Edgar roused himself. His arm was bound in white linen. It throbbed still but the pain was dulled and this was no time to play the wounded boy. He had insisted on getting up out of his bed, joining the group of men deep in discussion. His brothers, Eric and Alfred; Giles; Bernt. Not Luke. He was badly wounded, the gash inflamed and reddened. A fever, Hilda said, frowning. No help then from Luke, his man of sense, and such anxiety for his recovery. Wearily, he turned to Alfred. ‘You must tell me why you are here, brother,’ he said.
‘Because you needed me,’ said Alfred. He shrugged. ‘That is all.’
Edgar looked down. He knew he must ask. ‘Is that all, brother? You knew our father made me heir to this manor and yet you denied it to me.’
Beside him, he heard Eric’s sharp breath.
‘Was this attack known to you?’
‘No!’ Sharp, heartfelt, honest. Edgar felt his own heart lift. ‘I had no idea that this was planned. You must believe me. I would never do you harm.’
‘But you have.’
‘Not like this! Never like this!’ Alfred was heavy hearted, shamefaced. ‘Yes, I resented you,’ he admitted. ‘Our mother died and I blamed you. It was wrong of me but a young boy’s foolishness, Edgar. I never wanted father to send you to Croyland. Never.’ He sighed. ‘When you escaped I wondered if you might come here. You always loved this place as much as Father. But there was no word of you, no sign. Father was…’ He stopped, staring into the past. ‘Grief-stricken,’ he said at last. ‘He was determined to secure the manor holdings for you, Edgar, should you ever return. Then he proposed Philippa as a bride and it seemed a good match. I wanted only to please him.’ He sighed again. ‘It was a bad day’s work.’ He laughed, short and harsh. ‘A worse night’s work.’ His head came up; he looked Edgar straight in the eye. ‘I would never harm you like this. You are my brother and I love you. You are the image of our mother and I love you for that also. You have come here and made this manor a profitable place again, and its people happy. My wife?’ He laughed again, the same short and harsh laugh. ‘I have no wife. I heard her talk with the hayward. That is when I knew of her plans. I ordered her to get back to her father. I came here as quickly as I could and, thank the good God, in time to help. That is all, Edgar, and I say this before our brother and your wife and your people.’ He looked around the men standing in front of him. ‘I am ashamed.’
Eric stood dumb foundered. He had had his own suspicions after that Easter meeting. He had arranged for messages to be sent by pigeon, the fastest means, and both his own manor and Rochby kept excellent dovecotes. When his man had spotted Cedric Hayward lurking by the bridge, he had sent a message of warning, and so Eric had ridden out, with his men, to Rochby, and Matty went with him; she would not stay behind. He was driven by he knew not what. A sense of danger. Worse, Matty agreed. His sensible, practical wife agreed. What to do? They’d ridden hard to Bradwell, and just in time. He wished Matty was with them at this meeting, and all the company of women; calm Agathi, bright Kazan, gentle Ellen, even the stalwart Hilda. Women, he thought, who had more sense than war-driven men. But this was Edgar, gentle Edgar, and already he was embracing Alfred, kissing him with the kiss of brother and friend.
‘You are my father’s eldest son and his rightful heir. You are my lord and I owe you allegiance. You are my brother and I love you.’ He spoke as formally as Alfred, pledging himself to his brother, as Alfred had pledged himself. Edgar looked around the men standing in front of him. ‘I say this before our brother and my wife and my people.’ He looked Alfred in the eye, equal to equal. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said, as if Philippa were dead, not cast off.
Later, the three brothers walked across the yard, past the fishponds and the orchard to the church. Agathi and Kazan were with them. Alfred wanted to light a candle, pray to God for forgiveness. He paused outside the porch. His hand traced a grooved pattern. ‘I saw this at Easter,’ he said. ‘Do you remember it?’
They did. It was the graving of a hobby horse – a stick horse, the mason had called it. He’d been working on the east and west walls, making a place for new windows for the church, and new glass. He had watched the young brothers’ pretend-fighting, astride stick horses with wicker heads. It must have been after some festival and a mock tournament. ‘The porch because it is not allowed in the church,’ he had told them. ‘Remember this day,’ he had said, ‘when you were young and made only a game of fighting.’ His face was serious. ‘May it always be so.’
