They docked, and it seemed the whole city had turned out to greet them. This was a winter homecoming safe from the sea. Blue and Niko and Mehmi lurched down the gangplank on to the quayside. Here we are, Blue thought helplessly. What now?
‘We must ask about our friends,’ Mehmi murmured. ‘Surely someone must have news of them.’
He nodded, grateful for the sensible advice. ‘We need lodgings an ’all,’ he said then, in sudden alarm, ‘Where is Hatice?’
‘There is lodging for all foreigners,’ the captain had told him. ‘I shall give you directions. But if you are friends of the Gistinianis, as you say, then perhaps you will stay with them?’
He was doubtful, suspicious of these poverty-stricken strangers, even if they had been shipwrecked. The Gistinianis were rich and powerful. What had these peasants to do with them? He had taken them on board as a favour to his friend, the Muslim Abu Hazim but a friend for all that, but they could barely pay their way. They had kept themselves to themselves the whole journey, and that was good. Now he wanted to be rid of them.
‘The Gistinianis? You can tell me who they are?’ It was the woman who spoke. She had not left the ship with her friends. He wondered whether to ignore her, as she deserved, but she was capable of making him listen and speak. He knew that. She was an unwomanly woman who did not know her place.
‘Yes, siorina. I know who they are. See? That tall man standing in the arch? That is Francesco da Gistinianis. He is a very rich and important man in Venezia.’ Too important for you, he wanted to say, but she was already down the gangplank to join the rest of her friends and pointing towards the sior. Well, let them approach such an important man. They would learn how the Venezia treated such low creatures. Then he was staring, astounded. Sior Gistinianis was smiling, taking the big man by the hand, embracing him. The heathen – the Muslim who played the strange instrument – he too was embraced. And – God protect us – the woman as well, and the small boy who did not know how to keep a still tongue. Greeting them as if they were good friends – or family.
‘You are welcome, again and again,’ said Francesco da Gistinianis. ‘You arrive too late to see your friends. They are all gone across the mountains to Flanders.’ He sighed. ‘I have much to tell you.’
‘Not all good?’ Hatice asked.
‘Not all good, Mistress. No. Some of it not good at all. But come. You must stay with me in my ca’. Oh, it is very good to be with friends of Davide and Giles and the good Thomas. And our Kazan of the bright gold eyes. And those two beautiful angels, Edgar and Agathi. And the little silent one. Rémi? That was his name? Yes? Indeed, there are merchants leaving tomorrow; they will travel over the mountains to the north countries but there is still snow and the threat of avalanche. Must you leave so soon? You must be tired after your long voyage. And shipwreck, you say? Yes, I understand. Of course you must go. But let us make this night one of rejoicing.’
22
Bradwell
May 1337
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu
(Anon.: c. 1260)
Oluf was sulking. He’d been sent with two younger boys – a pair of recklins – to gather new-grown stinging nettles and dandelion leaves – ‘the brightest green from the centre’, as if he didn’t know – and fresh-sprouting wild garlic and young hawthorn leaf buds. It was what the youngest were sent to do. It didn’t make it any better that he was in charge of these two young boys. He deserved a more important job now. Look at what he’d done for the manor! It wasn’t fair. He wanted to make arrows. Jack Fletcher said he was good at making arrows but his da had cuffed him for cheek and said he should learn to know his place. Oluf had glowered at him and there were sharp words and sharper waps. Joan had watched him pass by and he made a great show of being in charge of the two young ’uns. She lifted her chin and the bucket she carried. She had been set to feeding the hens and finding their eggs.
Ellen watched the three boys trudging up the track that led to the north field and, after that, the Long Wood where they were told to go so far but not as far as the pond; that was forbidden until they knew it was safe. She sighed. What was she to do with the boy? He was becoming impossible. He wouldn’t obey her this morning. It was his father who had forced him to do as he was bid and sent him off with a scarlet cheek and ringing ears. She didn’t like to see the boy chastised so, and there had been harsh words between husband and wife before Bernt also raged from the house, reminding her so much of his son that part of her had to smile. She hoped both would return in better humour. She hoped this child she was carrying would not bring as many problems. She caught herself up. What did the problems matter against a living, healthy child? She had lost the last two bairns, one in the womb, the other only weeks after birthing. A terrible loss. She couldn’t bear to think on it, even now. It was something they never spoke of, she and Bernt, but she knew he had grieved over the little lost ones, and was anxious now that all was well. She felt well. Better than last time. Happen because life had been easier with the coming of Edgar and Agathi – warmth, and food in your belly, and not worrying where the next bite was coming from.
