The Heart Remembers

by Margaret Redfern

  ‘And now you are so tired,’ Agathi teased him the next morning. ‘Sleep today, dearest.’ She chuckled. ‘Then you can stay awake all this next night.’

  She might smile and tease, he thought, but she too must have been wakeful though she had given no sign. He had thought her asleep. This morning she was pale cheeked and under her eyes were soot-smudgy shadows. He didn’t ride Sorrel around the manor that afternoon but sat in the solar gazing out through the window at the cloud-laden sky and the land they had tended so carefully. Barley and oats were shooting up now, and the furrows of wheat. The pease fields were doing well. Fruit had set on the trees in the orchards. It should be a good harvest this year. Cattle and sheep and pigs, all healthy. Calves and kids and piglets, almost all born alive and lusty. Everything promised a good year. They’d talked together, him and Roger de Langton, about grazing more sheep now that King Edward was intent on maintaining the ban on export of fleeces to Flanders. The Flemish weavers would be without work. Perhaps they would come here? Set up a weaving industry here in Lincolnshire? Was it a wild thought? It was a heady thought. Heinrijc Mertens would be the man to consult. Except now there was Eudo’s gang, and Cedric Hayward, and his brother Alfred’s wife. And Simon Weaver who he would have trusted with his life. Round and round it went in his head, like the carols they sang at feast days but without their joy.

  The next day they brought Simon Weaver to him, his arms tight-bound behind his back. The man was white-faced. ‘I was coming to you, Maäster,’ he said frantically. ‘I was, Maäster, truly I was. Ask them where they found me, and if I tried to run away.’

  Jack Smith shifted his feet. ‘True enough, Maäster Edgar. Can’t say otherwise. He was coming down from the Long Wood, creeping secret like. When he saw us he waited for us to come up wi’ him.’ He glared at the men with him. ‘True enough?’ he challenged them.

  They nodded, muttered, uneasy, anxious. They all liked Simon Weaver, and were sorrowful for his boy. And him with no mother, and Simon wifeless. She’d died last winter, worn out with work and cold and not enough to eat.

  ‘Untie him,’ Edgar said.

  ‘Nay, Maäster, yer mustn’t.’

  ‘Let him go. He means us no harm. Do you?’

  ‘No, not any on yer. I didn’t know as what they were set on doing.’

  ‘Tell us.’

  It was as Oluf had said: an attack, and the village razed; Edgar killed and his wife; the manor ransacked.

  ‘My folk, Maäster, my folk. I couldn’t have it.’

  ‘Who wants this?’

  ‘The Maäster’s missus.’

  ‘And the Master? Does he know of this?’

  ‘No, sir; that he does not.’

  Edgar breathed again. Alfred did not know. His brother did not know. God’s gift.

  ‘When do they plan their attack?’

  ‘I’m not right sure, Maäster. May’appen tonight or the next night but soon. Before the full moon. That I’m certain on.’

  A hand muffling his mouth. ‘They are here,’ breathed Agathi. He was awake instantly. ‘Bernt has seen them.’

  ‘Stay here, love.’ He kissed her quickly on her mouth, felt her kiss him back.

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘I shall, sweetheart.’ He grabbed hold of his sword and belt and hurried through the solar and across the stirring hall. Only women and children here now, and those few men on guard. The rest of the men and older boys were all in their new-built cotts or watching, as they had been instructed, turn and turnabout. He eased open the great door and slid out on to the head of the outer stairs. A shadowy figure was there. ‘It’s Bernt, Master. I sent word there were men about.’

  Edgar gave a quick jerk of the head that Bernt probably couldn’t see. ‘Agathi woke me. Where are they?’ His fingers fumbled on the belt fastening. The weight of the sword was heavy. Somewhere near an owl was calling. A flutter of pale wings swept by them.

  ‘Long Wood. Coming down by the field track.’ He glanced at the man standing next to him. ‘Best cover yer head, Master. Bright as moonlight, yer hair.’ Edgar felt his face redden, was glad of the dark night to hide it, pulled his hood over his head. That nod of his head, then, had been visible.

  ‘We thought as they might fire the fields,’ Bernt went on, ‘but they haven’t. Happen they plan to fire the village.’

  ‘Can we stop them?’

