Giles’ ruddy face reddened even more but he laughed back. ‘Frowning today, is he?’
‘Frowning on our enemies more like.’ The man’s mouth clamped shut after that.
They travelled downwards, sheer rock rearing high above them, dark against the shifting grey cloud-mist blown by a chill wind that funnelled through the valley. High above, the cloud-mist shifted again and white cloud gleamed through, lighting the whole valley. High above, tiny on the steep sides, a man’s bent figure stood silhouetted against the pouring light. A turf-cutter. In this country, the pilgrim Huw told them, they relied on peat turves for fire and warmth but the land was too steep for horses and so the men toiled up the mountain sides to cut the turves and stack them and heave them on to a hurdle – a glwyd-fawn – that they would coax down the steep mountainside. A perilous work. Brave men lived here.
There was lodging in the village, Huw said, at the foot of the pass. It was the place of the hendre, the winter lodgings, and there was an ancient church where pilgrims such as himself could receive blessing. Travellers too, like themselves. As for him, he would spend a day here with an old friend who wanted to journey with him to St David’s. ‘Tomorrow, you must follow the river to Mawddwy. Anyone there will give directions to Cymer.’
It was a fast-rushing river that tumbled clamorously along its rocky bed and tumbled white-edged over rocky falls. Oak trees buffeted their branches together, green leaves writhing and hissing, but today there was no dark cloud mist sweeping the high tops; a white-over sky, true, but in its clear light they could see white falling water tumbling down clefts in the steep valley sides, leaping great grey boulders to swell the river they followed. Not far to go. The valley was already opening out, as they had been told. Soon the village would be in sight. Wasn’t that the church? Giles had to almost shout to make himself heard.
They didn’t hear the horsemen. They had no warning. It was too sudden for defence. Kazan fumbled for her curved bow and arrows but the leader laughed and plucked them from her. She lashed out, angry, determined to thwart these bad men, these robbers. He laughed louder and grasped her more securely, pulling her from Yıldız and on to his own strong horse. He plucked the sharp-bladed dagger from her before she could use it.
‘Giles,’ she yelled. ‘Giles. What are you doing?’ He was making no attempt to defend them. She could not believe it of him.
‘I’m not sure, Kazan. I’m not sure. They say we must go with them.’
She was smothered in the man’s strong hold. He glanced down at her, grinned, and said something she could not understand. She writhed and bit down hard on the base of his thumb. He cursed but did not let go his hold. They were riding away from the river, away from Mawddwy, up a rock-strewn track then down into a narrow cwm and up again, up a steep, precipitous path, up another valley side. Trees tumbled down its sides, and beyond rose ridge on ridge of hills, jerking and jumping with the movement of the horse. Up, to a levelled out plateau where there were make-shift dwellings of rough-hewn stone: longhouses with room for animals. Here they stopped. Kazan’s rider flung himself off his horse, pulling her down with him and keeping her tight in his hard hold, his sleeve half-suffocating her. He was shouting something she could not understand but it was Dafydd’s language, she was sure. Esyllt and Giles were close to her. No rough bandit holding them tight-close, she fumed.
Giles said, ‘Kazan, I think…’
Her voice was muffled, angry. ‘You think! You do nothing but think! You did nothing. These barbar – these robbers – you did nothing! Coward! I spit in your face.’
‘Kazan, I think they are…’
The man who had taken her so roughly on his horse and held her roughly even now laughed loudly. ‘Dai warned us you’d be trouble,’ he said, but she couldn’t understand him. Esyllt was smiling. Smiling?
‘Now then, pretty miss, sure it’s welcome you are.’
‘I do not understand what you say and I do not know what you want of us, barbar,’ she said haughtily in the French tongue Edgar had taught her and Agathi. The man laughed again.
‘Nothing but your own sweet self,’ he answered in the same language. ‘That’s all we’re after.’ He called across in Welsh to a man emerging from the nearest longhouse. ‘Sure, you could have warned us, Dai. She’s a snarling, spitting wildcat.’
‘I did warn you, Conor. I told you to take her bow and arrows from her, first thing you did, and after that her knife.’
‘It’s a bitten thumb I have here. Bitten down to the bone.’
