CHAPTER ONE. “Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah.” Voices from below as clear shards of ice, fractured the iridescent blue. Shrill cries top sintered snow, and contest the air about our ears; beneath, a sonorous dirge beat out its communal origin. The caravan, a necklace of bright jewels: gold, green, red, black and silver silk fold and flutter, about their mannekins. A shifting stream of colour that would out dazzle the crystal canvas, now draped over the long raking buttresses of the mountain; Janda min Amal. This close to heaven the call of prayer more a plea for recognition, than a paean of praise My guide, Abdu-Abbi, raised his crop in brief recognition. We turned north, away from the peaks that mark the watershed between the narrow coast; its rocky teeth our ship’s despair, and the steepening valleys that run down to the Great River, Al-Wadi-Ilkifre. Our destination Granada, the chief place of Andalus. Where we should meet Master Torro’s agent, the Jew, Baruch Tabibe of the Karnatt, doctor and man of learning. He visited the Calif’s house, and his library; it was this that fed my hope. “Twm, I can give you money and passage and provenance, would boot a Prince to Jerusalem. Elias, Master Torro is from a home mired in the past. Perhaps there you may find knowledge of her malady.” Was now three months since, the children’s noise distant, Uncle’s arm raised at the quay; Nan absent, with Mistress Mary. Hope, what is it? A delusion that fires a man’s passion and blinds him, binds him to airy promises and heathen oaths. Or is it some celestial beacon, now clear as the day sun, from time to time shrouded, but irreducible. I had no answer and so let my guide lead. His smile, pitted black, was lent some honesty by this disfigurement. “Master, Master Morgan, see, Granada, see.” And, in the distance shimmering above the ice-field, the bulbous steeples of countless minarets. No more or less as bodies of the heavens; night’s panoply made visible by sunlight. We came down to it by a cobbled path, through terraced groves of orange; that strange sweet sharp scent heavy on the dew. Even in the day’s dawning the warmth of the earth held our limbs. Though behind us the towering snows lay still, implacable seeming, but false; for here beside our path runs liquid, little floes, murmuring there own ululation. The city was vast, beguiling; women who sat at the roadside, bold with their looks and loud with the import of their baskets, full with bread, grape, fish, fruit and all. “Abdu.” “Rass.” “Is your master’s home close? They worry the horse, and me.” In answer he laughed and beat upon the flailing arms with his whip, but with no strength. * Tintern, a grey cliff in rain filled clouds, its walls weeping, low in the mead that runs down to the Wye. A rider stooped at the trees edge, he had come from Gloucester without halt, over the sullen swollen Severn; its turbid water clumsy about the knees of sunken elms. The deluge had not ceased, and seeking some refuge he had drifted into the wooded escarpment. Below him, smoke struggled upward from chimney and cottage, a whisper of it wreathed about his sodden cowl. He had come to castle gates in war, clad less doleful or onerous. “Lo, watch, lo.” “I knows that call, is it you Captain?” “Aye, aye, open up Walter, am I a fish as should be moated? Give me a roof to drown below.” “I come Captain, here...” Mid the gloom a lantern beckoned the rider forward, though he must dismount to pass the wicket. Beneath the gatehouse he shook his hood back. “Why Walter, you took no word of me, and open the gate, how so?” The guard an old man, shifted, his reply wary. “We were told you come Cap’n, and knowing you like a son, if you excuse me Sir, I made them open; wanting to get you to fire and flagon before the Abbot, Sir.” “Walter,” he drew the watch close, “you presume upon our past ...” to the soldiers assembled, “take my horse. Friend, to the warmth, there is an icy chill in these stone guardians.” “Yes Captain, they are not generous hosts.” The rider dismounted was well past youth, but his step sure led him to the Abbot’s office. Here Hugh de Clare sat folded within soft linen and warm wool, feet upon a stool that they keep from the cold flags and racing draught feeding the great fire and brazier. He took off his cap, massaged its felt between long fingers and replaced it on the dome of his skull. The Abbot motioned to a clerk. “Brother, your pen is wet, the ink runs?” “Yes Father, are you thirsty, will I call the Butler?” At this they both turned to the door. Wherein entered the self same. “Abbot, Master Maynard is arrived, shall I bring him ?” Clare nodded. The room was less than Maynard had anticipated, but sovereignty need not give itself to display; the man in front of him seated, burned with it. As did every vassal that bore the mark of the Abbey’s iron ‘T’, branded in men’s flesh as cattle, cut into their ears as sheep. He had passed enough broken down walls and abandoned common, turned over to the fleece; to value the Holy Father’s