The Heart Remembers

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘Bernt did not steal, master. He did not kill. This is how it was.’ Ever since Squire Alfred’s wife had set him up here, anything John Reeve wanted he thought he could have. The timber? That was his doing. He had men he dealt with, a gang that hid out in the woodland along this stretch of the High Dyke; they ambushed unwary travellers. They’d been seen in this village doing trade with John Reeve and Cedric Hayward. The conies in the warren – the black ones especially, the ones whose fur was valuable – those had been caught and sold to the gang. Nobody here dared speak out. Risked a slit throat or tongue cut out, speaking out. And Bernt’s wife? John Reeve wanted her. He arranged for Bernt to be accused of stealing the timber. Easy for him and who would listen to a villein? Who would listen even to sokemen when John Reeve was the choice of the Lady of the Manor? The night of the Epiphany he was drunk. He was always drunk. This night he was staggering outside Bernt’s house, shouting to Ellen to come out or it would be the worse for her and her man.

  ‘Bernt would not let her go. She is a good wife and mother, master, but she knew what trouble there would be for her family. She thought, if she gave herself to John Reeve, it would be enough but Bernt said no. He had rights like any other man, and his wife was not for bartering. So they did not open the door. We all heard John Reeve shouting and bawling for long enough. It was a bad end to the feast day. Then all went quiet. We thought he’d gone home, fallen asleep, drunk as he was, but some of the young ’uns were still out-and-about and they came to tell me they’d seen him cursing and swearing down by the cattle pond. I went out to look and that was when I saw him tipped arse-end-up in the pond. He was alive, master. He was gasping and flailing like a landed fish. And I didn’t help him. I watched him. I let him drown and no priest there to hear his confession. I condemned him to eternal darkness, master. There you have it. If anyone must be accused, let it be me.’

  Edgar sat still. This had the sound of truth, a terrible truth.

  ‘But you did not kill him, Luke.’

  ‘I let him drown, master.’

  ‘There is a difference. This man was evil. He deserved to drown. He was bound for hell, confession or no. You should not chastise yourself. It was God’s will.’ Edgar looked in the face at the anguished man in front of him. ‘There is something you should know, Luke. My father promised me to the monks at Croyland when I was still a young boy. I did not want such a life and so, after five long years, I escaped and fled to the eastern countries. I went on pilgrimage to atone for my sins but my life changed when I was befriended by a Welshman. He made me part of his group of merchants and I travelled with him to the port of Attaleia and from there to Venezia. From there, to Ieper and so here to Lincolnshire. A circle, you would say, but my life is changed. I am no longer promised to the Abbey life; I have my wife; I have made many mistakes but the good God has protected me, and given me dear friends, though we live far apart from one another. I have fought to protect them, and would kill to keep them safe and think myself right to do so. Thanks to God, I have not had to. You, my friend, have no need to berate yourself. This John Reeve was not a good man.’

  ‘No, my lord. He was not.’

  ‘Then go in peace, my friend. You did not kill him. He killed himself and that is what I shall tell my brother. There is no more to be said.’

  But that night, with the windows shuttered against the cold night. Edgar couldn’t sleep. He lay with Agathi in the small inner solar with its flimsy door and listened to the breathing of the sleepers in the hall. His villagers. Snores and grunts and farts that reminded him of nights in the hans. But this was different. Edgar thought hard and long. Was it the best decision, to bring Agathi to such a place? To more problems? She was too gentle and beautiful, though she had been as brave as any man this day. She had astounded him with her courage, her recklessness. She deserved better than this. He should protect her but he was no warrior. He did not have Blue’s strength nor Dai’s quick-witted, dangerous ruthlessness and bandit-learned cunning. He did not have the sword-skill of Thomas, nor Giles. He was a monk-raised weakling who knew only book-learning and crop-tending. Agathi stirred against him. She, too, was wakeful.

  ‘What troubles you, husband?’

  But when he murmured his doubts, she surprised him by saying they had a duty to the manor, to its sokemen and villeins and cottars. They had a duty to reveal the truth of what had happened that winter. ‘And who better than you, husband, to know what to do for this land, these people? Who better than you, with your book-learning, to know how to sort truth from lies?’ She snuggled closer to him. ‘Fighting with swords and daggers and arrows; this is not always the best way, beloved. Violence brings more violence. A peaceful way is best. You can do this for us, my altar boy.’