Meanwhile, she had promised to take Agathi and Kazan to the Long Wood in search of healing plants. Not far into the wood. Not as far as the pond. There must be no risk of danger. They would keep in sight of the men working in the fields, and Kazan would have her bow. But they had need of the new spring growth after the hard winter. She hadn’t expected the small, dark girl to be interested in such things but it seemed her grandmother had been a wise woman, and Kazan had learned healing from her. Her Nene would have been interested in the plants that grew in the cold countries, Kazan said. Full of surprises was this small, dark, foreign girl.
‘Like my mother and grandmother before her,’ nodded Ellen. ‘They passed down their knowledge to me, though Hilda knows more than I do. She can’t walk as far or as easily these days so I do the gathering and we share the preparing.’
She looked after the three figures, dwindling now into the far distance, the two younger boys bobbing after her son’s longer stride. Perhaps she would see him later, when he’d had time to get over his anger. She saw Agathi and Kazan come down the outer staircase of the hall and cross the yard to the track, where the villeins’ cotts began, and went to meet them.
It was peaceful in the Long Wood. The day was warm, the warmest this spring that had been so long in coming. A willow warbler trilled from a high branch. Such a tiny bird, such quiet colours, such a loud song, thought Kazan. This, then, was the English spring Blue had yearned for: so many shades of green; so many different kinds of leaves and plants and bushes and overnight it seemed they grew more and more. The air was sweet with the scent of foliage and flowers. Ellen knelt beside a patch of spindly plants bearing small white flowers.
‘Stitchwort,’ she said. ‘It’s a healing plant, good for wounds. My grandmother used to pound it with acorns and steep it in wine and honey but it’s just as good mixed with goose fat.’ She heaped the stitchwort she had gathered into her basket. ‘And this one. It’s celandine. See – such a beautiful yellow. We say it is loved by swallows and they come down to it to make their eyesight better but,’ she laughed, ‘I do not know if this is true for swallows see everything. But for us poor people, yes, it is true enough. This flower, boiled together with gill and daisies and the water of roses, will help the eyes. My mother said to apply it with a feather. The old grandmother has found much relief from this. Alas, it cannot cure her but it helps.’ She dimpled suddenly, changing from serious teacher to mischievous young woman. ‘See – if I dig up a root – look.’ She showed them the little clustered bulb-like roots. ‘We also call it pilewort because these roots look like piles.’ She pursed her lips, said very seriously, ‘Master John Reeve asked once if it would be help for him.’ She gave up the attempt to be serious and the three young women rocked together in laughter. Ellen wiped her eyes. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘with spring here we need a good cleaning of our bodies.
And this clinging little plant is very useful.’
Kazan laughed. Just growing, and already the creeping little plant was catching at her clothes.
‘Cleaver,’ said Ellen. ‘It catches all that is rank in our bodies. There are others that do the same. Bramble shoots and young nettles are good and I plan on making a good drink for us all. That way, we say goodbye to the winter and welcome the spring. With your permission, Agathi, I would like to serve it at our next meal.’
‘Ellen, that is an excellent idea. What is this?’ Agathi asked. She touched the silvery bark of a tree that already shivered with green leaves.
‘Silver birch. That is our physic tree. All parts can be used. The leaves I shall add to my spring drink. The buds are good mixed with honey for the children. The sap as well. The bark – ah the bark – is so good for plasters for sore knees and stiff necks.’ She smiled. ‘One year, a Norse man came to the village selling his wares. I was very young but I remember he had such pale blue eyes and fair hair. He had cooking pots and baskets and they were made from the bark of this tree. We do not have the skill but I have often thought of trying to make the same.’ She gestured towards a small white fungus growing on the tree trunk. ‘See – a horse hoof. That is what we call it. This one is small but there are some that are very large. See inside this hard shell – how soft. We make a hole inside and light these to keep away the summer flies and stinging insects.’