A game of fighting? Eric remembered how Alfred had lunged at his youngest brother; he had missed, caught Eric’s shoulder and laid him flat on his back in the duck pond. ‘Remember, brother?’
Alfred blushed as red as hearth bricks. ‘That is true. I remembered all through the Tenebrae service. And there was the Judgement painting on the wall.’ He heaved a great sigh. ‘And still I said nothing.’
‘That’s all past, brother,’ Edgar said. ‘Come – look at the carving of the sailing ship. Remember that? I looked for it soon after Agathi and I arrived here.’ He halted by one of the fat round pillars in the aisle. All three brothers had taken a hand in carving a sailing ship low down on one of the pillars. They had intended it to be a cog. They’d seen such sailing ships in Boston Haven. It was a good likeness. He traced its outline with one finger.
Kazan came up to him. ‘I have seen the same in our churches,’ she said. ‘But there the sails are set differently.’ Her face was sad. She was pale and drawn this morning. Agathi had said to him that Kazan was more shocked by the night’s happenings than she would admit.
Alfred said suddenly, prompted by the carved cog, ‘They say Philip’s warships are raiding our southern coast. Attacking and looting. There’ve even been French ships seen at the mouth of the Thames. Our merchant ships are at risk, some captured. He’s attacked Edward’s castles in France, and he’s trying to invade Gascony. It is intolerable! Edward has as much right to the throne of France as Philip. I’m taking my men to join the King very soon now.’
‘That explains why Heinrijc Mertens has sent us no word.’ Edgar saw that Kazan was gazing at a line of Latin inscribed in the doorway.
My hope is in God because, O Christ, I trust in Thee.
He translated for her. He hesitated. ‘He will come.’
Sunlight flashed through the east window lighting up the little stained glass Christ in Glory, sending flashes of blue and yellow and red across the chancel and nave, across their faces and arms and hands. Kazan’s face was suddenly, gravely, ecstatic. ‘I know he will.’
They were only just returned to the hall when the messenger arrived. He was exhausted, white-faced, bedraggled with travel stains. His horse was trembling with the exertions of the journey.
‘Trouble, Rudd?’
‘Trouble, my Lord.’ The man shuddered. ‘Terrible trouble.’ He hadn’t wanted to be the one to bring the news. ‘He trusts you,’ they said, and so he was mounted and sent on his way with the image still burning in his head.
‘Tell me,’ Alfred said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
‘No, my Lord.’ But he was. They all knew of the wild anger between their lord and lady, all the servants; they had talked of it, secretly, behind screens and closed doors. Many were glad that she was to be sent back to her father but others, her own people, spoke out angrily, defending her. All for nothing. Not now. This terrible thing had happened. Who could have foreseen it?
‘Your wife, sir, she is dead.’
‘What?’
‘She is killed sir, murdered by her creature, the hayward Cedric.’
There. It was out now. Now he must bear the consequences. What a message to be charged with. He dared not look the master in the eye.
‘Rudd, you have always been an honest servant, an honest man. Tell me what you mean.’
The man swayed on his feet, heard my lord Edgar call for wine and Lord Alfred’s sharp exclamation. ‘Sit down man. What time did you set out?’ A cup was pushed into his hand and he drank from
it, grateful, hardly aware of where he was. He was sitting on one of the window seats in the great hall, he reminded himself, and Lord Alfred standing over him. ‘Tell me now. What has happened?’
The man Rudd took a steadying breath. ‘It was sometime before midday, sir. We were all about our business. The Lady Philippa, she was in the solar, sir, with her women and the Lady Matilda. We didn’t even see him come, sir. I swear we didn’t. First we knew, the women were screaming murder. Mark Bailiff was first up into the chamber, and me, I was right behind him. My lord, such a sight. She was all bloodied and her throat sliced open like a stuck pig’s.’ He remembered the pooled dark blood and her face distorted and mouth open in a soundless scream. He shuddered. ‘I’m that sorry, my lord, that sorry, but it unmanned me it did. Mark Bailiff, he was the one. He’d his sword out and he ran it through that man, that creature who killed her.’