  ‘If Master Giles and Mistress Kazan have done their work, yes. Sir Roger promised us armed men.’

  They watched. The bellying moon moved clear of cloud cover; in its half-light, fickle shadows flickered over the village. ‘There,’ breathed Edgar. They saw a shape flit from barn to stable. And another. ‘Is it sure Sir Roger has men on guard?’ he asked again.

  ‘I’m certain of it, Master Edgar.’ Another glance. ‘We’ll keep the mistress safe, never fear.’

  ‘And Ellen.’ And the babes they carried in their bellies. Neither man spoke of this.

  ‘See there, Master? Look beyond the barn, if you can, into the shadows. That’s where Sir Roger’s men are. We’ll see them stir themselves now.’

  Eudo and his gang advanced into the yard, sure that they had surprise on their side. These villagers? Asleep. No idea of the planned attack. And then there was a warning cry, and horsemen bearing down on them, drawn swords glinting in the light of blazing torches where seconds before there had been no light. Not Sir Roger’s men. These were streaming in from the northern track, down the marshy hillside. Plashy sounds of horse hooves came clearly to the two watchers then change to thudding as they gained firmer ground. Who were they, these armed, fierce men who were routing the gang? Above the clamour there was a halloo, a whistle, a shout. ‘Stay close, Edgar. No need to show your head for shooting.’

  Eric. It was Eric! And riding close beside him was Alfred. Torchlight lit up his face, stern and fixed. Edgar saw horse and rider bear down on one of the gang. The horse reared and the man’s arms came up to protect himself from the flailing hooves then he stumbled and was under the belly of the horse. His screams were loud, even above the tumult. Then the horseman was wheeling away, sword raised high.

  ‘What are they doing here, my brothers? How did they know?’

  Bernt didn’t answer. There was no answer. He was as mystified as Edgar. Nothing had been told of the danger they were facing at Bradwell.

  From out of the shadows of the barn came Sir Roger’s men. Despite the dark and desperate fight, Edgar glimpsed Giles. And Kazan. Who had allowed Kazan to attack with the men? He answered himself. No one. Kazan was a law unto herself. Her bow was taut and an arrow unleashed, unerringly finding its mark, despite the night darkness. Then she was lost from view.

  ‘Stay here, Master. Make sure the men are guarding the hall.’ Bernt was gone, leaping recklessly down the outer staircase and melding with the fighters in the yard. Master, he had said, thought Edgar, but it was an order he had given. A sound order, but a true lord of the manor would be down there fighting with his men, not cowering up here in safety. All the same, he went back into the hall, made sure the men were at their posts, bows already strung and drawn. Agathi and Ellen were there amongst the women, he saw, helping them hush the frightened bairns. He went back to the great door and dragged it open. There was turmoil below him in the yard and beyond, into the village houses. Should he stay here, protect the women and children? Should he join his men? He hesitated, his sword drawn from its sheath. He hadn’t felt its weight in his hand since Attaleia, and that desperate attempt to rescue Kazan and Niko from the house where they had been imprisoned by the slave trader Veçdet.

  Clink of metal on stonework. Muffled grunt. Movement. Stealthy movement. A dark shadow creeping up the stairs in the darker shadow of the wall. Cedric Hayward. Edgar recognised him at once, by his shape not his face. Then the hayward gained the topmost step and Edgar saw his face grinning with glee. A bare blade was in his hand, held waist-height, slanted upwards ready to strike a man in the belly. Edgar stepped forward, his own sword rais
ed and ready. The hayward laughed. Edgar understood instantly; his sword arm and the sword were too close to the stone wall; he had no room for manoeuvre. Cedric Hayward had the better plan of approaching with his sword levelled, not raised, and it was in his left hand.

  ‘Well, Master Edgar, and ’ere you are, ’iding away wi’ the women.’ He giggled. ‘You cock’s egg, you blond curls, you woman.’