‘More fool you. Greetings, Kazan. How is it with you?’
She stared and stared and felt the earth tilt under her. She felt as she had felt on the tilting deck of the ship when fierce waves surged under and around them. Coming towards her was the brown man, the quiet man who some called dangerous and who she had left behind in Venezia in such peril. The man who had been in her thoughts and her mind and her heart all these long, long months. I would give my heart and soul and life for you.
‘You have done this,’ she cried. ‘You sent these barbar to take us! Shame on you!’
Above her the clouds swirled and shifted. Below her the earth heaved and bulged. The man in front of her was blurring then clearing then blurring again. Then there was only blurring and blackness. She sagged in the grip of the man who held her. Not such a wildcat, he thought, and held her secure but gently now.
Ages had passed. Could have passed. She had no idea. She was lying flat on the ground under a stunted, green-leaved oak tree. Its leaves flickered and danced. Dark. Light. Dark again. Somewhere in the distance was laughter. Giles’ voice, and the hateful barbar who had held her captive. Esyllt’s gentle voice. The clouds still swirled overhead but the terrible blurring and blackness had receded. Thomas? That was surely Thomas’ voice and sharp laugh.
Warm breath on her forehead.
‘Better now, my Kazan?’
Not flat on the ground. She was lying on a rough blanket close to Dafydd. She put a hand to her head, trying to make sense of this new world.
‘Still angry with me, cariad?’
‘Is it you? Truly you?’
‘Truly, fy nghariad.’ He was stroking her hair, smoothing away fear as he had done that terrible night in Attaleia, but now he was smoothing away his own fear as well. Safe now. Safe. His own sobbing in terror in the blackest night. His fear that he would not live to see her again. She was nestled against him, her face burrowed against his sleeve as she had that night in Attaleia, that night of terror.
‘Am I your cariad?’
‘Always. Forever.’
Somewhere there was male laughter and a woman’s voice speaking in Welsh, answered by Esyllt. Then Giles’ voice stumbling over Welsh words, and Thomas speaking slowly, carefully in Anglo-French, but she was conscious only of the roughness of Dafydd’s tunic against her face, of his arms holding her close against him.
‘Never let me go. Never again.’
‘Never again. Never.’
No more words. No need for words. This Welshman whose language turned out crooked just when he needed it most; this time he had no need of words. She was his, this gold-copper-bronze maid. Bright Kazan of the golden eyes was his, heart and soul, and the promise of her slender body cradled against his in the night, her soft breath on his face: the promise of knowing she was his. Cydadrodd serch â’r ferch fain.
Old man, Kara Kemal, how did you know?
Later, there were stories exchanged. Thomas told of the terrors of the High Mountains. Dafydd was silent. Kazan shuddered and remembered that strange day in Ieper when she had felt such suffocation she could not breathe, and the black whiteness, and she wondered though she said nothing. Giles told of their journey to Ieper, and then to Swineshead and Boston, and the news of her grandfather’s death, and then the ride to Bradwell and rescuing Edgar from the wild boar. Dai remembered that moment when he had roused from his deep sleep and tried to call her name and she had heard him, and he wondered though he said nothing.
<
br /> There was the story of the three brothers to be told, and Alfred’s shame, and his wife’s wickedness, and how Edgar was now lord of his own manor.
There was Kara Kemal’s death to be mourned all over again, and the story of Blue and Hatice and Niko and Mehmi to be wondered at.
‘You mean they are here?’
‘In England, at Edgar’s manor. Hatice has taken charge of Agathi. Blue was planning a new barn when we left. He was eyeing over the black poplars that grow on the manor grounds. You know the ones?’
Giles nodded. The very ones Alfred had intended for the new build at Rochby.
‘What of Niko?’
‘Happy to be with his sister, Kazan, but disappointed you weren’t there to greet him. As for our Mehmi, he is a great success.’
Tom laughed. ‘There’s a little girl, a scrawny little copper-knob…’
‘Joan,’ Kazan said.
‘That’s it. Taught you how to play your grandfather’s swan pipe, from what I hear. Got one of her own now, thanks to her young man.’
