The boys fled, shrieking. Only Oluf was left in the clearing. He whistled to the old bitch but she sloped away, too old and wise for this. The creature stopped short, pawed the ground, sniffed the air, fixed its vicious beady gaze on the two-leg standing in front of it. Oluf grasped the stout branch tighter but suddenly it did not seem as strong as it had when he chose it. He had thought they would goad and steer the boar into the track leading down to the village. It was a boar from the sty, after all, and they would return it there. Not this one. This was run-wild, black bristled, black snout, black heart. He shook the staff, yelled and grimaced, as he had seen the men do. The boar did not move. It gathered itself, a hulking black mass of energy, and launched itself at the boy.
Edgar heard the shrieks of the boys. He was riding the bounds, checking hedges, coppices, palings, beck, the new bridge over it. It had become a daily round for him and the dependable rouncey mare he usually rode. And now what?
‘Oluf, maäster, it’s killing ’im!’
‘It’s the boar, maäster, Oluf’s thrashing it.’
‘No he’s not. He’s not got nowt but a piddling stick he took from the hedgerow. Can’t not do nowt wi’it.’
Edgar didn’t try to make sense of it; they’d garbled enough for him to know the fool boy was in danger, and his father on the other side of the village, gone up to the mill. He could just see its sails turning from here, the great wooden post keeping them turned into what wind there was now the too-strong gales had died down.
‘Where is he?’
‘Back there in the Long Wood.’
‘Not far from the roaäd – that’s where we was.’
‘We dussn’t go back.’
‘Get the men. Any of the men. Quick now – be off.’
They scattered, two older boys outrunning the rest. Edgar wheeled his horse around, headed in the direction they had pointed, hoped the boys were right. The Long Wood was sprouting leaves amongst the bushes though the tall trees were still leafless this late spring. Low branches whipped about his head and he slowed the canter of the mare. Best not be swiped off. Then there was the clearing yellow with celandine, and a split second to see Oluf, and the boar crashing towards him. Somewhere, there were shouts and hooves thudding but he shut them out. Too far away to be of help.
‘Oluf!’ he shouted. ‘Grab hold!’ The rouncey jibbed but he held her steady and swept past the boy, yanking at his outstretched arm and twisting him up and on to the saddle. He pulled the mare up but even dependable, amiable Sorrel was nervous, whinnying and side-stepping and trying to rear up so that he could hardly hold her. He felt the boy slip from him, slither to the ground. He viciously pulled the curb, halted the mare, slid down from the saddle, dagger in hand. The black boar turned, only feet away. He saw its vicious little eyes, tusks protruding from black jowls, its massive haunches settling into a leap. He raised the dagger, all he carried, and a broad sword was little enough match for this fierce beast. If he could, he would pierce its throat.
His heart was thudding. Or it was horses’ hooves? Sorrel was screaming with fear now. There were other horses whinnying and loud shouts of alarm. The whisk of an arrow whistled past his cheek and thudded into the beast’s throat, stopping its leap on to him in mid-flight; a second arrow glanced from the black-bristled, thick-fleshed flank of the animal. It was squealing, high-pitched, splitting his ears. It dropped inches from him. He felt the ground shudder. He felt its rush of breath and the spurting spray of hot red blood from the pierced throat. He stayed still, dagger raised, while the enraged beast scrabbled to get back on to its feet, as Oluf was struggling to his feet, white-faced but stick at the ready. Bold boy! No need now. The boar was dying, shot through with another arrow piercing its eye; another aimed at its softer underbelly as it toppled. Arrows he recognized. He twisted and tugged one out of the flesh of the dying animal, felt the sinews give and tear and rasp a gaping wound. He stared at the flight feathers, disbelieving. God’s will?
‘Hoi! Edgar! You safe?’
Giles’ shout. Edgar stared about him. Two riders were galloping towards him, reeling in their panting mounts.
‘Edgar! Thought we’d missed the brute. Fierce stock you have on this manor of yours.’
‘Giles?’
‘And Kazan. The last shot was hers.’