  The man lunged forward and Edgar swung back against the door. The sword thrust went past him, the man following its sweep. He would have been inside the doorway except that Edgar twisted and stretched out his leg so that the hayward stumbled and would have fallen but he was agile and quick and saved himself, bringing his sword up close to Edgar’s face. But Edgar had his own sword ready now and parried the stroke. As at Attaleia, the ringing blow shuddered through his entire body but now Edgar ignored it. Cedric Hayward must not enter the hall. Agathi was there. Agathi must be safe. He shifted his grip, felt the shaft in his hand, lashed out at Cedric Hayward with the hilt and saw him stagger. He lashed out again and this time struck the man full in the chest. Cedric Hayward fell backwards down the stairs, down and down, until he was a heap at the bottom. He lay motionless. Edgar started down the steps towards him. Eric was shouting his name. Bernt was there with sword ready. Then Cedric was up on his feet and staggering into the darkness.

  ‘Are you safe Edgar?’ Eric’s voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  Alfred’s voice. ‘Let’s have more light here. See who we have.’ A pitiful round-up of the remnants of the gang, broken and bruised, and their dead comrades. There were losses too in the village. Mourning for more than one household, Edgar thought. But Eudo was dead, and ten of the gang, and only three of the villagers killed. Alfred had a gashed forearm and Giles bruising down his face. Luke was badly hurt. Simon Weaver was there amongst the wounded, nursing a shoulder wound. He was weeping.

  ‘But you warned us, Simon Weaver. Without you, there would have been no warning.’

  ‘He fought with us, Master Edgar.’ One of the villeins spoke out.

  ‘But he is a traitor all the same,’ Alfred said.

  The man’s head came up. ‘It’s you ruined my son,’ he said. ‘I wanted to ruin you.’

  Alfred grunted, disbelieving. ‘I? Destroy your son? What fantasy is this?’

  Edgar said, ‘It’s true, Alfred; you were the one who ruined his son’s hearing. A moment’s anger. A sharp clout across his ear. That’s all. But enough to ruin the boy.’

  ‘What? This is nonsense. When did I do such a thing?’

  ‘Last spring, my Lord. When you were here with your wife. I saw it happen.’ The villein’s voice was even, flat, deliberate.

  ‘You are insolent.’

  ‘He is truthful, Alfred.’

  Alfred sighed. ‘If I did so I am truly sorry for it.’ He sucked in his breath through tight teeth. ‘But the man admits he plotted against us.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. Alfred,’ Edgar said sharply. ‘The man is sorry for what he has done.’

  Alfred hard-stared him. ‘And so you would pardon him? You are more of a fool than I thought.’

  ‘Better a fool than a murderer.’

  Brother stared at brother. Never before had his young, golden-haired brother stared so into his eyes. So adamant. So determined. Such blue eyes. Blue like their mother’s. Alfred dropped his gaze.

  ‘I don’t know what you plan, brother.’

  ‘Why, brother, justice. That is what I plan.’

  Alfred closed his eyes, breathed hard, nodded. Of course. This was how he had always been, this brother of his, always one for justice. Then Giles was with them, muttering urgent words.

  ‘Kazan isn’t here,’ he said. ‘She rode off after Cedric Hayward.’

  ‘Is anyone looking for her?’

  ‘Bernt’s gone with some of the men.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘You need me here.’

  Yes, thought Edgar, I do need you. I need Blue and how I wish Dafydd were here. Where are you, Dafydd? She won’t believe you are dead, and neither do I, but we need you here. Come back to us, Dafydd. This man, Simon Weaver, I think he truly repents, but what should I do? Is Alfred right after all? There is the boy. What justice would it be to make him fatherless as well as motherless?

  ‘Best get the wounded seen to,’ he said. ‘That’s a bad weal on your face, Giles.’

  ‘There’s blood on your sleeve, Edgar.’

  Edgar looked down, saw where the cloth was turning red. Strange, he hadn’t felt the blow, didn’t feel the hurt even now. ‘More work for Ellen and Hilda,’ he said, and felt the blood leave his face. Shameful, to be carried to his bed. Shameful, to be laid low while his men were wounded. He braced himself against the door frame. ‘It’s nothing – a scratch. What’s happened down there?’

  Giles slanted a long look. He talked of the wounded and the dead, of Eudo’s gang finished. Around them, Ellen and Hilda tended to the wounded, wincing at the sight of a deep gash in Luke’s thigh, the cloth of his hose and breeches embedded in the wound, chips of bone speckling the cloth. Another gash across his temple.

