Rémi caught her hand, squeezed hard, signed to her: ‘He is alive, Kazan. I know it. He will come.’
Her eyes misted with tears. ‘I think it is so. I cannot feel he is dead. But you, dear friend, must not waste time.’
‘And you, dear Kazan, how good you are, how well you make it all seem for us. God willing, it will be well for you.’
And so Rémi was slowly, so slowly, courting Enna, the daughter of a Flanders cloth-maker.
They passed by daily, and always she was there, watching for them. They passed, as well, the workplaces where the cloth-makers were hard at work. They were jealous of their reputation for producing the best cloth, these low-landers, and kept their secrets close guarded though it was known that they always separated the wool, English from native and sort from sort, according to the town and province. The wool of live sheep separated from the dead carcasses, old from young animals: it was strictly forbidden to mix any of these kinds. Then each separate stage was in the hands of different craftsmen. Not the wool-workers who washed, combed and sorted the wool – these could be anybody, Mertens told her, women or boys or strangers or unemployed weavers – but there were the fullers, the spinners, the croppers. ‘We have as our motto: let one man help another as his brother.’
Let one man help another as his brother. She liked that. The words sang to her. Wasn’t that what they had done, their little band of travellers? Let one man help another as his brother.
Heinrijc Mertens said, ‘We have very strict laws to make sure our cloth is always the best. Fulling, now; Flemish cloth must have a smooth surface, completely smooth. Ah, so smooth. And before that, all the fats and dirt are so carefully removed. But not with piss, as the rest of the world is foolish enough to use. Oh no, not here in Flanders. Such barbaric customs! Here, it is punishable by imprisonment.’ He raised his eyebrows in that unintentionally comic way he had, and raised his arms and spread his hands and waggled thin fingers. The rich folds of his own gown fell in sumptuous folds from elbow to near hem; warm red today. ‘And these ramscheerers, the croppers; simple work on damp cloth but so necessary for the good finish. For our finest, best quality wool – like this of my gown – the cropping is done on dry wool.’ He stroked the folds with innocent complacency. ‘Your gown too, my child, is of the finest, and it becomes you very well, does it not?’
It was a new gown and surcoat that had been a gift, an extravagance that had taken her breath away. It was in the new fashion, fitted close to her figure and at first she blushed to see her shape so revealed. The surcoat was deepest indigo, purple-blue, like rich, ripe grapes, but the over gown was full rich scarlet with bands of red gold and rich stones; rubies as red as any hot coal, green beryls, burning blue sapphires. For Agathi there was a gown as blue as the hyacinths that grew in the springtime in Anatolia, and edged with ermine that nestled soft against her own soft skin.
‘This is too much for me, Father Mertens,’ Kazan had exclaimed.
‘Nonsense, my dear daughter; it is but a setting for your own beauty. Come, give me a kiss and wear it to give an old man pleasure.’ He chuckled and rubbed his thin hands together, the skin rustling like thin parchment. ‘See! Agathi knows the art of graciously accepting a gift from an old man. She knows what pleasure it is for me to give you trifles. Learn from her.’
Learn from her. Learn how to endure when life is unendurable. There is always room for faith. And now Agathi was long gone, to the cold lands – though could they be any colder than these lands of Flanders?
‘Of course, it is the secrets of dyeing, the secrets of weaving, these are never revealed.’ Father Mertens’ voice brought her back to the present, and the falling snow and the crackling hearth and guttering candles. ‘Always the craft is passed on through practice and teaching but nothing is ever written down. If it were put into writing then comes the danger of it becoming common knowledge.’ And now, he thought sadly, the English Edward is starving our fullers and our weavers and dyers of the fleeces they need to work their magic. Why should they leave their own country for foreign lands?
‘It is what our friend, Blue, said of the dyers,’ Kazan told him. ‘He came here to learn their art.’ It was a night for memories, a winter’s night when stories were shared. She saw again the big fen man’s plain face transformed as he recalled the moment when the cloth was lifted from the noxious, steaming vat.
