The Heart Remembers

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘A sign, my husband!’ Hatice crowed. ‘We are safe and so are our friends.’

  ‘’Appen so,’ said Blue laconically, but he was impressed. That white storm of snow and rocks to sweep past them and leave them unscathed? This was a miracle. May’appen his friends were safe and waiting for them the other side of these high mountains. Mog on, then, he thought, best mog on.

  24

  Bradwell

  May 1337

  Ich hem habbe itrodded in wrethe and in grome,

  And all my wede is bespreind with here blod isome

  (I have trodden them down in wrath and anger,

  And all my raiment is spattered with their blood together)

  (William Herebert: 14thC)

  ‘He is not guilty, Giles.’

  ‘He knew of your father’s Will, Edgar, and he kept it silent.’

  ‘But that is different. That is the choice of a foolish man.’

  ‘He did not honour your father’s wishes. That is not a foolish choice, and you know it,’ Giles said, impatiently.

  It was almost twilight. Somewhere, a late blackbird trilled and warbled. The drenching rain had stopped but leaves splattered heavy drops so that it seemed it rained still. The evening was fragrant with the fresh, moist smell that comes in spring time after heavy rain. The setting sun sent rays of light glancing through the window, and the flickering shadows of branches. It should be peaceful, thought Edgar, and yet it is not. He sighed.

  ‘He did not know of the plan for Cedric’s escape,’ he reminded his implacable friend.

  ‘And he had no idea of a plan to murder you?’

  ‘No! Oluf has said so. Giles, we are talking of my brother,’ Edgar protested. ‘He is my brother.’ There is always room for faith.

  ‘And you think brother does not murder brother?’ Giles was sardonic. ‘And you five years with the monks?’

  ‘I know. Cain and Abel. But there was never such jealousy when we were young.’ He stopped. Was that true? Hilda had spoken of jealousy. Jealousy and resentment because it was Edgar whose birthing had killed their mother. ‘I don’t know, Giles. My head can’t think.’

  ‘I understand, my friend. These are difficult matters.’ Edgar heard the pain in his friend’s voice. Yes, he thought, this is Giles who had to make the choice between his father and his brother. Choosing is never easy.

  ‘I must find out if Eric knows anything of this.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until then, Giles, we must fend for ourselves,’

  ‘Yes,’ he said again. He was silent a moment, watching the sinking sun and the dappled light of leaves on the old stones of the window. ‘We thought, Edgar, it might be a good idea if we pretended to leave.’ Giles regarded his friend’s face. ‘You know, we make all the gestures of leave-taking, packed mules, fond farewells…’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We go to Sir Roger’s and wait for the gang to attack. And they will, once they know the manor is not defended.’

  ‘Defended by you?’

  ‘Yes, Edgar. By me, by Kazan, by all of your villagers. Does it matter? Without us, you are without a guard.’ Giles pursed his lips. ‘This is no time to be precious about your pride. There’s no time to lose now Philip’s made it official he’s confiscating Edward’s fiefs in France. Edward will be commissioning fighting men before summer’s over. Sir Roger is in danger as well, Edgar.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Giles sighed. ‘Edgar, you are my good friend but I would lie if I said you were a good soldier – and you know it. Your skill lies in a different way. Let us each to our own, altar boy.’ Another time he would have laughed at Edgar’s outraged face but not now. ‘I envy you, Edgar; you are skilled in making harmony where there was discord, making a destroyed land grow again – making a baby, for Mary’s sweet sake. And you are frowning because your skill is not destruction and death. What an idiot! And here was I thinking you a clever man of learning.’

  Edgar laughed, reluctantly. ‘If you were not my friend, Giles…’

  ‘Yes, I know, it would be swords for two. And I would win hands down. And Agathi would be husbandless and your child fatherless and Kazan would denounce me for a murderer and…’

  ‘All right, Giles, all right. For Mother Mary’s sake, I understand. What’s your plan?’

  Kazan halted by the girl who was piping a tune on a crude elder pipe, playing notes like the birdsong Kazan had heard in the Long Wood. The girl was far-off in her thoughts, her strange greeny-yellowy eyes dreaming.

  ‘Joan,’ Kazan said. ‘Do you think you could play this pipe?’

  She held out the swan pipe that gleamed like moonshine. Joan put down her own pipe and took the swan pipe in her hands, curious and careful, her fingers caressing the smooth bone.