  Edgar chuckled at the name given him by Blue but he sighed as well. ‘It’s a poverty-stricken place, sweetheart. It’s been plundered, and not only by John Reeve and Cedric Hayward. My brother and his wife have used it as a pantry.’ He heard the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘A reeve should look after his tenants better than this, shouldn’t he, husband?’ insisted Agathi. He was reeve now, and should do his best to restore the manor, create harmony where there was dispute; protect the villagers from his own brother, if need be. Food might be scarce; couldn’t Alfred supply them this winter? Return part of what he had taken? And there was firewood enough. She had seen it with her own eyes, in the barred-and-bolted lean-to by the stable. Huge logs, bundles of faggots laid by. ‘But, husband, there is one thing you must do. This village, these people, how they stink! They must bathe, and have better arrangements for their bodies’ needs.’

  Yes, for sure his gentle bride was becoming a true lady of the manor. Perhaps it was because she was married, and carrying his child. It gave her dignity and confidence. ‘We stay, then, wife, if you say so. And,’ he promised her, ‘I shall find an answer to the problem of our stinking village.’

  During the long, dark night, Edgar made his choice: he was here as reeve, as Agathi had said, and his first duty was to the manor and all its people. The villeins’ first need was warmth and food; the land’s first need was heart. It was what Brother Peter had always said: put heart back into the earth. It could be exhausted, as any man could be exhausted, and needed tending. It was what he knew. The monks had taught him well, land-craft as well as book-lore. Besides, he needed to know his men better, and what better way than working with them?

  He’d ordered the men out, not caring if they were sokemen or villeins, not caring for grumbles or sullen faces, not caring that it was bitter cold. Best if all worked together, if this manor was to recover. But the men were happy to follow him. They had hated and feared John Reeve and his man Cedric. Bernt was popular, a good-natured man, ready to lend a helping hand to any and all. His wife was respected for her skills in healing. Their young son – well – always into mischief but a likeable boy for all that. When Bernt was imprisoned, it seemed impossible for any of them to protest. Impossible! Now it seemed there would be justice and they thanked God and this gentle, golden-haired son of the old squire. And his young wife, the women reminded them. A foreigner she may be but a good woman for all that.

  He’d had them draw lots to see who were unlucky enough to be set to clear the middens and gong heaps that had accumulated in the village. They would have to cart it far enough away for now for the stench not to cause nuisance and sickness. Later, when the thaw came, it could be buried deep in the earth. He pondered. The monks had used fast-flowing water to carry all away but they couldn’t do that here. The beck was not big enough, and the water was used for washing; the animals drank there. He’d seen the women dip pitchers in, though there was a well of water that was sweet enough, if brackish. No, best dig a trench, plank it, make sure all knew to cover their shit with earth after they had eased themselves. Build a wall around it, when the thaw came, and thatch a roof. He tried to remember how the han privies were built, but sighed when he remembered the piped water for drinking, for the hamam, for
the latrines. Best he could do for now.

  The rest of the villagers he set to hedging and ditching, lopping and coppicing. The hazel undergrowth was thinned and stacked into faggots and bavins ready to be carried to the barn. The spikey thorn bushes were best as hedges against the young trees where the deer had eaten away the lower shoots. The trees should have been better pollarded long since, he thought, exasperated. The beck was cleared so that it would run free when better weather came and snow and ice melted. With the water drained away, crofts and fields would recover in time for spring ploughing and harrowing and sowing, God willing. He blessed the monks at the abbey for teaching him these skills, and smiled to think he, the rebel, the runaway, was grateful for his cloistered life.