Lifting the cloth bright green and dripping and seeing it turn all shades of blue right there in front of your eyes. Like a miracle, out of all that filth and stench and back-breaking work and then that. Makes you believe in summat, that does.
‘Your friend is a poet,’ Mertens said. ‘He should have come home with you. There is work here for such a man.’
‘I think this also. I am sorry they stayed behind. Sorry as well for Agathi. She has never said so but I think she misses her brother and her great friend Hatice very much. Hatice was like a mother to her, and Agathi has much need of her now.’
‘Have faith, dear child. Who knows? Perhaps they will realise this for themselves?’
She shrugged, spread her own hands in unconscious mimicry of the old man. ‘Perhaps. Tell me about the weavers of this wonderful cloth.’
Scantily dressed, barefoot, even in the chill weather, and like to be near naked in the summer months, the weavers were absorbed in the secret, closely guarded craft of cloth-making. They worked at treadle looms with a horizontal warp. There were complicated methods of raising and lowering the rollers. ‘You understand of what I speak, dear girl?’ She nodded but, tell the truth, she found it difficult to comprehend. It was not the simple arrangement of the yürük, and that had been mystery enough for her.
She was back in memory to the summer camp and the time when she too had taken her place at the loom. ‘Fumble fingers!’ Aysel had screamed. ‘Botcher! Go and shoot arrows with those useless boys!’ And she had been sent back to Nene in disgrace, a girl who could not weave without making costly mistakes. Nene had laughed. ‘Each to his own, child,’ she had said. ‘Do as the good Aysel says. Shoot your arrows. Hit your target, whatever it may be.’
They would be in the winter camp now, the girl thought, and remembered how the rain beat down and white-capped waves tore at the shore and how they crammed together in the smoky, steamy winter houses and the old ones told stories of past times, of the great warriors, of things that happened long before the girl was born, long before she and Nene came to live with the wanderers, the yürük. Did they miss her? Did they tell stories of the Christian grandmother and her granddaughter who had lived with them for so many years? Did they tell how the granddaughter had disappeared one summer’s night, taking the mare Rüzgar, leaving no trace? It was another world, a lost world, and no good came of remembering. She hoped Sakoura had returned the mare to the tribe, as he had promised.
How they longed for this long winter to be over. With the thaw, hundreds of flat-bottomed boats would travel constantly up and down the canal coming to dock at the jetty close to St Martin’s where they unloaded goods for the great lakenhalle warehouses and markets amid a babble of languages: English and Welsh and French and Italian and German mixing with the Flemish. Strangers from the northern lands as well, bringing thick, warm furs. There were always cats prowling. Sleek cats with tubbed-out stomachs from mousing and ratting in the storehouses, they still could not resist the tempting whiffs from barge-loads of meat and fish. Fleeces as well, despite the heavy import tax. Kazan felt sorry for the cats; Heinrijc Mertens had told her what their fate would be, come Ascension Day. ‘It is not a custom I approve of but it is our way. They have a glorious autumn and winter, they are warm and happy, glutted with their catches and have done their work in ridding the wool houses of vermin. When the cloth has been sold, then the cats will be thrown from the high belfry of the Lakenhalle. Before the belfry was completed – and I remember that day of celebration – they were thrown from the tower of St Martin’s.’
‘Thrown?’
‘I am afraid so, de
ar child. They say it is to rid us of evil spirits but in truth it is the only way to keep their numbers down. They breed so fast, you see. Our little one, Stoffel, was a lucky one. He escaped with just a broken leg and Davit mended that. He is supposed to be our mouse-catcher but I suspect he prefers his food to be waiting for him on a platter.’ Kazan exchanged a grin with Rémi; that was true enough. They had watched Stoffel lurking behind a bench, his tongue showing pink, his body rumbling with purrs, creeping towards the place where a platter of juicy gobbets of chicken had been left unattended. Neither had stopped the thief from snatching a mouthful.
She wondered if cats lost all nine lives at once. Was that possible? What of Dafydd’s five lives left to him, if that were so? No thinking. Sometimes thinking doesn’t do you any good.
