‘Esyllt? I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Why not? I often come here.’
She was surly. He approached her cautiously, stopped by her side. He didn’t know what to say. And then the question: ‘Are you truly going to marry Robert ap Gruffudd?’
‘Why not? He is a good man. He is a man of property. It is a good match.’
‘He is too old for you.’
‘There are many good marriages made between young women and old men.’
‘Esyllt, this is not for you.’
‘Not for me? How dare you say so? It is nothing to do with you! You have been home barely a day and you – you not even my brother – you dare tell me what I must and must not do!’
He was angry. She was nothing but a pert young girl, not even pretty, despite her dark hair and dark blue eyes. Kazan was wrong. Esyllt had no love for him. He wondered if she had love for anyone. She had grown up spoilt and selfish. He shrugged. ‘As you say. It is nothing to do with me. I am sorry. I should not have spoken. Goodnight.’
He couldn’t sleep. It was the strangeness of being here, he told himself, home again. He woke early and rode up from the cwm to the hilltop where there was the great cromlech of the giant’s grave. Grey sky swirled over grey stones. The fierce wind had dropped and soft rain was falling so that the hills were outlined in grey and darker grey. Here was where Arthur of All Britain killed the giant, and there was the imprint of the giant’s elbow where he had fallen. Long ago, Giles had terrified Esyllt with this tale of the giant, and she had shuddered and looked about her in case the monster appeared. And King Arthur? It was said he slept somewhere underground with his men, and he would come again when the country most needed him. But the country had needed him, and he had not come. A story, then, for silly girls and credulous boys. There was no great hero who would come to rescue the world.
He clambered up on to the great capstone, his feet and hands scrabbling at familiar holds. The stone was dark and slippery with rain and moss. He sat on its top feeling the cold wetness penetrate through his breeches. The persistent drizzle had already soaked his hair and the shoulders of his cotehardie. He stared out over the valley and grey-on-grey hills. June, and as windswept and grey-clouded as if it were winter. He should never have come here. Oh yes, his mother and his father were overjoyed to see him. Messengers had been sent to his brothers and his sisters and no doubt some or all would soon arrive and there would be feasting to welcome home the Prodigal. Not all. Simon was dead, burned alive for his faith. Simon would never return home. His choice, Giles reminded himself, to give his life to save a child. Only Giles-the-Prodigal had returned home. Home? His home was with Dafydd and their band of travellers. This was no place for him. Not now. His dismal thoughts went round and round. He didn’t hear the quiet approach of horse and rider until the jingle of harness made him look up. Horse and rider came closer, almost eye-level with him, perched as he was on the top of this great cromlech.
‘Do you remember,’ Esyllt said, ‘when you told me about the giant and I was so frightened?’
‘I was thinking about it. Why have you come here?’
‘I saw you ride this way. I knew you would come here. I wanted to make my peace with you. We have known each other many years, Giles. We are brother and sister and I should not have been so angry with you last night.’
‘We are not brother and sister.’
That dark blue gaze levelled at him. ‘You hate me.’
‘Never, Esyllt. Never. Why do you say so? I say only you must not marry that old goat.’
‘He is not an old goat. He is a good man.’
‘But not for you.’
‘You are so stubborn, and your stubbornness has all but destroyed your mother and your father.’
‘Do you think I could have left my brother to die alone?’
‘No.’ She turned her head away to look out over the spreading country below them. ‘What you did then was right and good, Giles. But after…your mother was so very unhappy.’
‘My father disowned me, Esyllt. What else could I do but go far away?’
‘For so long? To leave us for so long?’
‘What else could I do?’ he said again. ‘Yes, I missed my home. I missed my family.’ He risked it. ‘I missed you, Esyllt.’
‘But not enough, it seems; to stay away so many years.’
‘Did you miss me? All those years? Did you wish for me to come home?’
‘I saw your mother’s suffering, day after day after day. Season after season. Then it was year after year, and still she grieved. Of course I wanted you to come back. For her sake.’
