joan stopped dead, staring at him. Mawks in her head, thought Oluf. ‘Get Hilda – now,’ he hissed. Joan stood still a moment longer then scurried towards the stairs that led up to the hall. Oluf breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back on the door and managed to wriggle into place the big stone that wedged it open. He followed Agathi inside.

  ‘What you do here? Stop now.’

  ‘It’s de pris’ner, mistress. ’Ee’s trying to escape, wi’ dis woman’s ‘elp. It’s lucky I’m ’ere ter stop ’im.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You are a bully who beats innocent men and threatens their women. You must come out of here now!’ She spoke in Turkish but so sharply the man’s mouth opened but no sound came out.

  ‘Come out. Now.’ She spoke in careful English.

  The man laughed. ‘Yer don’t mean dat.’

  ‘Out. Now.’

  He slapped the rope against his free hand and slouched to where she stood by the door. ‘Yer making a big mistake, mistress.’ He sneered. ‘Dis is a murd’rer. Alfred who is Lord of dis manor will ’ave somefing ter say abaht dis. Leaving dis fief an’ murd’rer alone, unguarded? I ’spect our new reeve will be dismissed. ’Ee’s a recklin, and recklins are of no use ’ere.’

  She didn’t understand half the words, only the intent, and she was back again in Veçdet’s camp with the massive presence of Big Aziz threatening them all; gentle Asperto drowning in his fits; brave Hatice, desperately caring for the child too young to know his own name; Niko fighting for freedom. All the men and women and children so unjustly captured and enslaved. All these villagers living in fear and poverty. And Edgar, her own dear Edgar, her husband and the father of the child she carried, a recklin? That word she understood. He was not. He never had been and never would be. He was brave and kind and honest.

  ‘You wrong, donkey,’ she said. ‘You bad man.’ And she swung at him with the short, thin log she had picked up when she entered the building. Swung up between his legs, as Kazan had instructed, as hard as she could. She felt the log snap but it had done its job and the man-weasel Cedric fell to his knees, as Kazan had said he would. As Blue had said he would. He wheezed, gripping his groin. She glanced down at the broken length of log in her hand and swung again, across the side of his head. Blue hadn’t recommended that but it seemed a sensible thing to do. Cedric collapsed on the stones of the undercroft. Oluf and Ellen stared at her open-mouthed. Hilda hurried in, with Joan cantering beside her. Hilda took one look and bawled for the rest to come, as quick as they could, and soon they were all crowding into the doorway. Oluf pushed his way to where his father lay, eyes closed, arms and legs tight-bound. ‘Is she safe, boy?’ he muttered. ‘Is your mother safe?’

  ‘Yes da. The mistress saved her.’ There was wonder in his voice. Whoever would have thought a frail young woman could fell a man like Cedric?

  Agathi dropped the stout stick. ‘Have I killed him?’

  ‘No, mistress, you’ve not wapped him hard enough for that. He’ll be stirring soon enough,’ Hilda said, grimly. The little lass was white-faced and shivering now it was all over, and who could wonder at it? ‘Best get him fast bound, while he’s out to it,’ she said briskly, and reached for the coil of rope Cedric had dropped. ‘Come here, Janet, get a hold of his arms. You get his legs, Martha.’

  Ellen struggled to her feet and the two young women clung to each other. ‘How did you know to do that?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Our good friend Blue told my friend Kazan, so that we would know how to look after ourselves if we were threatened by bad men.’ She blew out a long breath, felt her shoulders sag. ‘I must tell Kazan it is true, what Blue said. It is…’ she blinked, ‘astonishing.’

  Ellen stared at the prone Cedric, already stirring and making whimpering noises, one hand still clutching his groin until hefty Janet pulled both arms behind his back. Ellen started to laugh, until the laughter turned to sobs.

  Hilda turned to the women. There was Mary, young and fleet enough. ‘Run to your father, girl, and the young maäster. Get them here as fast as you can.’ To Ellen she said, ‘Yer mun take care of your man. He’s hurt. Get them bonds off of him an’ all.’ She looked down at Joan and fondled her head. ‘Eh but yer a good ‘un, little lass. You an’ all, Oluf, doing as what yer did.’ She turned to Agathi, reached for both her hands. ‘Yer’ll do us, mistress.’

  When Edgar arrived, it was Cedric who was tight-bound, Bernt freed. They took him to be bathed and salved where the heavy, knotted rope had gouged flesh, and set him in front of the blazing hearth fire. Most of the village was gathered there by now, and the dark night was closing in. Agathi and Ellen were jubilant and fearful by turns. Agathi clung to Edgar. He grasped her to him, tight, tight, his wife, his warrior-maid. His conscience.

  ‘Did I do wrong, husband?’

  ‘You were right, my Agathi. But,’ he strained her tighter still, ‘do not ever take such risks again. I
cannot lose you now, my Agathi, my life, my soul.’ He kissed her, and kissed her again. ‘What should I do if I lost you?’ He asked, bemused, ‘How did you know where to hit him?’

  ‘Blue told Kazan, after she and Niko were rescued from Veçdet, and she told me.’ She was suddenly prim. ‘I did not expect it to be so true, husband.’

  ‘Lucky for you it was, wife.’ He sighed. ‘So Kazan and Blue protect us still. I miss our friends, Agathi. I wish they were here with us. We need them.’

  ‘I think,’ she said, carefully, ‘I have much need of Hatice and Kazan. I am carrying our child, Edgar.’

  Later, when all had fed plainly but well, and all had a place to sleep, the eldest of the sokemen came to Edgar. The men were bemused by the sudden turn events had taken, the way the women had taken charge, moved their families into the hall at the bidding of the unknown mistress. And she, frail foreign woman, more child than woman, had defeated the terrible Cedric. The men were ashamed of themselves and ready to speak out now.

  Edgar invited the older man to sit and he did so, perching himself uneasily on the edge of a bench. He folded his hands one over the other where his paunch used to be in the days when the manor was fruitful; he was nothing now but wrinkled flesh and guilty conscience. He looked at the young man sitting opposite, golden curls a nimbus round his head. They had thought him weak when he arrived, a puling younger brother with a pretty, foreign, frail young wife. They were wrong. This young couple was strong and united. The young master was determined to set this manor to rights, and his mistress determined to see him do it. Determined now to know the truth, and fight for it to be known.