‘And the first, Giles! It was my arrow that struck the boar first. Yours did not even pierce its hide.’
‘So it was, fire-eater.’ Giles swung down from the brown stallion. Dafydd’s horse, Sadık, Edgar realised, and it only added to the dream-like state he was in.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
Giles grinned. ‘Rescuing you from your own beasts, altar boy.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on now, not a scratch on you or the boy. Kazan, next time, don’t take so long. You had me in a rare sweat.’
‘Edgar, it is good to see you. Take no notice of this palavracı. Without you and Dafydd and Thomas, his head swells so big! And his mouth grows even bigger.’ She laughed, Kazan’s joyful laugh, and she was joyful. Giles was right after all; it was good to be with friends, as it had been good to ride hard again along an open road, with land stretching about them though there were no high mountains. Sharp wind in her face, bright sky that became cloud covered. And it was good to shoot arrows again from her curved bow, hit a fierce-some target. It made her Kazan again. And perhaps there would be news of Dafydd. She felt so sure he was safe. It had come to her while she was galloping Yıldız the Star. He was well; he was alive. It was as if she had heard his voice carrying on the wind. She almost expected him to ride to meet her. ‘Edgar, here we are, come to see you. You are pleased?’
‘Oh yes. Pleased. Very pleased.’ He released pent-up breath. ‘How have you come here? Alone? There’s a gang roaming these roads.’
‘So they told us. We travelled with soldiers as far as Somerton Castle and then with merchants bound for Boston.’
‘We have brought gifts from Father Heinrijc – if the packhorse has not run away. No – it is there.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Oluf offered, and raced away. Two strangers come to visit, and one a foreign-faced woman who could shoot like a man with her strange curved bow! And from astride her horse!
‘But now! You are here now, and have saved us from a severe mauling. Maybe worse.’
‘God’s will,’ Giles said cheerfully. ‘Edgar, you look mazed and I’d rather you said welcome and took us to your home, and food and drink, for we’ve had none today.’
Edgar laughed and shook his golden curls. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Here you are. Where’s Dafydd?’ He saw Kazan’s mouth droop. ‘Not here yet?’
‘You’ve had no word?’ asked Giles.
‘Only that there is no news.’ He looked again at Kazan. ‘It’s early in the year yet. He’d be held up by the snow, and the mountain passes may still be closed.’
‘You are the same, good Edgar,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is so.’
‘I’m sure that’s so.’ His reeling head was settling. ‘It will be so, Kazan.’ He took her hands in his. ‘But we did have news of your grandfather, Kazan. I sent word to Heinrijc but you had already left. I am sorry.’
Kazan said, ‘You heard he was dead? I was too late, Edgar. He died only two months ago.’ Her voice trembled. Edgar let go of her hands and hugged her to him.
‘I am sorry you had such a cruel end to your journey.’
‘It is not so bad now. Giles has been so very good to me.’
‘Come home now with me. Tell us your story in warmth and comfort. We have missed you so much, both of you. All of you. Agathi will be so very happy to see you. Come. Let’s take the boar. You’ve brought your feasting with you, except it’s a fasting day and so we must only imagine roasted pig until Easter Day.’ He turned to the boy who came slowly towards them leading the burdened packhorse. ‘Oluf! Come! We have guests! These saviours of ours are my good friends Giles and Kazan. And this,’ he ruffled Oluf’s curls, ‘is the daredevil
who set the boar on! I hope your father gives you a good beating, devil-child. Still, you’ve got what you wanted – a great-big boar to take home. Think you can carry it? And skin it and butcher it? We’ll eat it come Easter Day.’
Shouts reached them; the men of the village racing up the hill towards them, red-faced and breathless, Luke with them. Surely a man his age should not be running uphill like that? They stood panting, gasping, Luke clutching his side.
‘Eh but Maäster the bairns said as yer were like to be killed – you and Bernt’s young devil!’
‘The women are frittened out of their wits.’
‘Ellen was fer coming wi’ us but Mistress said no, best be ready for you being browt back.’