‘Oluf? Oluf made her a swan pipe? But they are babes!’
Tom shrugged. ‘As you say. Babes. But not too young for heart burning. The joke is that Mehmi’s much taken with her, and Niko. Say she’s a true musician. So the three of them play together – pipe, oud, daf – and the young swain’s eaten up with jealousy. Now there’s a story to unravel, Kazan.’
‘But that is not a joke, Thomas. That is very sad.’
‘Then you’d best get back there and sort it out.’
‘Oluf and Niko, they are enemies then?’
‘That’s the strange thing. Start, yes, they eyed each other up and down as if they’d like to tek a poäke at each other, as Blue put it.’ She laughed at his mimicry but fondly. She loved the big, blue man-mountain. ‘But then,’ Thomas continued, ‘it was as if they’d known each other all their lives long. Close as close.’ He grinned. ‘Twice the mischief.’
She shook her head, disbelieving still that here was dark, handsome Thomas, here with Dafydd, and not in some distant friary.
‘Not made a monk of you yet, Thomas?’ Giles asked.
‘Not been the time, these past months,’ Tom said carelessly, ‘what with this one needing rescuing and the rest of you scattered the good God knew where. Later. Time enough.’
No word spoken of Dafydd’s imprisonment and torture; no need to see his slight shake of the head. But Kazan knew. She had seen his weakness, his fatigue, though his spirit kept him vital.
‘Thomas,’ she asked later, ‘is he well enough?’
‘Well enough, Kazan, but that is all. He insisted on travelling here. He knew you were heading here. He came for you but I won’t lie to you. It has exhausted him.’
‘I am grateful to you for taking such care of him, Thomas.’
‘And I am grateful to you who love him and have given him life.’
‘You do not doubt me now, Thomas?’
The dark man shook his head. ‘No, Kazan, no doubts. I am happy for you both. I only hope you are not angry with me for what I said to you in Venezia.’
‘Never!’ she cried. ‘Never! You are our great friend. Without you, he would be dead. Without you, I would never have known he loved me. We need you with us, Thomas. Must you truly join the friars?’
‘Truly, Kazan, I must.’ He smiled, his dark face lit with happiness. ‘May’appen, as friend Blue would say, it is enough to be with the friary in Lincoln. Then I can do God’s work and still see my little family at Edgar’s manor.’
‘That is a good choice, Thomas.’
Time enough as well for Dafydd to tell her of his journey. He had not found her at Edgar’s manor. She had gone, travelling on to find what trace she could of his family, seeking to do what he had determined to do himself. And so he had followed her. First to the old home, deserted now, walls tumbling, shaped stone robbed out. Dark it was. Forlorn. No fire, no light. Grieving overcomes me. Dafydd had stood silent, the words of the old song in his head. It wounds me to see it, with no roof, no fire. Dead is my lord yet I live.
She had not been here. He knew she had not been here. Where was she?
‘Where now?’ Thomas asked.
To the Abbey of Cymer where Dafydd was remembered with affection. But she had not been there.
‘Still the same poverty-stricken abbey that it always was.’ Father Abbot sighed. A Sais abbot but bound up with this strange country of the Cymro. ‘So troubled by Edward’s last war. The first Edward, I mean.’
So much trouble, Thomas knew, that Edward had given £80 in compensation. Compensation! For lives lost and this holy place desecrated.
‘Because it was loved by our last prince,’ Dafydd said. His crown, the talaith, given into the safe-keeping of the monks of Cymer but taken from them by the first Edward, as he had taken the Croes Nawdd, that sacred relic of the Holy Cross, to be paraded in London as proof that he had vanquished the hated Welsh. So long ago. So many years in between: before the terrible years of famine and Dai’s father dead in that hopeless revolt against the Sais and for him the moon and the stars had shifted and slipped and his world had tumbled.
‘We have wanted to build a tower to the glory of God for so many years,’ Father Abbot said wistfully. ‘Perhaps it is God’s will that we have never done so. Perhaps it is His wish to remind us that we are humble before Him.’ He smiled at the two weary men. ‘You must be tired after all your travelling. Come. Rest and food and drink. This is what you need. We do not have riches but what we have we share.’