10
Journey to Venezia
March 1337
No matter how strong the wood
The sea can smash the ship
(Yunus Emre: 14thC)
They’d left Candia and were crossing the great expanse of water before steering into the route that would take them up the jagged coast to Venezia. Endless sky above; endless sea below. Blue remembered it from before, the long journey from Venezia to Antioch, and from there overland eastwards. It was a long time ago, and truth tell now, how much did he remember of it? On his ownsome then, and one, long, drunken haze. Different this time round. This time he had his family with him: Hatice, young Niko, and Mehmi, more like a son to him these days. And look at ’em, bedazzled by it all. Not never been on any sea voyage, never in their lives, mebbe never ever seen the sea, before Attaleia, and all three of ’em as steady on their legs and sturdy in their stomachs as if they’d been born to it. For himself, he wasn’t so fond of deep water. A good enough sailor, not like Edgar, but he didn’t like thinking of what might lurk below in the darkness. Different, now, if it were salt marshes where land and sea mingled till you couldn’t tell one from t’other and yer felt like yer were walking on water. May’appen that was how Jesus felt, walking on that lake when he were out on the boat with the fishermen. Blasphemous talk, he supposed.
Captain Abu Hazim halted by his side. He had been reluctant to take these strangers, especially the woman and this mountain of a man who looked trouble; the young boy must learn not to be under their feet, getting in the way of ship-shape work. The handsome young Muslim, pear-bellied, long-necked tanbur strung across his back, if he had sea legs, he would be welcome. If he truly could play the tanbur.
But the days passed and there was no trouble, not even when they berthed in Candia. A sober Christian, the captain marvelled. A Christian miracle. The woman kept herself to herself, and the man-mountain kept a jealous, vigilant eye on her, as if she’d been a great beauty, or young, at least. As for the boy and the music player, they were a marvel. The tanbur sang and whispered and pulsed; this Mehmi’s hands blurred with the speed of his playing, his fingers tapping rhythms on the sides of the belly of the tanbur; yes, and the singer’s voice was pure. His music tore at the heart or quickened the pulses or brought laughter. But the boy! Who could have dreamt it? He had taken the rim of a barrel, stretched goatskin across it, secured it, wet it, dried it, turned it into a daf that he played rhythmically, mesmerizingly, keeping pace with the tanbur player, pattering out counter-rhythms, having them all beating time, clapping, singing with the chorus. Abu Hazim could not remember another voyage so full of life and laughter. And the woman and man-mountain, how they beamed with pride. As if these two were their very own sons. He knew the story by now: their journey in search of their companions and the boy’s sister; how Mehmi’s father was dead and so he had chosen to go with his friends, the friends of his father, even to the cold, dark lands of the infidel.
And so Captain Hazim halted beside the man-mountain who spoke a language he could not understand. He gestured to the wide ocean. ‘The sea is a boundless expanse where great ships look like tiny specks; nothing but the heavens above and the waters beneath,’ he said.
Blue gazed out at the wide sea and said to the captain who spoke a language he could not understand: ‘We’re nowters in this stretch. Great-big-huge sky an’ sea an’ all. Nowt but spelks.’
They stood side-by-side a moment longer, neither understanding the other’s tongue but their thoughts united, the two men on the great baghlah, tiny in this huge expanse, dipping and lurching through the wide waves. Abu Hazim was proud of his ship and proud of the crew that sailed her, this two-masted Arab vessel with large, triangular sails and a high, raised prow that reminded Blue of some of the ancient hulks that he’d sometimes seen wrecked along the Fen shore.
Those were bright days with clouds scudding high above though the nights were cold enough to freeze the blood in your body. Then the good weather failed. Contrary, roaring, howling winds drove them up and down the coast for days and nights, and there was no sun, no stars to steer by. Behind them, foam-flecked waves reared high over the stern of the ship. The captain and his crew were skillful sailors and the ship rode the waves but Blue didn’t look, not after that one horrified glance. He’d be frittened, and that wouldn’t not be doing no good, not fer any on’ em. He’d seen waves breaking white out to sea but surely that was the dark shape of land and they were close to shore. Were waves breaking there on rocks? If so, two chances: ship rock-driven and wrecked or foundering on a sand spit. Either way, drowning in this wild water. They were sounding the fathoms, as well as they could in this tempest. The mainsail was hoisted – that lateen-set triangular Arab sail. Order was given to lighten the ship – cast out the tackling – throw overboard the cargo, their precious cargo. They tossed with the tempest. Blue squinted at the white foam ahead of them, staggered as another wave lifted and dropped them, grasped the mast. Yes, a shore line for sure. Abu Hazim grasped him by the arm, gestured towards the land, shouted incomprehensible words that were wrenched away on the screaming wind. Mehmi was there, yelling into his ear.