  ‘I s’ll have to hurt you, Master Luke,’ Hilda said. The old man nodded. It was as much as he could do. He couldn’t speak. Hilda breathed a sigh of relief when he sank into unconsciousness. ‘Best fer him, Ellen,’ she said. ‘Let’s be doing. Your man too, Mistress. Looks white, he does. Get him over here.’

  Edgar heard her voice as if in a dream. The doorframe was no use to him now. His arm had started to throb and blood was pouring down his arm.

  ‘Find Kazan,’ he said, and fainted.

  She had seen the man tumble headlong down the stairs; seen Edgar at the head of the stairs; seen his sword hilt a cross against the lighted hall. Golden curls aureoled his head. An avenging angel, she thought, come to see justice done. And the wretched, creeping creature that had caused all this? He was away into the dimness of dark before dawn. She wheeled Yıldız around and followed the shadow. There he was! She flung herself off the mare, raced after the man, but he had heard her, was ready with a short dagger. He didn’t speak. His face was twisted with fury. He grappled her to the ground and pointed the dagger at her throat. Even in this dark light she could see the savage glee in his eyes. She twisted, bit down hard on the fleshy part of his thumb, taking him by surprise but he stifled his gasp. She writhed away from him, but not far enough for safety. Her breath was rasping, and his as well, but there were no words spoken. He grabbed her again by her hair, pinned her down by it so that she choked with pain. The dagger was at her throat again. Except there were hoof beats and shouted warnings and the yelping and barking of the manor hounds closing in on him. His head came up. He scented the air like a wild beast, then thrust her hard back into the undergrowth and was gone into the darkness of the Long Wood.

  Bernt was there first. He tumbled down from his horse. ‘Are you hurt, Mistress Kazan?’

  ‘He’s getting away, Bernt! He’s getting away! You must follow him!’ She gasped out the words in Turkish but the sense was clear, and the way she gestured frantically to where the hayward had vanished into the Long Wood. The hounds were circling her, sniffing and growling, waiting for commands.

  The three men riding with him had caught up. Bernt nodded at them and they urged the panting, plodding farm horses onwards in pursuit, the hounds loping alongside. Not that Bernt expected them to find the man. Too many places for him to hide, and once he was in the Old Wood not a hope of tracking him down, not even with the hounds. Too many stretches of water where the scent would be lost.

  ‘You are safe, Mistress. This is what your friends wish for most. Come. Your horse has gone. She will be back in the stables, I think. Meanwhile, come up with me.’ In his own language but the sense was clear and he reached out a hand to her, pulled her up in front of him. A foolhardy, fearless, courageous girl, this one. He felt how her whole body trembled against his. Not fearless, then. The more courageous for it.

  ‘I owe
you my life. He would have killed me, Bernt.’ She tried to find the words in his own language and failed. ‘Thank you,’ she managed. He didn’t answer only held her more closely against him.

  A clatter of hooves in the courtyard. Bernt was back, with Kazan. Giles reached up to Kazan where she still half-lay in the curve of Bernt’s arm. ‘Is she hurt?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No blood. We got there in time but he would have killed her, no doubt about it. Has her horse returned?’

  ‘Yes, just now.’ Giles breathed freely at last. He lifted her down, kept his arm around her. ‘We were worried, Kazan. You shouldn’t have followed him, and alone.’

  ‘I could have taken him.’

  Bernt snorted with laughter, relief combined with admiration. Giles flung him an angry look. Eric grinned. ‘I’m sure you could, Kazan. If anyone could have caught him it would have been you.’ He asked. ‘What happened to the hayward?’

  ‘Gone into the Old Wood,’ Bernt said. ‘I sent the boys after him, and the dogs, but I doubt they’ll find him.’

  ‘Maybe not this day but we’ll find him,’ Alfred said, grimly.

  It couldn’t be helped, Giles thought. And truth be told, he cared nothing now for the man. All that mattered was that Kazan was safe. And Edgar and Agathi. Nothing more they could do now except tend to the wounded and the dead. Tomorrow was the time for questions and answers. But tomorrow was become today. Already dawn was creeping in and the hedge birds were cheeping. A pearly grey dawn with mist clinging to the beck and spiders’ webs stretched from bush to bush. A blackbird shrilled from a high branch. A black cloud of crows lifted from the Old Wood and flew chuntering towards the mill. Yesterday had become today and today there were questions to ask and answers to be given.