They walked on through the woodland. Ellen stopped and gathered and explained. Plantain, again and again, especially useful for wounds. Burdock. ‘The children know the leaf is good for nettle stings but if you heat the leaves they are a wonderful remedy for sprains and aching joints, especially with barley flour added.’ Somewhere, a cuckoo called. Cuccu. Cuccu. ‘Listen,’ said Ellen. ‘Now I know spring is here. These are strange birds. We never see them; we only hear their call. Bernt says they turn into sparrow hawks in winter but I do not know if this is really so.’ She smiled. ‘I think they fly away until winter is over but I do not say so to Bernt.’
She stopped by a tall pine. ‘This is a special tree.’ She rubbed her hand across a cut in the trunk. ‘Smell. Isn’t it good? Once Bernt had a rusty nail in his foot and Hilda put this juice from the tree trunk on a cloth and warmed it until it was softened. She put it on Bernt’s foot and pulled out the nail and all the badness. He was better in days. The pine needles are not yet sprouted but we shall come back to gather them. They are delicious.’ She sparkled. ‘You will see – and taste.’
Agathi breathed deeply. ‘How good it is to know the winter is past and summer is to come.’ Her hand cradled her belly, swelling now. Spring and summer. And then? If only this terrible blackness did not hang over them, how happy she would be. Ellen was singing quietly to herself.
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu;
Groweth seed and bloweth med
And springeth the wude nu.
Sing cuccu!
Kazan wondered away from the two girls towards a tree that had been coppiced long ago. Tall graceful trunks rose around the great dead centre, towering high above her head to where bright green foliage flickered and swayed in the slightest of breezes. She rested her cheek against one of the trunks and stared up into the branches. If only he would come, she thought. Or even a message from Father Mertens. Something – anything – other than this terrible waiting. She stroked the smooth bark beneath her fingers. But I know you are alive. I feel it, as surely as this tree is alive beneath my hand.
‘Ah,’ murmured Ellen. ‘So you have found our Queen of the Forest. She is our heart tree. In June, she will flower and the perfume then is so delicious. I come here when my heart is heavy.’ She glanced at Kazan’s face but said nothing other than a quiet, ‘Agathi and I shall walk a little further along this track. Only a little. It is not safe otherwise. We shall wait for you.’
‘Give over blating, yer maddocks,’ Oluf snapped at Will and Simon. ‘O’ course nettles’ll sting if you don’t grasp ’em hard.’ He blew out his cheeks. He was tired of their whining. He’d made them come further than he’d been told, out of spite. ‘No further than the very beginning of the Long Wood,’ his da had said. Well, they’d gone further, much further – as far as the Old Wood, where hardly anybody went. He’d never been as far, and all the time the boys protesting. There were boggarts and sprites in the Old Wood, they said.
‘Frittened o’ boggarts?’ he sneered. ‘Soft as shit, you two. There’s no boggarts here.’
But he shivered himself, all the same, and looked about him. There was a quiet stillness here that should have been peaceful but he felt edgy as his da’s sharp dagger. A cuckoo called, the first he’d heard that spring. Cuccu cuccu. Strange birds. Never seen, just heard. Come winter they’d change into sparrowhawks, his da said. He thought how his mother would sing the cuckoo song whenever she heard the call. Cuccu cuccu. He’d a memory of her singing it to him when he was just a tiny bairn, and how he’d joined in. Sing cuccu. He remembered her smiling face, and how she kissed his cheek and stroked his hair. Then he remembered her face this morning, streaked with tears, willing father and son to stop their fierce quarrelling. It made him feel bad. Just here, where his heart was.
Rapid drumming of a woodpecker. Somewhere a tiny wren shrilling loud song. Bracken was pushing up through the blanket of last year’s oak leaves, leaf-ends uncoiling like a serpent’s tongue. No leaves on the oaks, yet. If oak is out before the ash then we’re in for a splash…the rhyme ran through his mind. If ash is out before the oak then we’re in for a soak. Were the ash trees greening? As yet the tall trees were mostly bare of leaves. It was the smaller trees and bushes that had greened overnight, it seemed. He felt himself jump when a blackbird shrilled loudly close by. Simon was moaning again, rubbing nettle-reddened hands.