  ‘Not never seen a pipe like this. Seven holes. More n’ mine. Still, different but same, mistress,’ Joan said. ‘Should be able.’ She blew into the pipe. The note was clear and bright and caught on the air and mixed with the swallows’ chittering. ‘It’s a lovely sound, mistress.’

  ‘It is my grandfather’s pipe,’ Kazan said. ‘I wish you could play this song.’ She hummed the tune that Nene had said was Ieuan ap y Gof’s. The girl followed her, tracing the notes on the swan pipe, at first hesitantly then with more assurance then in disbelief.

  ‘This was the song of the Outlaw,’ she said.

  ‘It was the song of Ieuan ap y Gof, the great pencerdd, and the music master of my grandfather’s brother.’

  Joan’s yellow catkin eyes were wide in disbelief. ‘It is the song of the Enemy,’ she said.

  Kazan stared at her. ‘How can this be so?’

  ‘It is what my father said, and his father before him. His father was with the old Edward who led the great army into Wales. He said the Welsh music man was a troublemaker. This song of his called the enemy to him so they would fight.’

  ‘But he was a good man,’ Kazan said, slowly. ‘My Nene told me so and she was never wrong.’

  The little girl’s face set in stubborn lines. ‘It’s not right to play his song.’

  Kazan sighed. The girl played well, and it was wonderful to hear the notes of the swan pipe. A miracle, a voice calling her from a long-gone past. ‘What about this song?’ she asked. ‘This song was made by my grandfather’s brother, made especially for my grandfather. My grandfather is dead now, and I think the brother also. I would like very much to hear this song.’

  The girl nodded. She wanted to play the pipe again. So rich a sound, so beautifully made. ‘Sing it for me, Mistress Kazan.’

  Kazan hummed the first low notes of the song. The girl’s fingers faltered at first and the notes squeaked out in disharmony. She frowned. ‘This is a difficult tune to play. More difficult than the other.’ She tried again, and a third time and this time the notes came out pure and true. ‘A lovely song,’ Joan said, ‘but sad.’

  ‘It‘s a praise song,’ a voice said behind them. Simon Weaver the villein, whose wife was dead and whose son was stone deaf in one ear. Simon Weaver coughed and hawked up phlegm. None of Hilda’s and Ellen’s salves and potions had cured him of his winter sickness. The women of the village helped him as best as they could, when he would let them, and then only for the son’s sake; the men too, but it was hard going for the man and his son. They all said so, and pitied the two. Now he halted by the young girl and the girl not-so-much older.

  ‘You know it?’ asked Kazan.

  ‘I’ve heard it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve not lived here in this manor all my life, girl.’

  Kazan ignored the man’s rude roughness.

  ‘Where then did you hear this?’

  ‘What does it matter to you?’

  ‘It matters because this is the song Ned made for his brother Will who was my grandfather. I did not know them. I know only what my Nene – my grandmother – told me. When I went to find my grandfather in the spring, it was too late. He died in the winter cold. I ne
ver heard this swan pipe until now Joan plays for me. She is very skillful, I think.’

  ‘Aye, she’s a right enough little lass.’ The man’s face was surly. ‘Spit of her ma, she is. Pretty face and pretty ways yer ma had, little lass.’ He snorted back phlegm. ‘Yer’ve more sense than she had. Go on – play the tune for this one.’

  ‘But where did you hear it?’

  The man grunted with laughter. ‘Nivver give up, do yer? Scotland, girl, fighting for Edward. Which one? Does it matter? Same – different – war’s always the same for the little man. Hard and brutal and now there’s to be another. Heard yer song one night. Minstrel brought in for the men – keep us sweet, see. He played it, the brother. Nivver forgot. Not nivver. Aching sweet it were. Made you long for things as you couldn’t nivver have.’

  Joan raised the swan pipe to her mouth again and played the notes sweetly and sadly. Kazan felt tears prick her eyes. Made you long for things you could not have. Dafydd, I long for you. Shall we ever meet again? She realised Simon Weaver was wiping his sleeve across his eyes, and his face was surlier than ever. A man who hid his true feelings; a sad man.

  ‘Did yer ever hear this one?’ he asked suddenly. And his hoarse voice rasped out a song that should have been soft and gentle. He broke off, hawking up phlegm.

