‘He was tortured. That way, they thought they would learn the truth. When has torture ever brought truth?’ Thomas wept. That stern, sardonic, dark-faced man wept like the child in the night he had once been. But now there was no pot boy to bring him comfort. ‘We brought our witnesses and forced them to listen. The nephew of da Silvano, he came to give evidence, though he was in grave danger. He had been in hiding since his uncle was taken prisoner and killed. There was no one he could trust. But then Dafydd gave him hope, as he gave hope to the people of Murano. One by one, then in groups, they came to give evidence. And so it was proved that there was a conspiracy, and Marco Trevior and his conspirators were guilty of the very crimes da Silvano was accused of.’ Thomas stopped. He tried to speak.
‘Take your time, Thomas. These have been terrible times for you both.’
‘Father Mertens.’ Thomas stopped again. He had used the name that Kazan used, and Rémi. It was not his to speak.
Heinrijc Mertens laid his hand on Thomas’ head. ‘Tell me, my son. You have brought my Davit to safety and therefore you are my son. Tell me what happened.’
‘The Council of Ten found Dafydd innocent, and Pietro da Silvano innocent as well, though little good it did him since they had executed him.’ An innocent man, thought Thomas. It seemed all would be well, but Marco Trevior escaped. ‘I think they did not want to see him executed. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I do not know. Only that he escaped into the calli. He had friends enough to hide him and protect him. All those young nobles who thought they were above the law.’ Thomas’ voice was bitter in remembering. ‘Dafydd was recovering in the casa of the da Ginstinianis; I visited daily and I was not happy to see him there. The sister, she was his enemy but she bided her time. All smiles and fair words. Francesco, the fool, believed she agreed with him that perhaps a marriage was no longer possible between the two families. He believed her when she said she was grateful to Dafydd.’
‘And you, my son? Did you believe her?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Never for a moment. There was that in her voice…something…perhaps I had been long enough with honest folk. Even Kazan, fooling us all into believing she was a young man – boy, more like – her voice rang true. All of us with our dark secrets hidden from the rest and yet we were honest. Isn’t that strange?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Mertens grimaced. ‘Who knows where the serpent hides? What happened?’
‘She betrayed him. Betrayed Dafydd. She was the one who secretly let Marco Trevior into the casa. It was late one night, long after the curfew. It was by God’s grace that Francesco was awake. He was not sleeping well, he was so troubled. And he heard them. Even so, he was not quick enough to keep Dafydd safe. Marco Trevior stabbed Dafydd as he slept. He hurt Dafydd badly. Very badly. It was Francesco da Ginstinianis who killed his would-be brother-in-law. He saved Dafydd but any hope of marriage between his sister and Jacopo Trevior was ended. Francesco said he would never have his family name allied with that of Trevior. It would bring shame on them all. It would dishonour them. His sister was furiously angry. What a vixen! I was there by then, and she ranted and raved in front of me. Shameless! I felt such sorrow for Francesco. She would have left her home and married Jacopo Trevior if Francesco had not prevented her. The old father, old Trevior, he saw it was impossible. Poor old man. One son disgraced and dead, the other…well, who would marry into such a family? In Venezia? If he lives out another year, it will be long enough for him.’
‘And Davit? He was badly wounded, you say?’
‘Yes. He was lucky to escape with his life.’ Thomas sighed. ‘Another of his lives. How many are left to him now?’
‘Enough. He will survive this, my son. Believe this.’
‘There is always faith?’
‘Indeed there is.’
Thomas gazed into the red caves of the hearth fire. ‘Winter was on us,’ he continued, ‘but Dafydd insisted we travel over the mountains though he was barely recovered. It was a difficult journey. Then the weather warmed and the snow softened. We were warned about the danger of avalanche but Dafydd was like a man possessed. He could think of nothing but coming home to you.’
‘To Kazan,’ the old man corrected him.
‘To both of you,’ Thomas said, ‘and Rémi.’ The boy was sitting silently by them. It was not often he could be persuaded to leave Dafydd’s side but Matje had raised her hands in protest and demanded to know if he was so jealous that he would not let anyone share the tending of Davit? Did he think her so incapable of looking after Davit who they all loved? And so he had given way and coaxed Matje out of her indignation. She had smiled to herself, satisfied because Heinrijc Mertens had been worried for the boy, Rémi, sitting hours by Davit’s side, not caring for sleep or food, until it seemed he, too, would sicken.
