‘Do you know how to prune the roses, Maäster?’ she asked doubtfully.
Edgar smiled. ‘If you teach me, Mistress Hilda.’
She folded her arms across her breasts so that they bulged together. They heaved with her sigh. ‘I remember when there was peach trees grew here, Maäster, before the bad years of famine. Your mam was living then. She liked it here in this garden. The old Lord had it maäde for her. Now yer abaht the same fer the mistress. It’s as it should be.’
‘My father had the garden made?’ He tried to imagine his father and mother in this pleasure garden, walking about a flower-studded lawn or sitting together under an arbour hung with sweet-smelling roses. He couldn’t.
‘He used to bring you here after she died, poor laädy,’ Hilda said.
‘He brought me here? To this garden?’
‘Happen you were too young to have a memory of it, Maäster Edgar. Eh, I can see you now with yer bright curls and blue eyes begging a pear from that owd, half-dead tree ovver theer. He’d hold you up in his arms for you to pick the one you fancied.’
‘I think I do remember that, Hilda,’ Edgar said, slowly. Being high up and reaching out for the fruit through leaves that turned this way and that. Dappled shadow. ‘It must have been harvest time.’
When had his father’s love turned to hate? As if he’d asked the question, Hilda said, ‘Your brother was that jealous of you. We could all see that.’
‘My brother?’
‘My Lord Alfred. Not Eric. He was always a sunny little lad, not much older than you and glad to have you for a plaäymate. But Alfred! What peevish tricks he used to play on you, in your cot and then when you was toddling. A tale-teller, was Alfred.’ She caught herself up as she remembered who she was talking to. ‘Though I says it as shouldn’t, begging yer pardon, Maäster Edgar. Best forgot, innit, now yer hoöme and all brothers together again.’
‘Yes, best forgotten.’
Hilda sighed gustily again. ‘I’ll be best pleaäsed when we’ve laäid that Cedric by the heels, and that gang he’s tekken up with.’
‘You and me both, Mistress Hilda.’
She shook her head over the villainous Cedric and the straggling briars. ‘Now see look, this is what yer mun do, young Maäster.’
A small clearing and at first he thought a fallen tree but when he looked closer he saw there was a small shelter cobbled out of broken branches. Nearby, four men sprawled against the trunk of an ancient ash. Cedric Hayward was one of them. Oluf eased himself closer. He didn’t recognise the other three. Two were not village men and the third had his back turned.
‘Wiv Easter ovver and guests gone we’ll ’ave our opportunity,’ Cedric was saying. ‘De mistress will reward us hif we dispose of dat cock’s egg of a bruvver. I promise yer dat. She ’elped me escape, remember?’ He chuckled quietly. ‘She’s a rare ’un, me Lady. Couldn’t bear to let goldy-locks inherit the manor – better destroyed, she ses.’ He imitated her high, harsh voice. ‘Now it’s in good fettle, reckons it’s easier to get rid of goldy-locks dan de manor.’ He was sharpening the end of an ash branch with his bright knife. Oluf caught the glint of sunlight on the blade as the man moved it up and back, up and back, whittling the point to sharpness. ‘Eever way, good fer us. Pickings to be ’ad ’ere now.’
‘What of our new brave lord? What does he say? Thick as thieves, all three brothers together, from what he says.’ The speaker was a short, dark man, barrel chested, with muscular arms and legs. He kicked out at the fourth man, silent against the bole of one of the tree trunks.
‘Doesn’t want the manor to go to goldy-locks. S’why ee’s said nuffin’ about dat Will.’
‘But the young lord and lady visit Roger de Langton. She’s often there. He must have said something.’
Cedric gritted his teeth. ‘Trew, but we know nuffin’ ’bout dat. ‘Sides, ee’s an old man. Could peg out any time.’ A slice of the knife blade. ‘Better sooner dan later.’
‘Does the new lord know about your Lady’s plans?’
‘Yer joking? Yer tink ee’d agree to putting ’is bruvver away? As yer say, fick as fieves. No stomach fer it so ’ee knows nuffin’.’ He held up his knife in warning. ‘And ’ee never knows nuffin’. See?’
‘Think we’d go running, Cedric?’
‘I tink it would go some way to winning yer a pardon, Eudo.’
Eudo! The short, dark man was Eudo!