  ‘Yes,’ Kazan said. ‘It is the song for Angharad.’

  A song I sang for Angharad before she died.

  Gold girl, bright sun face, gift of goodness,

  Gentle magnanimous girl

  May she not want, may she find heaven…

  ‘My Nene said she was a lady of great goodness and beauty who lived again through music as if the Saint Beuno had breathed life back into her. Like Saint Winifrede whose presence was always known by the sweet smell of frankincense and violets.’

  ‘Eh, yer know all this, though yer be frim folk?’

  ‘It is my family,’ she said. ‘We know of many things, from many countries and many gods.’

  ‘That’s blasphemy, girl.’

  ‘Is it?’ She stared at him, and he ducked his head, not wanting to meet that golden gaze.

  ‘’Appen not,’ he agreed.

  ‘No. Same but different. That is what we say, me, my dear friends. We are Christian and Muslim and good friends.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, mistress.’

  He lurched to his feet and shambled away across the yard. Joan and Kazan looked after him. They heard him coughing and spitting.

  ‘He is a sad man,’ Kazan said.

  ‘Shall I play for you again, mistress?’

  ‘Yes. Can you teach me to play, Joan?’

  ‘May’appen, mistress.’

  Kazan and Giles left the following morning. They travelled light, leaving the packhorse behind at the manor. Besides, the horse had mostly carried gifts for Agathi and Edgar. The villagers followed them as far as the new bridge, waving and cheering, sad to see them leave, though the tight circle of trusted men knew what was happening.

  ‘You’ll see Roger de Langton?’ Edgar had urged, in front of all the villagers.

  ‘Yes, we owe such courtesy to Lord Roger, Edgar,’ Giles said. ‘But we cannot stay long. We must be on our way westwards. We have a long journey ahead of us.’

  ‘Goodbye, my dear friends. God go with you. When you return, Dafydd will be here for certain.’

  Edgar watched them leave. He wondered who was watching here with them, who would take the news to Eudo. When would they attack? He wished Agathi were better protected. He insisted she stay in the solar, with Ellen. He remembered Oluf’s tear streaked face as he told his story, and how he spoke of Cedric Hayward’s determination to hurt her. He would not. Edgar would not let that man harm her, his beloved, his wife – nor their child.

  It was quiet after they’d left. So quiet. Only those two were gone, the man Giles and the strange woman they called Kazan, yet their going made the manor seem empty. That afternoon Oluf lurked behind the kitchen door. Rain was setting in again. Gentle rain, summer rain, good for the crops. He watched it sweep over the low hills. He’d promised his da he’d watch over the growing crops in the south field. Protect them from birds and vermin. Terrible dull work but he’d offered. He was trying to be good. But when he set out, he saw Simon Weaver crossing the yard. Nothing odd about that. But then the man hawked and coughed and spat. He always did but now it reminded Oluf of the man in the Old Wood. The unseen man. The informer. The traitor. Could it be Simon Weaver? Not possible. Simon Weaver was their friend. When his da was ill, and his ma weeping, it was Simon Weaver who had helped them. When his da was locked away and accused of killing the bailiff, Simon Weaver refused to believe it. No, he must be wrong. Besides, Simon Weaver’s son had the deafness in one ear and Oluf’s ma gave him potions to help, and for Simon Weaver and his bad chest. Then Simon Weaver coughed and hawked again, and muttered an answer to the old grandmother sitting outside in the May sunshine. Half blind she might be but her hands were still quick and sure, weaving rushes into baskets, and her hearing recognised the sound of Simon Weaver’s footsteps on cobble. She called him by his name. It was him; no mistaking that low mumble any more than the hawking and cracking of gobbets of phlegm in just that way.

  Oluf slid away from the door into the shadow of the kitchen wall. He watched Simon Weaver’s round-shouldered trek up the track to the Long Wood; saw the furtive glance cast behind him. Should he follow? The boy who had thought to herd the escaped boar back to the sty said yes; the boy who had led Will and Simon into the Old Wood urged him on. But it was a different Oluf who had returned from the Old Wood, bringing the boys back to safety, and this Oluf shook his head. This was no time for puffed-up pride. Best tell his da and Master Edgar. Let them decide what was best to do. But they were away up in the coppiced wood checking for signs of trouble. Mistress Agathi was in the solar with his ma. He’d go to her.