‘Leave it to me, Master Heinrijc,’ she had said.
Good food and good sleep; the boy would be well enough. And there was that girl of his asking every day after him and Master Davit. That would be enough to cheer his soul.
Now, Mertens and Rémi exchanged smiles: of course it was Kazan Dafydd wanted but it was impossible now to send word. First there were spring storms and no ships put out to sea; then the French blockade started, and it seemed impossible for anyone to slip past and across the Manche to the English coast. Just once they’d had word from Edgar, news of the Wordmaker’s death, but too late for the girl to know of it. Mertens had sent back news of no news. And now here was his boy, his son, and near to death. Even if he could, should he send word of this?
‘What happened, Thomas?’ Mertens asked quietly.
‘We were overcome by an avalanche and it seemed we must die.’ Thomas was silent, remembering. The roar of snow rushing towards them, a huge snow wave crashing down on them, sucking them under, dragging them on towards the tumbling crevasse. He remembered grabbing Dafydd’s legs and hanging on. They were suffocating in white-dark oblivion. He remembered how angry he’d felt. Angry. Angry with a God who could let such things happen. Dafydd rescued twice from death and now this white-cold horror engulfing them. He could not remember ever feeling such anger. He lashed out with the stout staff he still gripped in his hand. ‘The staff I was still holding got caught against a tree stump. It stopped our fall. I managed to get hold of the stump – get my arm round it. Only God knows why it hadn’t been swept away with the rest.’ He had pushed the staff upwards through the snow until its end was free, and a trickle of air made breathing possible. He had heard Dafydd breathe, ‘Kazan, cariad’, and then nothingness until the marroniers found them and pulled them free of their ice prison. Dafydd’s wound had broken open again but he was a man who seemed without reason. He would go to Ieper. He would not rest. He insisted they travel onwards.
‘Yes, you are right, Father Mertens,’ Thomas said ruefully. ‘He wanted to reach Kazan. After the avalanche she was his only thought.’ Thomas frowned. ‘It was as if he believed she knew what had happened. As if she had seen it and perhaps thought him dead.’
‘Perhaps she did know of it. Love is more powerful than any of us can imagine. It is the strongest power in the world. Isn’t that so, Rémi?’ Mertens smiled down at the boy. Boy no longer. He was fast becoming a man, and would soon bring his Enna to live here and cheer an old man’s last years.
Rémi nodded. ‘She knows he is alive,’ he signed.
Thomas grunted. ‘You are very certain, boy.’
‘As certain as you are of your God and His son.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Belief is everything,’ he agreed.
Mertens stirred. ‘You were to join the Friary and yet you have travelled with him.’
‘Of course. What else should I do?’
‘You are a good man, Thomas. You have saved the life of my Davit. We are in your debt, Kazan and Rémi and me.’
Thomas hesitated. For the first time he put into words what had troubled him since his arrival. ‘But she is not here with you.’
‘She and Giles have gone to England to find her grandf
ather. She said she had promised her Nene and so must go.’ Heinrijc Mertens considered the sharp, dark face of Thomas. ‘Rémi is right. She tells herself Davit is alive and so she can live. Do not doubt her love, my friend.’
Thomas sighed. ‘I do not doubt it.’
‘Then do not doubt our friend Davit will recover.’
There is always room for faith.
‘How could I doubt it?’
Heinrijc Mertens nodded and smiled. ‘But, my friend, how I wish my good friend Jehan were still living. He was a chirurgien I trusted with my life. He would have known what best to do for our Davit.’
‘He was the man who gave back life to Rémi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then he will give back life to Dafydd. Those who follow him have his wisdom and knowledge.’
The brown man tossed and turned in his bed. He sweated and shivered. He cried out in strangled, incomprehensible words. The stab wound inflicted by Marco Trevior broke open again and festered. His body was weak, weakened by days of torture and weeks of relentless travel through the snowy fastness of the high mountains and incarceration in the deep snows of the avalanche. ‘You can survive this, Dafydd,’ Thomas told him again and again. ‘You must live.’