‘There’s birdseed ower theer,’ he relented, pointing to where dock leaves poked through bramble briars. ‘Grab a hand’s hold and rub it ower yer nettle stings. That’ll cure yer.’ He pointed to a patch of bright green grass spiked with marsh plants. ‘Keep away from there, ‘less yer want ter be mud up to yer middle.’ He snickered. ‘Up ter yer necks, two maggots like you be.’
He wished now he hadn’t brought them this far. Like an ambush, this place, he thought. Little wonder folk didn’t come much to the Old Wood, though they’d made their way through easy enough this time of year, even though there were stinging nettles in plenty, and thorny whippy mayflower branches and great thick bramble briars higher than their heads that clawed their faces and tangled their hair when they pulled at the new young shoots; purplish-green thistles barely a thumb’s height as yet but savage with prickles; hidden roots and stumps of rotted trees lay in wait to trip them; worst of all, runnels of deep water hidden by grass and all seeping into a great pond of brown water. Dried stalks of sedge grew near the edge, and stumpy rushes. It gnarled him that the two bairns might fall in and get tangled in the weed that lurked under the dark surface before he could get them out. They were whining now that they were tired and hungry. He was hungry himself though he wouldn’t tell them that. He jerked a thumb at a hawthorn tree sprouting new bright leaves.
‘Theer’s bread-an’-cheese fer yer,’ he mocked. ‘Bite on that. Mind you don’t go nodding off under it else the fairies ’ull fetch yer away.’
The three had all but filled the reed baskets they’d had pushed into their hands. A few more handfuls and then they’d go back. Simon was opening his mouth to whine again when Oluf heard the blackbird shrill again: a warning. In the same split second he realised what had been gnaggling him: yes, the way had been easy. Too easy. There was a track already trodden, and recently. His heart hammered.
‘Whisht,’ he hissed, and clapped his hand over Simon’s mouth. He pulled them all to a halt and listened. It was Will who first caught the muted sound of muttering voices. Any of the village men, they’d not be in the Old Wood, thought Oluf, and if happen they were, they’d be clattering about, not stealthy. He froze, remember
ing the warnings he’d heard in the village. He wished then he’d taken heed of his da.
‘Whisht,’ he breathed again to the boys. ‘Not a yaup out of yer. Lie down smack-smooth.’ He pushed them down into the undergrowth, not caring if they fell on nettles or thistles. ‘Stay hidden. I’ll give yer a great ding i’ the ’ead if yer make one sound.’ He crept closer to where the voices came from. He carefully pushed aside branches of green-leaved hawthorn. He pulled his hood over his bright silver curls.
‘I’m told you know how to make a living hedge, Bernt.’
‘I do. Who told you so?’
‘Luke.’
‘What do you wish, Master?’
‘What do I wish? I wish to restore the pleasure garden for our wives. I want it to be a beautiful place for them to sit and be at peace. I think it will ease their months of bearing our children. What do you say? If you make the hedge right, and we tend the garden that was here, wouldn’t that be a good thing?’
Bernt nodded. He was still smarting from this morning’s fierce quarrel, first with his son and then with his wife. It made it harder that she was right; he had been too harsh with the boy. And he should know better than to wap the boy about his ear. Wasn’t that how Simon Weaver’s son came to be stone deaf in his left ear? Hadn’t Simon blamed Lord Alfred? Last spring, after the old lord died, Lord Alfred came riding into the village and the boy was in his way so he’d wapped him across his head. Ever after, the boy heard no sound in his left ear. Stone-silent.
He shook the memory from him. What the master asked was a good idea. It would please the mistress, and Ellen would be pleased that she was pleased – and a place for them both to rest! If Ellen lost this child she would be saddened beyond bearing. He studied the overgrown hedging. Hazel. Whippy new branches had sprung up. This was a good time of year to train them again into a layered hedge. He considered again. There were some lengths of timber that he could use as supports for an arbour. Hazel poles in plenty to stretch across them. Enough timber to make a seat inside the arbour. He set to work. Edgar had brought the wicker baskets that had once been used to contain plants and trees in this pleasure garden. Hilda came with him.
The Heart Remembers Page 22