‘Sharing is riches, Father,’ Dafydd said. How lucky he had been, he thought, to have met such men as Heinrijc Mertens and Kara Kemal of blessed memory. How they had honeyed the bitterness of his life. And these friends of his, these loyal, loving friends: riches shared indeed. And Kazan…no, don’t think of her gold-copper-bronze beauty, her gold-rimmed eyes…don’t think or he would be lost indeed. Was she here? Would she come? Aiming for his home, Edgar had said, for Dafydd’s home and his family, if any were left alive.
The Abbot’s blue eyes were penetrating, intent on Dafydd. ‘You have suffered, I think, my son, and your wounds still trouble you. Our Brother Tanwg will see to that. Come. Let us make you comfortable. And you also, Dafydd’s friend, for I think you have suffered much for his sake.’
Later, after they had rested and eaten, he told them what he knew. ‘Your brother died but your sister lived. She is married and has a child. A boy.’
Alive! One at least out of all this wreck was living, and with a son. Except …
‘She married one of the English lords,’ Father Abbot told them. ‘His manor is not far from here. Close to Dolgethley. It has a market now. It promises to be a wealthy town.’
Dolgethley, the town of the bonded men, the villeins, the un-free; valued now because it was so well placed, between the rivers of the Wnion and the Aran, and close to the mouth of the Mawddach and its sea routes. The next day, lowering and dull as any Dai remembered, they splashed across the ford, safe crossing place on this rushing, dark Wnion, and into the land beyond the town. They found the manor easily, nestled into a cwm, stone-built like so many in this place, hefty, fortified against attack by the Welsh because this was the manor of a Sais lord and while the Welsh were suppressed who knew when these treacherous peasants would rise against their lords?
Dafydd’s sister was alone. He hardly recognised her. He’d last seen her as a dwt, a scrawny, starving dwt, and now here she was, the blooming wife of a wealthy man, and with her own dwt in her arms. She wasn’t pleased to see him.
‘I thought you were dead. What are you doing here?’
‘Come to find you, little sister. Our brother too, God have mercy on his soul, poor child.’
‘It’s glad I am to see you alive, brother, but you can’t stay here. If my husband knew about you – the past – the bandits – you can’t stay here, Dai.’
‘No need to worry, cariad. It’s happy I am to see you alive and living well – and with this
little one, this dwt who looks so much like Taid.’
‘Don’t hate me for marrying an Englishman,’ she said, suddenly.
‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘How could I? Twm here is Sais, and my great friend. I owe him my life twice over and more. Time we forgot old enmities, isn’t it?’
Thomas understood only part of the rapid exchange of Welsh. Dafydd told him the bare facts. It was enough. It had always been enough, even in Ieper. Restlessly insistent on journeying to England; in England, even that joyful meeting at Edgar’s manor, as soon as Dafydd knew that Kazan and Giles had left for Wales, nothing would do but to follow them, find them. Once, it had been important to find his family, or what remained of it, but now it was Kazan he searched for, as she was searching for what remained of his family. They were riding through the pass between Cymer and Dinas when the bandits encircled them. Menacing, tough, careless, hopelessly out-numbering them. Dafydd was weakened by the journey and yet he laughed.
‘Put that sword away, Conor bach,’ he said. ‘Stop your swaggering. You’re no more descended from the Kings of Ireland than I am from our Last Prince. Don’t you recognise me?’
‘Dai bach? Is it you? Sure, fancy that now. What are you doing here, Dai bach?’
And so they had taken shelter with Conor’s gang of bandits and waited for news of Giles and Kazan. ‘Sure, we’ll hear the word, Dai. We always do. We couldn’t have survived if the gwladwyr did not help us.’
So they had waited and waited and wondered that the journey could take so long. ‘They should have been here weeks ago,’ Dai fretted.
‘There’s been bad weather, Dafydd. All those storms and those wild west winds of yours. They’ve taken shelter, for sure. Remember Edgar told us how Giles talked of visiting his family?’
‘But after coming here, Twm. After.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Like I say, may’appen they hit the bad weather. Giles wouldn’t take her on in that.’
The Heart Remembers Page 30