19
Bradwell
April 1337
Thou givest thy mouth to evil,
And thy tongue frameth deceit.
Thou sittest and speakest against thy brother…
(Psalm 50, Authorized Version)
‘I know she wished to travel to the far west, see Dafydd’s homeland – perhaps find his brother and sister, those who were alive when he left.’
‘But we cannot go, Edgar. Kazan herself says this. We cannot leave you here in danger. It is unthinkable.’
‘It is what you must do. These villagers have prepared themselves for attack, and you have helped them where I could not.’ Edgar shook his head. ‘Such skills, Giles. I had no idea.’
‘Knowing how to make a longbow? I’m from the Marches; there are times when we don’t know if we are in Wales or in England. It was a Welshman who taught me how to make a long bow when I was a young boy. It’s the tillering that’s the difficult part.’ He flexed his shoulders. He’d spent hours making sure the bows would come round smooth and straight. Lucky for him Bernt had proved to have a good eye and hand and muscle enough. He said, ‘Staves from the bole make a better bow but there’s nothing amiss with bough stave bows. Plenty to be said for them – especially for us.’ Edgar frowned; he didn’t understand. Giles laughed. ‘It’s like this, Edgar. Bough stave bows can be made straight from the tree, no seasoning, no time wasted, so this has helped us. In time, the bows will season, gain in weight. That’s good for the boys; they start lightweight and learn to draw a heavier weight.’ He shrugged. ‘Elm is good. Powerful. Ash is good too but follows the string if braced for too long.’ Edgar tried to follow Giles’ reasoning. ‘Yew is the best. Difficult to work but the best. Whenever you can, have yew bows made. Above all, they must train for part of every day, these villagers of yours.’
Edgar nodded. They had trained, when his father was alive and the old reeve was in charge. Luke told him so. Then the old lord died so suddenly, and the old reeve was dismissed, and the manor had gone to ruin. Training stopped. Why bother? Who cared? Not the young lord, new married; not the new bailiff; not the men. Too hard staying alive, see? But now, with the young master, they’d be wide awake for training.
Edgar had held a meeting with the men of the village, told them of the threat of Cedric Hayward. Luke had risen to his feet, their spokesman. The young master was not to ride out alone. It was dangerous. He needed protection. And the young mistress as well. She was the one who had unmanned Cedric Hayward, and he was not a man to forget and forgive.
Edgar agreed to their protection. Agathi in danger? He forbad her to venture out from the village. He was frowning, dictatorial, so much the lord that she laughed and protested. ‘You must do as I say,’ he insisted then he was Edgar again. ‘Please do as I beg you, my Agathi. There is danger.’
‘And for you, sweetheart. You must also do as the men say. They are right. No more riding the boundaries alone.’
‘This is not for ever, Agathi.’
‘I know, my love.’ She waited, a heart’s beat. ‘Are you going to visit Roger de Langton?’
‘Giles goes with me.’
‘And Catley Priory?’
He flushed, nodded. ‘I thought it advisable, Agathi.’
‘In case Philippa and Alfred are behind this?’
Edgar sighed. ‘I am afraid so. I cannot take the risk.’ He tried a smile. ‘I thought we should invite Roger to our Easter feasting.’
‘And your brothers and their wives must come too. Both brothers.’
‘And both wives. And the children. I know.’
Meanwhile, the training was underway. Giles had taken the training on himself.
Set your left leg before your right. Make your arrow nocking sure with your right hand. Not stooping but not standing straight. With your left hand a little above your right, stretch your arm out easy…easy….draw your arrow to your ear…when you’ve sighted your target let go your fingers…
‘They must look after the bows as if they were living,’ said Giles. ‘I’ve told them so. Kazan’s said the same. Keep them oiled. Use beeswax on the strings. But don’t fret, Edgar, I’ll make sure they’re a fit, fighting force before we leave. Until then, we stay.’
Edgar sighed. ‘You and Kazan, you are both so obstinate!’