Day after day after day, here in this sad manor, while he had travelled the wide world and seen strange sights. He had met Thomas, that handsome, dark enigma of a man who had become his great friend; he had met strangers who had become his new family. He had known adventure and danger. This girl had known nothing like that. She had lived here, day after day, season after season, year after year, caring for his grieving mother. He had seen the miniature mosaic in his mother’s room, set in a wood panel with gold and multi-coloured stones and gilded copper. A rare work. The Virgin and the Christ Child, she lovingly embracing her son, and her mournful gaze looking forwards to His sacrifice and death. There were candles and incense. Never-ending sadness.
He felt scalding pity for the girl. Little wonder she saw marriage as an escape. To be the lady of a manor was to have a sort of freedom. Yes, this he could understand. But the nights when her aging husband demanded his rights: had she thought of this? He felt his guts heave at the thought.
‘You have lived through a difficult time, Esyllt,’ he said. ‘My mother must be very grateful to you. You have served her well.’
‘I love your mother. It was no service.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that!’
‘Like what?’
‘As if you were a servant. You know I didn’t.’ He was almost gritting his teeth in exasperation.
‘I don’t know what you mean. You are not the same. It has been too many years.’
‘Never too many years. When two people love, time is not important.’ He remembered Kazan’s sad face, her longing for Dafydd, her conviction that he was alive, and suddenly he was calm and determined. ‘Listen to me, Esyllt,’ he said. ‘These people I have travelled with, they are good people who have taught me so much. So very much. One thing I learned is that time is not important. Believe me. The beloved is all, and always they are together, those two, the loved and the beloved.’ Kazan’s words were ringing in his head. He hardly knew that he was repeating them. ‘I love you. I want you for my wife. I cannot bear the thought of you with…’ He stopped the words ‘old goat’. ‘With Robert ap Gruffudd.’
She was silent, not looking at him. The mare she was riding moved restlessly and she stroked the mane, patted the head between the ears, brought her quiet again.
‘Do you hear me, Esyllt? I say I love you. I say I want you for my wife.’
‘I hear you. The whole mountainside hears you, and the valley.’
‘And what do the mountain and the valley say in return?’
‘They say Esyllt loves Giles. They say she wants him for her husband.’
Yes, thought Kazan, this plain girl is beautiful now she loves, and knows she is loved in return. Lucky Giles. Lucky Esyllt.
‘But I shall come with you to find news of Dafydd’s sister and brother,’ Giles said. ‘No, Kazan, don’t play the idiot. You need me with you. Esyllt knows this. She would not let you travel alone.’
‘But you should stay here, my friend, to celebrate your betrothal and your marriage.’
‘We know what we want. We have waited a long time, and we can wait a little while longer.’
Kazan heaved a huge sigh. Esyllt must wait again? Giles, she thought, you are a fool. That is the talk of a soldier, not a man in love. ‘Why does she not come with us?’ she asked. ‘Esyllt speaks Welsh more readily than French. You speak little W
elsh, for all this in-between country is your home.’ Mischief lit her eyes. ‘Esyllt,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘would be more use to me than you in Dafydd’s country.’
‘Is that so? And would Esyllt’s sword arm be more use to you than mine?’
‘I have my curved bow and my straight arrows.’
‘And you are the best of all your tribe. I know. What astonishes me is that no one has wrung your neck. Yet.’ He hummed a tune she recognised: the song of Kazan the Hero, the song that Mehmi had played so long ago, it seemed, after her boasting ride, galloping fast, then the sideways slip and up again balancing the bow in her hands and a shaft ready to loose. And another to follow the first before galloping back to the watching men and pulling on the reins so the mare reared up, dancing her forelegs in the air.
‘I am the hero Kazan whose boasting words fly faster than arrows,’ Giles sang softly.
‘He was so angry,’ Kazan said.
He watched her downcast face a moment. ‘I’m sorry, little blue brother,’ he said. ‘I meant to make you laugh, not give you pain.’
‘I know.’
‘He was frightened for you as I am frightened for Esyllt. It might be a dangerous journey.’
Kazan snorted, more boy than girl. His face flushed. ‘All right, Kazan, so you and Agathi were in great danger. You may still be in danger.’ She said nothing. Eloquently. ‘You think she would want this?’