appreciation of his flock. “Lord.” “Captain Maynard, sit, we are private here, you need not be a slave to custom. I know your loyalty and obedience. Joseph fetch a tray for the Master, hurry.” The Butler left, a Lay-Brother by his dress. “What news?” The Abbot nodded to the scribe. “Morgan is gone abroad, was his passage booked, for what reason none that I have found. To his Uncle’s business? The merchant, is returned to Gloucester and the kind regard of your cousin, Father.” Here the Captain paused to loosen his belt, or to judge his host’s temper, or both. The brother returned and brought to the table a large tray: beef, bread, cheese, a fowl broken apart, wine and cups of silver. He laid it down and Maynard now noticed the cloth spread across the trestles boarded shelf. An allegory of sorts; here below and upward looking is a serf, his shoulder broken to the plough, beyond a wood, in which a woman to an oak is captive leashed. In gold thread picked out, harness and jess, the hawker’s bird aloft against a sun also in gold rimmed with red, bloodshot. All above a crucifix. “Master.” The Butler passed him a plate, the weight a betrayal of its worth; de Clare’s opulence began to lean upon Maynard. The more accustomed his eyes grew to the light of the fire, the less accustomed those sights about him. Behind the Holy Father, hung upon the wall a huge map, left in its own frame polished plate a mirror, and in one corner a bird, talons dipped in gilt, large eye and hideous beak. “Master Maynard, the family, the sons?” This interjection cut adrift his wandering thoughts. “Father, they are bastards and none of his neither but by adoption. He has no natural children.” “Then Captain it seems your work is plain before you. What of the deeds and title? Morgan’s death is nothing if my cousin fails in his inheritance. Well.....?” “The papers are in Gloucester still, with the Uncle.” “Are you certain, how can you be?” “Sir, the money lender himself should know the price of coin and of loyalty, you have servants in your pay as does he. Who would not rather act for God as well as their own purse. He has a righteous maid who is ready in her faith.” “So..... you satisfy me, I should not have questioned your report.” The Abbot motioned once more toward the brother at the table, pen held in abeyance. He left. “Captain, my cousin must have these deeds and this, obstruction... removed, before the year is out.” The Holy Father lifted himself up, beckoning the soldier close. “ For your wife, take this”. He held out a small, hide bound Psalter. “Does she read? No matter, it will serve her just as well unopened, in her solitude.” He clasped Maynard’s wrist, tight within a trembling grip of skin, and tendon. “Reflect Captain, how tortuous long is an absent heart. Do your duty.” At this his strength expired, the Abbot fell back into the enclosing burrow of his robes, his hand held aloft awaiting its due subservience, crooked under the clamour of gold and pearl. Maynard knelt and removed himself. Outside stood Walter. “This way, Sir.... I’ve kept you a room with a fire beside.” Used to the old man he followed him with no thought of his benefactor’s pains; the room had indeed been hard fought for, a hanging promised the next day filled the Abbey’s Lay-House. The Captain’s mind rested on his Theresa. “Sir is there ought else? Will I leave you tinder for the morning....?” “Aye, aye and we break fast early, I can’t abide the stench of piety. Have the mare ready.” He looked out through the small embrasure, sky now dark, but the scaffold trembled eerily in oily torchlight. “Who is it they drop?” “A hedge priest Cap’n, for sedition and as talks God’s word out of his mouth and not the Church’s Book, nor their Priest. Can he know God’s meaning Sir?” “It would seem unlikely, why should our Lord Abbot sentence his brother in Holy Speech, if it is Holy. Surely Walter, even you must consider such an end proof of heresy.” “G’night Cap’n, you’ll be right I’m sure, and if not? Though he be some mother’s grief, husband or son?” Walter closed the door behind him, shutting out what dim light there was. * The river looped upon its course was a fair sight mid the flowering trees and thick grass. Above a quiet pool, locked in stone disgorged from red earth; lit an arc of blue, a dragonfly, wings appearing static in its hover. The old man rode behind the Captain, and behind him two men walked. They carried bows and at their belt each a long knife. Mail was of little protection, was weighty and expensive, men were cheap. Maynard looked over his shoulder, face scarred from left eye to lip; an old wound, healed and not easily seen. Walter knew it was there, had sown it up and drained the bile off it, black and yellow seeping. He found the Captain in Bristol; a young boy for sale along the wharf side. And ashore with wages in his wallet, he thought the lad an unexpected gift for his wife. When the two came home the cottage was a ruin and Walter’s Mistress gone; dead or captive they never knew. So, the boy grew and left for France, to