  Alfred came to the manor in answer to the urgent summons Edgar had sent. The hearing proved that the guilt of theft lay with John Reeve and his man, Cedric. As for the accusation of murder, there had been no murder: John Reeve had been falling-down drunk. It was his habit. Only this time he had done his falling-down in the pond and drowned. Alfred’s wife glared but there was nothing she could do. Every villager was willing to swear on the Bible, swear on pain of death, of the never-ending horror of Hell, that what they said was solemn truth. Cedric Hayward was caught in his lies, and blustering did him no good. Death by hanging was inevitable. Alfred had the power to serve such a sentence but Edgar was glad that permission to set up the gallows was given only for Rochby, not Bradwell. He did not want the dead man haunting this place.

  There was the matter of provisions for the winter as well, Edgar said. As reeve, it was for him to represent the villeins and cottars – the sokemen as well. Truth was, Rochby had taken more than its share. For sure, John Reeve had been seeking favours of his Lord and Lady, and had given them to suppose that the harvest and beasts had been better than usual this year. Add to that the stores John Reeve had kept for himself, sold off for profit, and the end-up was starvation for Bradwell Manor.

  ‘It deserves better than this, brother,’ said Edgar. They were speaking privately together; Edgar blessed Agathi for taking Philippa out of the way. Let Alfred speak for himself as Lord of the Manors of Rochby and Bradwell, without Philippa’s spiteful intervention. ‘I know you say you want to be rid of it but it could be a prosperous place again. The land you sold to Roger de Langton? I thought we might try to buy it back. It’s good arable land, fertile soil, up beyond the Long Wood, over a hundred acres of it, and the services of the sokemen as well as the villeins. I cannot see why you sold it. With it, Bradwell can double its yield.’

  ‘But the money from the sale is worth as much as worked land. Philippa says so.’

  ‘What is a manor without its land?’ Edgar asked. ‘I always had a liking for this place. Summer comes late here but it stays longer. Remember how we proddled for fish in the beck when we were young?’

  Alfred nodded. He smiled wistfully. ‘It was a lovely place then. We rode up into the heathland and pretended we were brigands. We killed Eric. Do you remember?’

  Edgar couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Now that I had forgotten. They were good times, brother, and I have you and Eric to thank for that. I wish the children here could have the chance to play make-believe. Instead, they are little old men before they’ve reached six summers.’ They were in the neglected herb garden. He reached down to pluck a lavender spray, woody and winter-dead but the sharp tang of summer fragrance was there for all that. ‘Bernt’s son, Oluf, he’s about Niko’s age. He puts me in mind of Niko.’

  ‘Niko? Your wife’s brother?’

  ‘Yes. Niko is as dark as Oluf is fair but they have that same look about them.’

  ‘Why didn’t the boy come with you?’

  ‘He stayed with our friends Blue and Hatice. They took him as their son. It seemed for the best. Agathi and me, we didn’t know what lay ahead. We wanted Niko to be safe and loved.’

  ‘And now you wish you had him with you,’ Alfred said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yes. Yes, we do.’

  ‘God and his son Jesus know what is best, brother.’

  My son, who are you to decide what is and what is not to be?

  ‘Only Allah the all-compassionate, the all-knowing decides,’ Edgar murmured.

  ‘What’s that?’ Alfred asked, sharply.

  ‘Something a great man says. A tribal chief and a devout Muslim, one Kara Kemal, a man of compassion and wisdom.’

  Alfred moved uneasily. ‘I think you have been amongst strange people, brother.’

  ‘I know I have been amongst good people.’ He looked his brother in the face. There is always room for faith. ‘About this matter of the leased land, and provisions until we can fend for ourselves…’

  It was easy if you had dogged determination, he realised. Was this what Dafydd knew? Stay calm, determined, resolute, and in the end you had your way. No loud wrangling, no skirmishing, no need for brute force. Agathi was right, again and again: Violence brings more violence. A peaceful way is best.

  9

  Ieper

  February 1337

  My love cannot be reached,

  My pain be healed…

  (Yunus Emre: 14thC)

  Another message arrived: Agathi was with child. Kazan stared out of the window at the swirling snow, turning and turning the bracelet that never left her wrist. Edgar begged her to come and stay with Agathi. ‘But I know nothing of children and childbirth,’ she thought. Just once, she remembered, she had helped Nene with a birthing. Such pain! Was there always such pain? ‘She needs Hatice, not me.’ It seemed so long since they had left Hatice and Blue and Niko behind in Attaleia, watching their figures grow smaller and smaller on the quayside until they were swallowed up into blue distance. ‘We should never have left them behind,’ she thought. ‘We need them. They are our family.’