‘I doubt that,’ Eudo said. He held up a flagon, tilted the neck towards his mouth. He swallowed so loudly Oluf heard it from behind the leaf screen; the liquid guzzled down his throat, his Adam’s apple working up and down. ‘So it’s agreed? We get rid of goldy-locks and – well – the manor’s looking good for the taking, eh, boys?’
Oluf was shivering. He gulped back the bile that rose in his throat. He stepped back, heard the sharp swish of the branch as he let it go, its clatter. He froze.
‘Wot was dat?’
‘Never heard nothing, Ceddy. You getting nervy?’
‘You getting careless? Sure yer weren’t follered?’ he shot at the hidden man.
A grunt, another hawking cough. ‘Not me.’ A low growl.
One of the men gestured towards a scampering creature, red-tufted ears alert, bushy tail coiling and uncoiling. ‘A squirrel, for sweet Mary’s sake.’ It paused above their heads, chattering a warning, then leaped away from one narrow, springy branch to another, high in the tree tops. Its mate leaped after it. Further away, a buzzard lifted silently from the branch of a tree and soared skywards. Somewhere invisible, the woodpecker drummed and the cuckoo called. Cuccu cuccu. Cedric Hayward grunted. ‘I like a town, me. Knows wot yer dealing wiv. Now, we need a plan. It’s ’ard while dese cursed friends are ’ere and training de villagers. An’ de light nights coming.’ He snorted. Spat. ‘Dat unwomanly creature, dat furrener, prancing ’bout wiv a fancy bow.’
‘She’s a dead shot, Cedric. Our friend here saw how she took that boar in the throat.’
‘And another through its eye.’
The hidden man snorted and hawked fat phlegm that splatted on dried brown leaves fallen in autumn. Oluf squirmed closer, trying to catch a clep of him.
‘Ah, wot I’d giv to subdue dat one as she deserves.’ Cedric breathed hard. ‘Still, once dose two are gone, dere’s nuffin’ to stop us. Wench-faced Edgar? ’Ee’s a pretty boy. And dat wife of ’is? How did ’ee ever get ’er wiv a brat in ’er belly?’ He tested the sharpened point against the tip of his thumb and grunted with satisfaction. ‘I’ve a score to settle wiv ’er. Oh yes, ’ow I’ll see to ’er. A good seeing to, dat’s wot she’s asking for, boys. And after dat – let’s look to riches, bruvvers.’
Oluf rolled silently away and slithered back to the boys.
‘Say nowt,’ he gritted. ‘Uppens, and come away wi’ me.’
He made them go silently through the woodland, making scrutchings on the trees so that he’d recognise the place again. When they were a clear distance from the Old Wood he hurried them down the hill track and back to the village.
It was Ellen who saw them first, stumbling down the hill; they all three watched Oluf stop to let the smallest one climb on to his back then he was lurching along, young Will clinging hard on and Simon trotting close beside them. No sign of the baskets she’d sent them with. ‘Something’s wrong,’ Ellen breathed. She gripped tight hold of the woven basket, glad it was pannier style and slung on a woven strap across one shoulder, She would have run after the boys except Agathi grasped her arm, stopping her.
‘Take care, Ellen,’ Agathi cautioned. ‘The ground is uneven here. Do not risk falling. We cannot catch up with them. We can only go as fast as is safe for our bairns.’
Ellen nodded. Understood. So difficult not to hurry. Kazan held back her instinct to run after the boys. Instead, she kept pace with the two slow-moving women.
The younger boy was mulfered. ‘I’ll pag yer,’ Oluf said, and squatted down so the tired little legs could hoist themselves on to Oluf’s bac
k, and skinny arms wrap themselves round Oluf’s throat. ‘Not so tight, Will, else yer’ll throttle me. Simon, yer mun run along o’ me.’ Simon gazed up at Oluf, adoration in his eyes, blood oozing from a deep scratch on his cheek.
‘That’s all right, Oluf,’ he said. ‘I’m not tired. It’s Will who’s fazed like.’