return ten years by, now hard and close, grim. It was the birth of Maynard’s own son changed him and brought a gentler light into his cold eye, or so Walter deemed. Out over the river he caught the swallow’s tail, dive, and flick the water into bright spray; as it took the whirring insect in its beak. And otherwise he saw, as though held back, the arrow shake its cockfeather. A white streak of malice to drive the steel a measured yard through Rob’s chest. He did not look long, bridle snatched, the two riders leapt for the trees. He did not need to wait long, with shock he saw the shaft’s tip press out his gut; no more pain than the dragonfly and then too, oblivion. Maynard let go the pallid head, he had sensed something awry; Walter’s body floated into the middle of the water, soon it was gone. It was luck alone that of the four, he lived; the soldiers were unimportant, but the old man. The old man had raised him and though he knew he had been bought a slave.... cloud wearied the sky. To occupy his thoughts, the Captain dismounted and leading the dun mare, considered the extent of his knowledge concerning Thomas Morgan son of Ialo and his wife Miriam, who also styled herself Kathrin. Raphael of Oxford, the King’s Jew had taken surety from Valerie De Clare, of a loan. Title to land granted to de Clare, but safe against future recovery as it lay over the border. Safe until Miriam wed a Welshman, Ialo ap Rhos, a common bowyer. It had been foolish to kill Raphael, but that had been his predecessor’s transgression; now his grandson lived, an heir, but to Maynard’s knowledge, one ignorant of his wealth. He knew that Simon Brecon in his masquerade as native was Miriam’s brother and kept the papers in Gloucester. He knew also that he could not openly strike Simon, the monks too had their debts. Yet the Holy Father had made his obligation clear and he had faith in the Abbot of Tintern. The creak of the gibbet spoke his authority, the axe his persistence. The Captain’s faith was staunch. His Lord was cruel but just; he had seen enough men die to know it better to serve one master at a time. And to whom beside the Abbot should such as he scrape a knee. Not even the King of England could escape Tintern’s holy remonstrations. These thoughts accompanied Maynard home and if he had no definite intent, his loyalty remained undiminished. Theresa and the children were upon him soon enough. Mal an elderly seven took the saddle to the stable, as he carried Gwen by her ankle into the hearth. He sat and looked at his wife. “Where’s your Da? I thought he was with you.” The Captain made a brief motion, she took up her apron and went to the fire. “This smoke, Ralf you said you’d have it looked to....” He touched her arm. Supper was noisy, Mal excited that his father should be at the table, let his bowl cool. “How big was it Dad, was it bigger than me?” His response to the Captain’s tale of the visit with the Abbot, and his eagle. Dusk brought peace, together they sat overlooking the cattle; black against rose pink cloud on the horizon. Above their heads the whispered flap of wings and beyond, in the distance the fading cry of birdsong. Soon to be swallowed by the creeping in of night. Glowing the cottage breathed warmth, yellow light splashed out the threshold. “What happened?” He explained, she took his hand, silently. His grief shook him, it caught at his lip, as a dry leaf that would tremble and fall. It tore at his eye and made his fingers to shake. “He was behind me, I pulled the reins, but it took him....” The Captain stood abruptly, these thoughts were strangers, death was not. She seemed to guess at this and turned away. “It gets cold, I will sit at the fire.” In brief moments the sky had darkened, the withered holly a silhouette. Stars appeared, in timeless and indifferent orbit. This he understood, this was his fate. As the heavens moved to God’s purpose, so he served. And if the old man stopped an arrow destined for himself, then this too was meant. Maynard’s philosophy permitted no doubt, he knew death to be final, just as the Abbot’s word. Inside, his wife awaited. He talked to the Bailiff, though nothing would be done. People might keep their doors close for a time, but such lawlessness was common in the March. Men beyond the pale, though not beyond the Holy Father, should he wish to pursue his justice, even into Hywel’s country. The Captain’s home stood adrift from the other houses, but not so far as made commerce infrequent. Being known to be in the employ of the Abbot, he commanded a due regard; as did his family, and masses were ordered for his foster father. Such was the public ritual of mourning. In private too, neighbours offered up their sentiments, for Walter had been known to them. Tintern was a demanding landlord. The villagers spent much of their time attending vast fish ponds, settled between their cotts and the river. At the north end a troughed leat brought in water and hatchlings; down a cascade that the carp and bream and trout, not being salmon, could not scale. The ponds