  She was in the inner solar. It looked out onto the snow-covered herb garden and orchard at the back of the house. Winter was not over, in spite of Heinrijc Merten’s optimism. Below the window a small figure darted out from the cross-passage into the garden. Matje’s son escaping again from the kitchens, his mother’s voice shrilling after him. Outside, he flung his head back and screwed his eyes shut. He thrust out his tongue to catch snowflakes. He reminded her of Niko and she braced herself against the sharp pain of remembering. Matje shouted again and the boy opened his eyes. He saw her at the window and grinned saucily before shutting his eyes and thrusting out his tongue again. He was round faced and red cheeked and ecstatic in the late afternoon gloom and swirling snow. Matje erupted from the passageway, scolding loudly. She grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck and cuffed him soundly. The boy waved to the girl in the window. He was cheerful, secure because his mother loved him dearly and her plump hands fell lightly. Another of Heinrijc Mertens’ rescued souls. This was a widow whose husband had been drowned at sea. She and her young son faced a life of poverty and destitution until Mertens had brought her into his household. ‘She is a treasure,’ he said. ‘A most wonderful cheese-maker. All the luck is mine.’

  And this was another astonishing thing about this land won from the sea: same, like Venezia, but so different. Here, the rich women were not guarded, as property was guarded. Here, there was no casual rape of poor women that carried a minimal fine. Here, they had rights in law: any man who struck his wife had to pay a heavy fine to the court, and larger sums in damages to his wife, whatever her status. Rights in business; some women in charge of cloth-making – some even were weavers. Sometimes, entire workshops were in charge of women. Not the fulling, nor the cropping. That was strenuous work, beyond a woman’s strength. Rights in education because the Countess of Flanders had introduced free education almost a hundred years before. This was indeed a remarkable country and yet Kazan yearned for the spaces of her own country, and the freedom to gallop across the open land. She had never before lived without sight of high mountains, and the flatness of this land sat on her spirit.

  She walked every day to the monastery church to pray
for Dafydd’s safe arrival. And here was another difference: the great cupolas and domes of the eastern churches, though so many had become mosques, were light, with huge open spaces. Here in this northern town were high, vaulted, cross-shaped churches. Shadows where there had been light; pillars and arches where there had been space; wall paintings that told of death and damnation and hellfire. Fearsome sights. Where did they find comfort, these Christians of the western world?

  Rémi went with her, Rémi who missed Dafydd with the same sharp pain. Besides, he liked to sign-talk with the monks now Edgar was gone. It had been Edgar, the runaway novice, who first taught him sign-talk. More than that, Rémi liked to talk with the young daughter of a cloth maker, a pretty young girl who blushed and sign-talked. ‘She makes many mistakes, Kazan,’ signed Rémi. He was smiling his lop-sided smile.

  ‘Then you must teach her,’ Kazan said, ‘though I do not think you care about the mistakes.’ She watched the bright red rise up in Rémi’s cheeks. She laughed. ‘She is beautiful, and good-natured.’

  Rémi sighed, shrugged, signed. ‘But what am I? Who am I to ask for her? I cannot even talk to her.’

  ‘You are a wonder, you are amazing. You understand numbers and commerce. Dafydd relies on you. Father Mertens relies on you. You have travelled the eastern countries. You are handsome and so very smartly dressed. Father Mertens has seen to that. How could her family not see this? You have money, from Father Mertens and Dafydd. You are – what do you say here? – a good catch? Like a big fish. Her family will think so. You must ask for her, Rémi, if you love her.’

  ‘I do love her. I always have. For years now. But she does not love me. She likes me as a friend. That is all.’

  ‘She tries to sign-talk with you. She looks for you when we pass by. I have seen this, Rémi. You should talk to her. Know her better.’ She sighed. ‘Rémi, you must know that Dafydd is my dearest friend and I love him so very much. Thomas says Dafydd loves me. If that is so, we have wasted precious time and it may be too late for us. You must not do this. Speak to her, dear Rémi.’