‘What man?’
‘Why, Cedric Hayward, sir. It was him.’
‘Brother.’ Eric laid his hand on his brother’s arm. ‘Matty?’ he asked the messenger. ‘Is my Lady safe?’
‘Yes sir, I swear it. She said to tell you, my Lord, that she stayed to set all to rights, as far as she was able; her sorrow to you, my Lord Alfred, for your loss; to you, my Lord Edgar, and to your Lady, for your troubles.’
Sorrow for his loss? Matty was more likely to be thinking it was all for the best, this death, and the shame of a wife packed off back to her father. But Matty was safe. His Matty. His dear wife. She was spared. He could hardly breathe. But his brother – ah – there was the thing. Philippa was dead, murdered, her throat slit wide. He saw Agathi move closer to her husband, half understanding the news. Edgar’s sound arm came round his wife, holding her close. Together, united, combined against anything that was thrown at them. Yes, these two would survive anything and everything. His little brother, the runt, the weakling, Alfred’s target. It was Edgar who would protect the manors; who would create harmony and prosperity for their people.
‘You did well to get here so fast with this news.’
‘Mark Bailiff said as I must get here as fast as I could, Lord Alfred.’
‘Thank God for Mark Bailiff,’ Eric said.
‘A good man. He has always been a good man. First for my father and now for me.’ Alfred’s voice was too calm. Eric couldn’t guess at his thoughts. A horrible end. An unimaginable end. But it released Alfred. Even now, with the news come so suddenly, he knew that. He glanced at Alfred and saw that he knew it as well. A fitting end, a murderous end for a woman who had plotted murder, but it was not Christian to think so, let alone voice to any other soul.
‘We must send word to her father,’ Alfred said suddenly. ‘She died defending the honour of the manor. That is what he must know.’ He turned to the messenger. ‘Rudd. You have done well. You must be exhausted. Go to the kitchen for food and there will be a place for you to sleep.’ He cocked an eye at Edgar. ‘If you agree, brother? You are master here.’
‘Of course I agree,’ Edgar said roughly. ‘This man has stood enough. Time now for him to rest and recover.
25
May 1337
France
It was mine owne strengthe that this bote wrought
(It was my own strength that brought about this rescue)
(William Herebert: 14thC)
It was the forests that all but did for them. France, and close enough to journey’s end; close to Troyes, where the roads met and parted, one heading towards Paris, theirs towards Rheims and Bruges, and the last few miles of the long journey through the gladness of May-time trees and blossom.
Close enough and glad enough to let their guard down. Robbers. Shouldn’t be surprising but surprising them. ‘Here’s an infidel!’ Blue heard the shout. ‘And an English.’ Frenchies. He recognised their tongue. Infidels and an Englishman? ‘Infidel?’ He roared his anger and charged the gang. ‘Infidel? A’m a Fenman!’
He launched himself at the gang.
‘Get yer selves out of ’ere,’ he yelled. ‘Get ’ome to yer maästers. There’s no infidels here excepting yerselves, ungodly sons of Satan.’
Afterwards, he could never remember what happened. Not clearly. The robbers scattered. He remembered gashed heads and arms and shrieks. Then Mehmi laughing and binding up Blue’s wounds. Hatice severe, shaking her head then kissing him and hugging him. Niko, wide-eyed.
‘You are his hero, Blue Efendi,’ said Mehmi. It was the first time Mehmi had used the title.
‘Infidels and English,’ Blue had fumed. ‘They’ve no right. No right.’ Then he collapsed.
26
June 1337
The Marches
For this son of mine was dead and is alive again;
he was lost and is found.
(Parable of the Prodigal Son)
A week later, and they were leaving, Giles and Kazan.
‘Must you go?’ Edgar asked Giles, but he knew the answer.
‘She is determined to find Dafydd’s family, if any are left alive.’
‘And you, Giles? You go to find your family?’
‘Yes.’ A terse answer but behind it was the rift between himself and his father, the tearing apart after the terrible burning death of his Franciscan brother; the mother he had not seen in years; his brothers and sisters; the girl-cousin he remembered from her young days. The in-between world of the Marches, neither Welsh nor English. ‘Yes. I must go to see my family. But first we shall search for Dafydd’s brother and sister.’