‘Your mangled bodies, I suppose,’ Giles murmured.
‘Ay, so we thowt, Maäster, from what the bairns were telling.’
‘And so we might have been, except that God sent this valiant pair to rescue us!’
The men crossed themselves and fervently thanked God and the two strangers and His Son Jesus, all in the same jumble of voices so that Giles came close to laughter. Not Kazan: like Edgar, she was awed by the solemnity of this happen-chance.
‘Not strangers!’ Edgar said. ‘That is what is so very remarkable.’ And he would have explained again except that Giles cut him off.
‘Finish the explanations later, for pity’s sake, altar boy. We’re half-dead from hunger! Besides, look at that sky! We’ll be lucky if we’re not caught in the rain.’
They made quite a procession, arriving back in the village, Edgar leading the way with Oluf high in the saddle in front of him, beaming with pride, all fear forgotten now. Giles and Kazan were just behind, flanked by the men, one of them leading the packhorse and two carrying the dead-weight black boar, its front and back legs hastily bound and secured to a sturdy branch, a makeshift carrying-pole. Storm clouds were rolling in behind them and the first of the rain was falling higher up the heath. Ellen was first to dash out and grab hold of Oluf to cuff him and cuddle him, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Agathi was grave with worry for her husband but her face lit up when she saw who rode in with him. ‘I have missed you so much,’ she said. ‘These villagers are very good, and I am very grateful for my Ellen and the good Hilda, but you are my family.’ She kissed Kazan, and kissed Giles, and hugged them tight to her. ‘Now, you must be tired and dirty. We have a sort of bath. Not a hamam, Kazan, but you can clean yourself in a great tub of hot water. Edgar has made it so. We say our people must wash once every week. The women like it very much and the men are learning.’ She sighed. ‘I wish we had the hamam. It is very harsh here. But,’ she smiled at them, ‘this is Edgar’s country, and so I am content.’
Kazan looked at her friend. She was so different from the pale, frail, cowering slave of Beyşehir. Still the silver-haired, beautiful girl she remembered from Venezia but different. This Agathi was confident, sure of herself. She talked of the Lenten meal being prepared in the kitchens, of going herself to be sure of its preparation. ‘We have fish!’ she said, and it was clear this was a luxury, but she shook her head over the absence of yog̈urt and olives and dried figs. ‘This is a barbaric country, Kazan,’ she confided, ‘but it is Edgar’s country and so I must learn to love it.’ She shivered at the tale of the boar, and its death. ‘You will never learn, my husband,’ she said, exasperated, but her voice was loving. Edgar hung over her, kissed her hand. ‘I am sorry, sweetheart. There was nothing else I could do.’
‘Oluf must learn to be more careful,’ she said. ‘He must learn to know when he puts others in danger. I shall speak with Ellen. She will know what to do.’
Women’s choice, Kazan thought. That is what is different. Agathi has power now, and uses it for good; and the women in this village, they take power from her, and use it to look after their men. No slaves here. She approved the way Edgar and Agathi had taken all the villagers into the hall to eat. Frugal meals at best, and more so now it was Lent. The fish Agathi had so proudly spoken of was no more than a mouthful for each person. ‘But none of the sick and aging are required to fast,’ Agathi said. ‘That would be wrong, and against the teachings of Our Lord.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘And soon this never-ending Lent will be over. Two more weeks.’
‘Too many villeins still,’ Edgar told them. ‘I don’t have the right to make them all free men. Not yet. But I shall. There will be no serfs on this manor, Kazan. Dafydd would be pleased, I think?’
‘Yes, my Edgar, he would be very pleased.’
She was slowly realising how much Edgar had done to bring this destroyed manor back into productivity. He and Agathi. They were united, master and mistress, a single voice, heart, thought and will, and the villagers were happier for it. But there was something – a rippling underwater current – something she could not comprehend but it teased at her.
Giles said, ‘So your brother made you reeve.’
17
The Island
April 1337
The person who comes to this world needs to leave eventually.
He is a guest; he needs to travel to his hometown one day.