Oluf hardly heard, didn’t see Simon’s awe. Da, he thought, da will know what to do. The morning was forgotten, and the cuffing. He thought only of the comfort of his da’s strength and purpose. ‘Say nowt o’ this,’ he cautioned the boys. ‘Mebbe yer’ll need to tell me da or Maäster Edgar. Nob’dee else, now.’ Will shook his head, frightened by Oluf’s vehemence, by the presence of the bad men, by the thought of having to talk to the Maäster. Simon nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Oluf.’ They passed by Joan without seeing her. She stared after them, then ran fleet as a hare to the place where she knew Hilda was, and the Maäster, and Oluf’s da.
‘Is this true, son?’ Bernt was stern, not sure whether to believe his son. A storier, when it suited him, but…
Edgar had sent the two younger boys away with Joan and Hilda; let them settle themselves, have their scratches cleaned and salved, be comforted. First they would hear Oluf’s story. He led the boy and his father into the manor house. The sun was shining through the windows, shutters opened now for air and light. Shadows danced along the floor and dust motes flickered in the light. Best leave them together, he thought. Bernt will call me when he needs to. He settled himself at the further end of the hall.
‘I heard ’em, da,’ Oluf insisted. ‘I heard ’em. They thought as nobdee wasn’t there but I heard ’em.’ He was shivering with fear. He tried to hide it. His father was so strong, such a hero, how could he show fear to his brave father? ‘I couldn’t stay longer. There were the two young’uns to get safe. I couldn’t trust ’em to stay safe hidden and quiet like I told ’em.’
Bernt considered. Yes, he believed the boy. The harsh words of the morning were forgotten. He’d been expecting sulks from his son: not this. The boy’s face was as pale as his curly hair and his hazel eyes wide with shock.
‘I’m sorry, da.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I disobeyed you. I took them two to the Old Wood though you told me not to go no further than the pond in the Long Wood. Then when I heard the men I should have stayed. Heard more. And we left the baskets behind though we’d filled ’em.’
Bernt shook his head in disbelief at the string of jumbled confession. The baskets? Devil take the baskets. ‘My son…’ He stopped. Closed his eyes. Tried again. ‘My son, I am angry because you risked your life, and the lives of the two boys, in going to the Old Wood.’ I love you. He tried to say the words but they stuck in his throat. ‘Your mother and I,’ he said, ‘we want you to be safe in these dangerous times.’ He sounded pompous. What would Ellen say? She would say that she loved him and was proud of him. Why couldn’t he? ‘You did what was best, what was right, to bring those two back safe. I shall take your information to Master Edgar.’ He stopped again, longing to take his son in his arms, hold him close, comfort him, thank God for his safe delivery from the gang and that brute of a hayward. If the man had taken him… Bernt felt again the vicious blows the man had dealt him until he couldn’t breathe, could only curl up against the next and the next… He tried again. ‘You were brave.’
Oluf felt his eyes brim with tears. He wiped his sleeve across them before his da could see but it was too late. He saw the horrified look in his father’s eyes and burned with shame.
‘My son,’ said Bernt. His hands came up to the boy’s head, closed on the precious silver curls, drew him close against his own strong body.
Oluf clung to him ‘I wasn’t brave, da,’ he choked. ‘I should have listened more but I was frittened.’ The tears were rolling down his cheeks leaving runnels of dirt and grime. ‘I’m shamed.’
‘My boy, my son, I am only glad you are safe.’ He sighed, bent, rested his cheek against the boys’ head. ‘I am sorry for this morning. I should not have hit you. I love you.’ It was easy, he thought. Not difficult at all but easy. I love you. My Ellen, my wife, we are blessed again and again despite our lost bairns. His son sobbed and sobbed with fear and relief and Bernt held him tight.
Unseen, Kazan, Agathi and Ellen came into the hall. Edgar heard the sound of their footsteps. He held up a warning hand to stop them coming closer. He had heard the tale of this morning’s quarrel; heard how Oluf was becoming too hot to handle. Let his father deal with him now.
‘I wanted to be brave like you.’ Oluf rubbed away snot and tears.
‘Boy, I’m not brave.’
‘You are! You are!’
A man who could not protect his woman and child? Who was rescued by a foreign, fragile creature? Brave? ‘I am not brave, son. I am a man. That is all.’ He grasped his son closer. ‘Listen. When Cedric Hayward took me prisoner, I was helpless. Your mother tried to help me. The young master’s wife kicked his…’ He hesitated. ‘Kicked his make-water and so he was abless. But not through me. I am not what you think me.’
‘You are. You are my da and you make things good.’