  Someone moved by the dairy; he twisted round sharply to see who it was, wary as the yard cats. Joan was loitering there, drying her hands on a scrap of cloth. She lifted her face to the sun. She looked tired. Her bright hair was scraped back from her face and bound with clean linen. It threw her thin face into sharp profile. Churning butter, probably. Maybe cheese making. Plenty of milk now there was lush grass for the cows to eat. A hard job for a young girl. He hadn’t thought before how hard she worked, doing any job that came to hand, and no complaining. Not like him, all sulks and bad temper if he didn’t get his own way. She’d done well, that day he’d come stumbling back from the Old Wood. Never a word to ask what he was about; just went to call his da and Master Edgar from the garden they were making for the women. Never a word after, though she gave him one of her straight, sharp looks. Same thing that wintry day, long ago now it seemed, when he’d followed Mistress to the undercroft and screeched for Joan to bring Hilda. Suddenly, he wanted her by his side when he went up the steps to the hall and into the solar. He wanted the comfort of her. She’d believe him. She’d back him. She always did. He called to her and saw how her face was wary. Well, he’d given her cause in the past. She came across from the dairy towards him.

  ‘What’s to do, Oluf? We’re busy in there. I’ve to go back sharp.’

  ‘Will yer come wi’ me? I need ter talk about matters wi’ the mistress and ma.’

  She stared at him without speaking. Strange eyes. Like catkins in the sun. She nodded. ‘If that’s what yer want.’

  Oluf breathed out the breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding tight inside him. He grabbed her hand and pulled her with him to the hall stairs and hurried her up them. The door was open to let in the breeze so he went in. He thought at first the big chamber was empty. Sunlight danced through the windows and cast flickering shadows on the beaten floor. It lit up the carving on the hearth hood. Rain cloud chased it away. His mother was standing in front of one of the aumbries, opening its wooden door.

  ‘Ma?’ he croaked.

  ‘Oluf? Why are you here?’ Ellen’s surprised gaze flicked past him to Joan. �
��Both of you.’ She sighed. ‘More trouble, Oluf?’

  ‘I’m not sure, ma, but I think I should speak with the mistress.’

  ‘She’s resting, Oluf. This is her first child, remember.’

  His glance flickered over her body, saw how her belly was swelling. ‘You need to rest as well, ma,’ he said. It came out more pugnacious than he meant. He saw her smile, her lovely smile, lift the weariness in her face.

  ‘But you mean to trouble us both, my son? You must think it important. Come.’ She beckoned the two children across the length of the hall and into the solar. Mistress Agathi was half-lying in one of the cushioned window embrasures, watching light and shade, light and shade, turn and turnabout, of the sun in the orchard trees, and the rain clouds shadowing the line of the low hills. She looked up when Ellen came in.

  ‘Two visitors, Mistress,’ she said, and stood aside so that Oluf and Joan were there in the doorway.

  Agathi smiled. They looked so small and young and nervous. She registered the determination in Oluf’s face and sat up, very straight. ‘What is your trouble, Oluf?’ she asked.

  It was easier now to understand her. She had learnt much of their language though the words were still strange on her tongue. He gave a little clumsy bow.

  ‘Mistress,’ he said, ‘I think I know who the traitor is.’

  He saw how her hand went at once to her belly; saw his ma’s hand do the exact same thing. First thought was for the bairn. That’s how it was when she carried me, he thought. Strange and wonderful, that’s how women were. He realised he was still holding hands with Joan and he didn’t care who saw him.

  The night was dark and still and warm though it was still early May. Edgar couldn’t sleep. He was restless at every sound. ‘You must rest, husband,’ Agathi said drowsily. ‘We have guards enough.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart,’ he murmured. But he did not sleep. Oluf’s thunderclap sounded in his ears. Simon Weaver? He would have staked his life on Simon Weaver. Happen Oluf was mistaken, this time? He sighed and turned. No. The child would not have spoken unless he was certain. But how? The way the man coughed and spat? His voice, low and muttering? As fragile as spun webs in a gusting wind. And yet. And yet…the man had a grudge, true enough, against his brother. Luke had said so. Cause enough, a child whose hearing was damaged by a careless blow. Grudge, then, against him?