(Yunus Emre: ca. 1241-1321)
There was a ship, Hasim said. It would take them to Venezia; Blue, Hatice, Niko, Mehmi. ‘I have agreed this with the captain. He is known to me, a fellow captain, though he is infidel. He will do this for you.’
‘For you, I think, friend.’ Hatice wanted to weep with gratitude but that was not her way. Her face was taut, her lips thinned. ‘You are a good man,’ she said brusquely. ‘We shall not forget you.’
‘You are a good woman,’ he answered. He was not fooled by her austere face and harsh voice. He knew now how she looked and sounded when she was most moved. ‘You are a good wife and mother. May Allah bless you and your husband and your children and your children’s children.’ He smiled as she would have spoken. ‘They are your children, Hatice hanım.’ He was again the straight-talking captain, though now without a ship to command. ‘You must be ready tomorrow morning, at point of sunrise.’
She smiled. This captain, this good man who was their friend, always he wanted everything to time.
There was another surprise for them: the Father Abbot came with a woven pannier in his hands, one that was made on the island. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘The men have salvaged what they could and they give you this as your share, because you gave them their lives.’ There was some gold and silver, some trinkets. Blue nodded his thanks. ‘That will help us.’ He thought briefly of the beautiful indigo-dyed cloth he had so carefully bartered for. The treasured, rare fabrics he had acquired, no telling how. Gone now, a gift to the sea. God’s Will. Allah’s Will. Ill-gotten gains? May’appen. They had been granted their lives.
‘There is this as well.’ The Father Abbot held out a sea-stained blue bonnet. ‘The sailor Muhi found it and Brother Theodore has tried hard to rid it of stains but perhaps it is as well to be reminded of your salvation.’
Hatice’s gaunt face beamed. She took the sorry little bonnet gratefully into her hands. ‘This was a gift from my man when I most needed it. I have treasured it because of this, and now because, as you say, Father, it reminds us that our lives were spared.’
‘That is good,’ the Abbot said gravely. ‘There are two more things. This is for Niko.’ He held out a daf, a beautifully constructed daf. Its frame was wooden and wide. Goatskin was glued on to the frame, and pins set behind the frame to keep the skin tight. Hooks in the inner part of the frame, and rings that would jingle in the playing. Nothing at all like the crude one he had made from the rim of a barrel, goatskin stretched across it, secured then wet and dried in turn.
‘And a leather band,’ said Father Abbot. ‘The maker of this instrument says it helps if you play for a long time.’
Niko could hardly believe his eyes. He hardly dare stretch out his hand to take the daf. Surely this could not be for him? This beautiful instrument made for him? God was indeed good.
Father Abbot nodded, well pleased. H
e turned to Mehmi.
‘And for you. It is given by the sailors with love and gratitude and in hope it will in some way restore your loss.’ He held out a shining instrument. Not a tanbur but an oud; pear-bellied like the tanbur but bigger, and its neck was shorter. It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
‘How did you do this?’
‘Not us. The men. They did it. With what they salvaged from the sea. There is a man in the village, an Arab. He has the gift of making these instruments.’ The Father Abbot smiled. ‘God’s gift,’ he said. ‘You gave your tanbur to the sea; now the sea and God gives back an oud. Not the same, my son, but take this and give thanks.’
Mehmi’s eyes streamed with tears. ‘Father Abbot, this is a miracle. I am not worthy.’
‘You must make yourself worthy, my son.’
‘Yes. You are right. I must make myself worthy.’ Mehmi stretched out his hands for the oud, felt it bind with his body, felt for the strings and the neck and the sweetness of the swelling pear-belly that was pregnant with song. He ran his fingers across the strings; felt and heard them vibrate and whisper, deep and resonant. ‘I must make myself worthy.’
‘You will. God go with you, my son.’
18
Ieper
April 1337
O snowy mountain that bars my way like a highway robber.
I am parted from my beloved; will you still block my way?
(Yunus Emre: 14thC)
It seemed he could not live. They willed it, prayed for it, but fever racked his body and his soul.
The Heart Remembers Page 19