themselves were wide and shallow, so carnivorous pike were caught before they grew too large. Boys practised their archery, and occasionally a heron filled the pot at home. Having served its purpose, the now quiet water trickled back to the river. Ranks of reed and sedge captured young fish and the meagre dribble that covered the plants’ roots was not deep enough for larger catch to escape. A Lay-Brother served as officer and guard, in hungry seasons the ponds were an attraction; to not only the locals, but those from further afield who knew of their repute. Once catastrophe had struck, the river in flood over-climbed its bank and scoured clean the land. Then the Monks took their tithe in corn or coin, and the poor went without or sold their children as slaves, as had been the Captain’s own history. Such an event was rare, and year to year the ponds yielded up their profit. The officer kept his tally, but knew on high days a family might feast on trout. It suited the Abbey to overlook such an incentive. This expanse of water was often hung about with a fine mist. Cold it sat all day unless the wind break it, and clear the rippling surface. Then with the sun low, the pond decked in purple silk, solid. Maynard’s stay could not be long, he collected firewood, borrowing the Reeve’s cart, filling the yard. The boy must break it up at his mother’s need. He left them at the gate and could not tell when he should return. One final backward glance found the three waving. The Captain raised his hand in salute, turned into the wood and from their view. His plan was simple enough; he knew the Uncle’s shop in Gloucester, and with the husband’s absence, construed it only time and patient observation needed to bring him to Morgan’s family. He had told the Abbot true in naming the children as couth by adoption only. However the loss of his own father, had brought to him the realisation that blood was but one tie. And that Morgan, an honest man, could care for his as Walter had treated him. The way was wide and even, and soon he came to the ford. He got down and led the mare across, the clip of her hooves made ragged by the flowing stream. His boots too, splashed through the stew of water and silt, running thick until further downstream it cleared once more; sufficient to see the shadow of an eel wind its way through tangled boulders. Mounted and on the far bank the path led now between hanging oaks, alongside open fields. Here were sheep, hundreds of them and a herder with his dog. “G’day Sir.” “Aye is that, this will be the Abbey’s stock.” “You’m fair correct in that statement Sir. Whom else beside them Monks ud graze this pasture? I’s a small cask bestowed aside that gate, would you be after a sup? Sit, sit Dwcan.” “You’re kind father, it is a dry wind, will it remain so?” The man handed up his flagon. “Aye, a day, but we’ll have rain afore the week’s ended, bound to when it returns to the west. You’m going far mister?” “Gloucester.” “That’s a largish place them says, I baint never been, I’ve been to Chepstow, to the market.” “Aye, its big enough, but man, it is a speck in London’s eye.” “You’d ha travelled a bit then Sir, baint for such as us, hey boy.” The herder kneaded the collie’s forehead. “We likes it here, and specially today when the sun shines.” The Captain left the pair to their sheep, and the service of Tintern. As the old fellow and his dog must protect the Abbot’s property, it fell to Maynard to regain a portion of the same. And as the dog would fall on a wolf cub before it could grow to threaten the flock; so too would he. Morgan surely would value his boys over a piece of paper. The Captain’s morality was not offended by the notion, the exchange would see the lad returned. And should the offer be refused, was fate. He was his master’s servant in all. Morning passed and with it the miles, he had ridden through the Dean Forest, and in the distance Gloucester. The spire heavenwards visible, and faint the striking of bells, carried over the red earth by the same breeze that raised up a blanket of dust. His faith denied compassion and he was without pity. CHAPTER ONE. “Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah.” Voices from below as clear shards of ice, fractured the iridescent blue. Shrill cries top sintered snow, and contest the air about our ears; beneath, a sonorous dirge beat out its communal origin. The caravan, a necklace of bright jewels: gold, green, red, black and silver silk fold and flutter, about their mannekins. A shifting stream of colour that would out dazzle the crystal canvas, now draped over the long raking buttresses of the mountain; Janda min Amal. This close to heaven the call of prayer more a plea for recognition, than a paean of praise My guide, Abdu-Abbi, raised his crop in brief recognition. We turned north, away from the peaks that mark the watershed between the narrow coast; its rocky teeth our ship’s despair, and the steepening valleys that run down to the Great River, Al-Wadi-Ilkifre. Our destination Granada, the chief place of Andalus. Where