‘Ask her, not me.’
Ask her he did. Her answer was simple. Giles’ father’s answer was not so simple and not calm but when he saw how his wife smiled, how the grief-lines in her face were smoothed out, how his ward’s eyes pleaded with him, his fierce refusal faltered. Esyllt spoke Welsh more easily than French, Giles said, and they needed a Welsh-speaker where they were going. Dangerous? No – how could it be? They were travelling into Wales, into Dafydd’s country, but it was subdued now. No skirmishes, no revolts. The whole country was quiet. His eyes met Kazan’s. Later, he thought, he would light a candle and pray for this sin of half-truth. As for the honour of his ward, Kazan had travelled with him alone and safe, as Dafydd had known she would be, but he would prefer to travel with Esyllt as man and wife. The two women would be company together, with him as escort. Not always comfortable travelling but the wife of a soldier would have to accustom herself to that. Esyllt’s eyes opened wider as he pronounced this in a stern, unyielding voice but his father saw the sense in it. Reluctantly, he agreed and sighed over the loss of a good match with that respectable man of property, Robert ap Gruffudd, but privately, not even to his wife. He agreed if they obeyed him in following the route north through the Marches; that way, they could rest with Giles’ brothers and sisters at their manors. When they turned west, towards Tegid, there was his own sister Ceridwen. ‘Remember your Aunt Ceridwen, boy? And Uncle Eifion? They’ll make you welcome. Make sure you stay until the weather is good enough for the journey over the mountains.’ Giles nodded and agreed and said nothing of the Anatolian mountains, nor the high, treacherous, snow-covered Alps. Besides, the Welsh mountains might be dwarfs in comparison but they had their own dangers. Water-logged they were; lose the track and you found yourself sinking into waist-high peat pools.
But his mother could not lose Giles so soon. Besides, there was the hand-fasting and celebrations. His eldest brother John arrived with his wife and half-sprung children; John was running to fat, Giles saw with surprise, though John had always been an energetic hunter and falconer. His younger sister arrived with her Welsh husband and two babes-in-arms. Copper-headed, like himself. ‘Our manor is near Clun, brother. You must stay with us on your journey.’
A week passed before they rode out from the manor on a morning that welcomed summer’s return. A cavalcade, thought Giles; his brother and his family and servants; his sister and her family and her servants. His new wife, excited and nervous in equal measure. He grinned at Kazan, recognizing her carefully concealed impatience at their slow progress. Unseen by the rest, she pulled a face.
They splashed through the ford, riding towards the blue hills that were Dafydd’s country.
27
Ieper
June 1337
Cydfyhwman marian môr
Cydaros mewn coed oror…
…Cydadrodd serch â’r ferch fain
(Together to be wandering on the ocean’s shore,
Together lingering by the forest’s edge…
…Together talk of love with my slim girl)
(Dafydd ap Gwilym: 14thC)
Walking wounded. That was what the soldiers call it, isn’t it? Walking wounded. Dai cursed his weakness. No sooner out of his bed than longing to be back in it. Two steps and the floor swinging up at him and Thomas gripping his arm as if he were some new-walking dwt. Autumn, winter and spring since he’d seen her leave in the flat-bottomed boat, and the summer passing him by. Leaving. What is that? While the heart remembers, there is no leaving. But his heart remembered, and still her leaving left him aching, as archers had told him they ached with the emptiness where their lopped fingers used to be, or war veterans their lost limbs. A part of him was missing. More than a part. Not a finger, nor a limb but his very soul. At least she was safe in England, and Giles there to keep her safe. Now they were on the brink of a new war, and the seas between Flanders and England raided by the French, and few boats willing to run the risk since merchant ships had been captured and the men taken prisoner. There was a man he knew, had a fishing boat, small it was but big enough for the crossing to England. Big enough for a few other ventures. Best not speak of that. Big enough to take him and Twm across that stretch of dangerous grey water.