‘If they’re still alive.’
‘Yes. If they’re still alive.’
‘And you’ll not see your own family first?’
Giles shook his head. ‘Kazan’s need is greater.’ He sighed. ‘If only Heinrijc Mertens had sent some message.’ Kazan. Always there was Kazan.
‘We may have word from him very soon.’
‘I know. We will come back, Edgar, before the autumn. I pray there’ll be news before that.’
‘Take care, Giles. Eudo’s gang is not the only one in these dangerous times. They say the Folvilles have the run of the Wolds beyond Newark, and your road runs that way. They count themselves as above the law and since they were acquitted of the murder of a judge barely ten years ago it seems they have reason.’
‘Powerful connections, more likely.’
Edgar nodded. ‘Since then, Luke tells me there have been endless murders, rape, robberies. They destroy property for payment, just as Eudo’s gang did. This country,’ Edgar said despairingly. ‘What is happening to this country of ours? Never-ending wars, famine, pestilence, violence…’
‘And the Four Horsemen appearing over the horizon?’ Giles suggested, flippantly. ‘Not yet, Edgar, not yet. There’s good in this world yet.’
‘And all shall be well?’
‘There’s always room for faith. Don’t fret. I’ll take care of her. I’ll make sure we travel in company.’
Brent was giving the same warning to Kazan. Agathi clutched her hand, listening in horror.
‘It’s four years now since they abducted Sir Richard Willoughby and held him for ransom. 1300 marks. That’s what they demanded – and got. And untouched by the law.’
‘Peter Peddler said as how they wouldn’t get away with it this time,’ said Hilda. ‘There’s talk of them brothers being sent to war – Scotland and Flanders. Let’s hope they die there.’
It wasn’t fear of the gang that Kazan felt as they travelled along the Wolds road. They were in safe company, a caravan of merchants all with security in mind, and armed men, mercenaries, travelling with them. No, it was the emptiness of the land, its lack of trees, its huge skies grey with cloud. Desolate enough in summer; what would it be like in midwinter? As well, there was the sense of other lives lived long ago. Mounds where the ancient ones were buried; ungodly men, a friar told them, but Kazan could not believe him. Perhaps they had not worshipped the Christian God but a god of their own, and as holy to them as God and His Son Jesus and Mother Mary were to this brow
n-robed friar. There were crumbling churches that had been sacred places long before the Normans came to this land; now thatched roofs were destroyed, walls collapsed, and once-tended ground weed ridden. Even the road had been built by the old ones, paved and carefully made; now it was robbed of much of its paving and only the constant traffic of men and horses and carriages kept the track clear.
The journey took four days travelling from one castle to another, castles that protected one town after another, one lodging after another. Where roads crossed there were shrines or chapels or ancient crosses writhing with strange carvings. Whenever they entered forested lands there was the constant sound and sight of tree felling because the country was at war, and war demanded timber and plenty of it. Slashed and burned stumps of oak and birch and elm; heaps of branches hacked from the bodies of the trees; no birdsong. The charcoal burners were busy because the country was at war and war demanded iron and plenty of it. The air shimmered with heat. The men’s faces were grimy and burning red; their eyes were black-rimmed. No smiles or jokes or song to cheer their days.
‘It is a sad sight,’ Kazan said.
There was a stonemason and his family, wandering like the yürük of her own country from place to place in search of work. This family was heading for Coventry. The man stopped again and again to catch his breath. He was like an old man though barely into middle age. His wife told Kazan, ‘It’s the job, see. All that dust. Gets into his body. He’ll be stone himself afore long.’ Her face was drawn, old before her time. ‘I don’t want my lads going into the same work but I don’t see as they can do no different. That’s the way it is, young miss.’
A knight escorting his family home, almost as far as Leicester, offered them hospitality but they refused and travelled the few miles further to Leicester, arriving just before the gates were closed for the night. The High Street, they’d been told; that was where they would find the best inns and lodging for the night. ‘Look out for the signboards.’ The street led up to the High Cross, houses on both sides, their gable ends to the road and separated by orchards and gardens and small fields. Pretty enough but…
The Heart Remembers Page 26