Bernt sighed. ‘I try to, my son. That is all. That is all any of us can do. Try to make things good.’ He rubbed his cheek against his son’s head. ‘Now, with Master Edgar and his lady, we have a chance of making things good.’
Oluf stirred. He raised his head, wiped bleary eyes. ‘They said as it was Maäster Edgar as was to have the manor, da. That it was the old maäster’s will.’
Bernt took his son by his arms, held him in front of him. ‘You are sure of this?’
Oluf nodded. Yes. Of this he was sure. But the fourth man? The one who had heard and seen so much? ‘There was another, da, but I couldn’t see his face. His back was to me. I tried to have a clep of him but I saw nowt.’
‘His voice?’
‘He said nowt much.’ Oluf frowned. The shivering had stopped and he was trying to think, remember. Now his da believed him, he had to remember all he could. ‘He saw the boar killed. And he knows about the visitors – I mean, he knows they are good friends and about the training.’
Bernt looked at his son. Oluf’s gaze was honest and open. He shifted his gaze across the hall to Edgar’s.
‘I think there must be a spy in this manor, Master,’ he said.
23
Journey to Ieper
May 1337
O tresses of cloud on top of the snowy mountains
Will you untie your hair and shed tears for me?
(Yunus Emre: 14thC)
The high mountains and some of the passes were still blocked with snow.
‘But we can travel now?’ Blue insisted. They had stayed far longer than the night they intended.
Francesco da Ginstinianis sighed. ‘You can. But there is still the danger of avalanche. Better to wait a week – two weeks – longer.’
Blue thought hard: Da Ginstinianis knew the trade routes, knew the dangers, but Dafydd and Thomas had travelled in dangerous March. God willing, they would be with Heinrijc Mertens by now. Should they wait or travel? He asked Hatice what she thought.
‘Let us go on, husband.’
Always she wanted to go on and on. It seemed she would never rest until she was with her daughter again: the adopted, slave daughter she had taken as her own. Mehmi too wanted to travel on though his was a different wish. ‘I do not like it here, Blue. There are many different peoples here, and trade with many different places, but I do not feel comfortable. And after what happened to Dafydd…’ No, that was beyond bearing, no matter how profuse the apologies of the élite, these nobles of Venezia. They had tortured him, their Dafydd, trying to make him confess to what was not. Barbar, this land-sea country. He longed to be rid of it.
As for Niko, his was the response of the young, the daring, the foolhardy. ‘Let’s go – why have we waited so long? Edgar and Agathi will be so surprised to see us. And Kazan. I want to see Kazan. Let’s go now!’
&nbs
p; And so they did. There was an afternoon when it seemed an avalanche would sweep them away. They were easing their way over one of the fragile wooden bridges that crossed over chasms too deep for reckoning. The flimsy structure swayed and jolted under the weight of the pack animals and their human cargo. The mountains were higher than any in Anatolia, their tops reaching into the heavens, lost in mist. They heard the slow, loud roar and looking up saw the high snows began to slip. The marronier cried a warning and urged them on to the further side. Quick! Quick! The marronier pushed them behind rocks, animals and all, kept them safe. They watched, open-mouthed, as the tumult of debris, of bouldered snow and rocks and torn-off trees and branches, boulders, flying stones hurtled towards them. The noise of it hurt the ears, the teeth, drowning out all human voice. The snowstorm raged close past them. Too close.
Under his breath, the marronier muttered imprecations against the fools who travelled when there was still the threat of avalanche and who did not know how to keep themselves safe. It was not so many seasons since his friend had been engulfed by an avalanche. A miracle he was saved from under the snow. His wife was with child and she refused to believe he was dead. One day in the spring he came back to her. He had made an air hole through the snow and so survived, on breath and water from handfuls of melted snow. He said his unborn child spoke to him in his icy prison and it was this that gave him courage and faith. She refused to believe he was dead. Only two months ago there were two foreigners, two men, struck down by an avalanche. It was a miracle they had halted their fall before they reached the crevasse. One had the sense to poke his stout stick up through the snow and so they had breathed and lived and were rescued, though one was badly hurt, he had heard. Better not to be buried in the first place. He scowled at the travellers. They were gazing back at the beautiful, still, white sea. All quiet now, all calm, all still.
The Heart Remembers Page 23