‘He’s aiming for the long island – sandy bay he’s used before in rough weather – narrow – sharp rocks either side – thinks it’s possible, Inşallah. Run the ship aground – swim for it.’
Swim for it? Could she swim? Could young Niko? He looked about him, saw a coiled length of rope and swung it round his body; grasped at broken pieces of the ship; grabbed hard hold of them, his family. He would never let them go.
The ship lurched and jolted. Its bow sank into sand but its stern was afloat, battered by the storming waves. Only moments now before it broke to pieces in these frantic seas. Blue tightened his hold on Hatice, on Niko. Where was Mehmi? A voice in his ear, a pat on the shoulder, Niko taken from him and held securely. ‘Always room for faith.’ He caught the words, blown by the wind, as they toppled into the foaming surf.
11
Ieper
March 1337
Lenten is come with love to toune,
With blosmen and with brides roune
(Anon: 14thC)
And at last came Heinrijc Mertens’ last blast. Spring arrived in a rush as if to make up for its late arrival. Overnight frost and ice were gone and the sodden land steamed in the sun. The promise of new growth was everywhere. In Heinrijc Mertens’ orchard, apple and pear trees showed tight, tiny buds, barely formed. The elm trees along the Ieper River, so valuable to the lowlanders, were timidly showing shoots growing from the suckers of older trees.
Strange, then, that one morning she felt such suffocation. She could not breathe. She fell gasping to her knees, pushing at air that thickened and overwhelmed her. She felt she was dying. Such a weight toppling over her, and all about was blinding white. ‘Dafydd,’ she whispered. ‘Sevgilim. Canım. Fy nghariad. Beloved.’ Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing eased. Her heart stopped pounding. She sipped cold air into her. Freezing cold. The whiteness dissolved. She felt weak and was trembling. So strange. It was all so strange. She did not tell anyone what she had experienced.
On a blustering day of sharp blue sky and billowing cloud she and Rémi walked to
gether to St Martin’s. She knew her own time of hibernation was over. ‘I must keep my promise to Nene,’ she said to the boy. ‘My grandfather is an old man and this winter has been harsh. Perhaps it is already too late.’ Rémi rested his hand on her arm. He smiled his snail-trail smile but it was wistful. ‘You must stay here and wait for him. He will come, Rémi, as Father Mertens tells us. You must believe this. Besides, Father Mertens has need of you.’
A nod, thumbs up. He will come. I shall stay. Unmistakeable message.
‘And there is the lovely Enna.’
Thumbs down. She laughed. ‘Trust me, Rémi.’ She watched with satisfaction the bright colour rush into his cheeks.
Another leave-taking. Heinrijc Mertens and Rémi and the whole household watching until the brick-carrying barge was out of sight. It was another day of scudding clouds and blue sky, a fair wind and a spring tide. Kazan-the-bright travelled with Giles-the-protector to the Flanders coast and from there to Boston and Swineshead. After that, if all was well, up the Witham to Lincoln and from there along the Cliff road to where Edgar and Agathi held their small manor.
‘Any news, my daughter, I shall send there.’
Giles had plans to travel home to the Marches. It was time to be reconciled with his father, he said. Besides, there was a girl there, a cousin of sorts, part Welsh. He’d a mind to see how she had grown. Best as well, he thought to himself, to get thoughts of Kazan out of his mind.
And so the barge left Ieper in the early dawn, and the old man and the young boy stood watching, watching until it was long out of sight.
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The Heart Remembers Page 14