He’d already sent Rémi to search for the man in his usual haunts, and Rémi had found him late one night. Not drunk in some tavern; an austere man, this one, who was never drunk, not even sheep drunk. Sober as a Muslim. His crew had to be sober when it came time to sail – or suffer his punishment. Not one of them had arrived drunk for sailing for years. Not out of fear of their leader, see, but respect. A strange man he was; a rogue and a villain, said the respectable burgers of Ieper. The more money-grabbing they were, the louder their outrage. Others – Heinrijc Mertens amongst them – laughed quietly at his exploits and, equally quietly, sometimes had use of his services.
There might be berths, the man had told Rémi, and a sailing before the end of the week. Too soon to say. Come back in the morning. Dai had said nothing to Twm, nor Heinrijc. Time enough. There’d be an outcry, of course. Best save his ears until he was certain. For over a week now he’d been allowed – allowed! – out of his bed to sit in the inner solar. The window looked out on to the summer garden, herbs in full flower and the orchard trees well-set with fruit, leafy branches rustling in the breeze that always seemed to flow around this town. The sky was clear, pale blue; not the brazen sky of the eastern world. Colours here were soft, muted like those of his own wretched, poverty-stricken little country with its grey, moss-covered rocks and tumbling, darksome rivers and shadowy oak forests. Except on those days of blazing blue: blue sky, blue sea streaked with green and turquoise. Gorse scorching his eyes with its gold blossoming. The Mawddach and Cader Idris and all the lands in between the mountains and the sea. Soon he would see it again. Except…he’d give it all up just to be travelling again across those wide flat spaces with the girl at his side and a han at the end of the day, and the marvellous gold-copper-bronze, bright-as-dawn girl lying close to him at night so that if he stretched out a hand…no…not so far as a hand’s breadth away. He wanted to lie with her in his arms, her slender body cradled against his, her soft breath on his face. He wanted to know she was his. Cydadrodd serch â’r ferch fain.
‘Dafydd? Is the wound paining you?’
‘It’s well enough.’ He heard how curt he sounded, and to this most loyal of friends. He forced a grin. ‘Stop mollycoddling me. Heinrijc’s fussing is bad enough – not to mention Rémi’s. They’re like old women.’ He saw Twm frown. ‘It’s what you said once, to me and Giles, after w
e’d met with the bandits. Remember? You’d a fierce arm wound and a temper to match.’
Twm’s face cleared. He laughed but his look was shrewd. ‘I remember. It was the day Kazan and Mehmi joined us.’ He came to stand by Dafydd, looked out of the solar window into the courtyard below and the orchard beyond. Matje’s son was there, kicking moodily at the cobblestones. ‘Rémi will be longer than you expected,’ he said casually. ‘I sent him on an errand for me. No doubt he’ll bring news from your dubious friend all in good time.’
Dai pulled a face. ‘You know then?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did Rémi tell you?’
‘Rémi? Is that likely? No. It’s only what I expected, once you were up and out of your bed. It’s too soon for you to travel, Dafydd. You know that. You’ll undo all the good that’s been done.’
‘I have to go, Twm.’
‘A few more weeks, Dafydd. Wait a few more weeks. Still summer. Still calm sailing, despite this wretched war. You know she’s safe with Giles and Edgar and Agathi.’ He watched Dafydd’s face, said in exasperation, ‘You’re a stubborn man, Dafydd.’
‘So you have always said. You should be used to it by now.’ Dai leaned his knee on the window cushions, staring through the window, trying to see why below, down in the courtyard, there was a sudden clamour of voices: Matje’s son’s shrill squeals; Matje herself, wiping her hands on the cloth she kept wrapped around her, shrieking as loudly as her son; Heinrijc’s bright robe, his arms raised in flamboyant welcome. And surely, unmistakeably, that was the broad dialect of a Fen man. Not just any Fen man. ‘It’s Blue,’ he said.
Twm knelt beside him in the window embrasure, squeezing closer to see through the window opening. Rémi’s beaming face was staring up at them and next to him…next to him…Blue, Hatice, Mehmi. Niko, wide-mouthed-laughing with delight.
The Heart Remembers Page 28