Giles laughed. He thought of the morning she had appeared dressed once again in her plain blue kaftan and gömlek and şalvar. ‘I shall come with you, Giles, to teach these villagers to shoot straight.’ And she had, shocking them into silence first because of her outlandish, unwomanly dress; then because she amazed them with her prowess with the strange, curved bow.
‘I wish I knew how to make a bow like Kazan’s,’ he confided to Edgar, ‘but it’s beyond my skill. I know it’s a blend of horn and wood and sinew, and it’s this that gives it such strength. And it’s so much shorter than our long bows – this is why she can shoot while riding but it’s a rare skill.’
‘A skill and a bow that saved my life,’ Edgar reminded him. ‘Even so, Giles…’
‘What’s to do, Edgar?’
‘Kazan must go to Dafydd’s country,’ he repeated, doggedly. ‘It will give her peace of mind.’
‘And you call us obstinate!’
‘You must go with her. For her protection and,’ Edgar added thoughtfully, ‘she tells me you have it in mind to go to your own home in the Marches. It’s a good thing to do, make peace with your father while he’s still living.’
‘It can wait.’
‘Giles!’
‘It can wait.’ Giles was tight-lipped in a way Edgar had never seen before. ‘How can we leave you, knowing you’re in danger? Have some sense, man. We left Dafydd behind and now we have no idea what’s become of him. What do you think Kazan would feel, leaving you and Agathi in danger? It’s more than she could bear.’
Edgar stared at him, suddenly comprehending, his heart wrenched for Giles because his love for Kazan was hopeless. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course, you must stay.’
Giles avoided his eyes. ‘There may be word of Dafydd, come the spring,’ he said.
The April days passed: the smaller trees put out green leaves and dawn bird song grew loud and sweet; fields were greening; lambs and kids had become sturdy; new-coppiced and pollarded trees were flourishing. Easter was close. There was no more news from Ieper.
Roger de Langton was resolute. He offered his men as security. ‘We need a way to communicate,’ he said. ‘Our pigeons?’
‘I’ll send word should we need your help. But you must look to yourself. Who knows what’s in their minds?’
Roger de Langton hesitated. He watched the sombre face of the young man sitting by his side. ‘My young friend, I do not think your brother is responsi
ble for this’
‘Do you not?’ The question was eager.
‘No. Perhaps his wife? Perhaps that is a naughty thing to suggest. This Cedric Hayward is a bad man, and bad men will do evil deeds, without any other to set them on.’
Edgar sighed. ‘I hope you are right, Sir Roger.’
‘Please, dear boy, call me Roger, plain and simple.’
Edgar shook his head. ‘I cannot.’
‘Then try your lady’s name: Father Roger.’
Edgar smiled. ‘That I can do. Father Roger.’
‘I give thanks to the good God that you are returned, my boy.’
The journey to Catley Priory was on a day when it seemed spring had hidden itself behind chill winds and stormy skies. Sudden squalls of hard hail made the journey unpleasant. Giles went with him. They rode down the sloping hill to the flatlands and fenland and the Priory. ‘And this is Blue’s country?’ Giles said.
‘Something like. Mine as well,’ Edgar said. ‘If you think this is drear you should see Croyland.’
‘A desert,’ said Giles. ‘A wet desert.’
‘Not at all, my friend. It’s teeming with life. A larder of good things. All manner of sea birds and their eggs; eels, pike, perch, roach, turbot, lampreys.’ His mouth watered at the very mention. ‘Samphire in summer. Then there are sedges and rushes, for thatching and basket making. Salt-making, of course. There are many salt works and it’s very profitable. This is a great and wonderful place.’
Giles started to laugh. ‘Blue should be here,’ was all he said when Edgar asked what the joke was.
Catley Priory was in dire straits; that was clear. Poverty smacked them in the face. ‘We owe so much in taxes,’ said the Prior. ‘I do not know how we shall survive. But how can we help you, my sons?’
He frowned at the news, this ascetic old man with grey-white hair and gaunt face. ‘Of course, we hoped you would return. Your father was very distressed when he knew you had fled and there was no trace.’ He sighed. ‘A good man, your father, but only willing to listen to his own reasoning. It was only after you’d gone that he confessed his wrongdoing.’
The Heart Remembers Page 20