we should meet Master Torro’s agent, the Jew, Baruch Tabibe of the Karnatt, doctor and man of learning. He visited the Calif’s house, and his library; it was this that fed my hope. “Twm, I can give you money and passage and provenance, would boot a Prince to Jerusalem. Elias, Master Torro is from a home mired in the past. Perhaps there you may find knowledge of her malady.” Was now three months since, the children’s noise distant, Uncle’s arm raised at the quay; Nan absent, with Mistress Mary. Hope, what is it? A delusion that fires a man’s passion and blinds him, binds him to airy promises and heathen oaths. Or is it some celestial beacon, now clear as the day sun, from time to time shrouded, but irreducible. I had no answer and so let my guide lead. His smile, pitted black, was lent some honesty by this disfigurement. “Master, Master Morgan, see, Granada, see.” And, in the distance shimmering above the ice-field, the bulbous steeples of countless minarets. No more or less as bodies of the heavens; night’s panoply made visible by sunlight. We came down to it by a cobbled path, through terraced groves of orange; that strange sweet sharp scent heavy on the dew. Even in the day’s dawning the warmth of the earth held our limbs. Though behind us the towering snows lay still, implacable seeming, but false; for here beside our path runs liquid, little floes, murmuring there own ululation. The city was vast, beguiling; women who sat at the roadside, bold with their looks and loud with the import of their baskets, full with bread, grape, fish, fruit and all. “Abdu.” “Rass.” “Is your master’s home close? They worry the horse, and me.” In answer he laughed and beat upon the flailing arms with his whip, but with no strength. * Tintern, a grey cliff in rain filled clouds, its walls weeping, low in the mead that runs down to the Wye. A rider stooped at the trees edge, he had come from Gloucester without halt, over the sullen swollen Severn; its turbid water clumsy about the knees of sunken elms. The deluge had not ceased, and seeking some refuge he had drifted into the wooded escarpment. Below him, smoke struggled upward from chimney and cottage, a whisper of it wreathed about his sodden cowl. He had come to castle gates in war, clad less doleful or onerous. “Lo, watch, lo.” “I knows that call, is it you Captain?” “Aye, aye, open up Walter, am I a fish as should be moated? Give me a roof to drown below.” “I come Captain, here...” Mid the gloom a lantern beckoned the rider forward, though he must dismount to pass the wicket. Beneath the gatehouse he shook his hood back. “Why Walter, you took no word of me, and open the gate, how so?” The guard an old man, shifted, his reply wary. “We were told you come Cap’n, and knowing you like a son, if you excuse me Sir, I made them open; wanting to get you to fire and flagon before the Abbot, Sir.” “Walter,” he drew the watch close, “you presume upon our past ...” to the soldiers assembled, “take my horse. Friend, to the warmth, there is an icy chill in these stone guardians.” “Yes Captain, they are not generous hosts.” The rider dismounted was well past youth, but his step sure led him to the Abbot’s office. Here Hugh de Clare sat folded within soft linen and warm wool, feet upon a stool that they keep from the cold flags and racing draught feeding the great fire and brazier. He took off his cap, massaged its felt between long fingers and replaced it on the dome of his skull. The Abbot motioned to a clerk. “Brother, your pen is wet, the ink runs?” “Yes Father, are you thirsty, will I call the Butler?” At this they both turned to the door. Wherein entered the self same. “Abbot, Master Maynard is arrived, shall I bring him ?” Clare nodded. The room was less than Maynard had anticipated, but sovereignty need not give itself to display; the man in front of him seated, burned with it. As did every vassal that bore the mark of the Abbey’s iron ‘T’, branded in men’s flesh as cattle, cut into their ears as sheep. He had passed enough broken down walls and abandoned common, turned over to the fleece; to value the Holy Father’s appreciation of his flock. “Lord.” “Captain Maynard, sit, we are private here, you need not be a slave to custom. I know your loyalty and obedience. Joseph fetch a tray for the Master, hurry.” The Butler left, a Lay-Brother by his dress. “What news?” The Abbot nodded to the scribe. “Morgan is gone abroad, was his passage booked, for what reason none that I have found. To his Uncle’s business? The merchant, is returned to Gloucester and the kind regard of your cousin, Father.” Here the Captain paused to loosen his belt, or to judge his host’s temper, or both. The brother returned and brought to the table a large tray: beef, bread, cheese, a fowl broken apart, wine and cups of silver. He laid it down and Maynard now noticed the cloth spread across the trestles boarded shelf. An allegory of sorts; here below and upward looking is a serf, his shoulder broken to the plough, beyond a wood, in which a woman to an oak is captive leashed. In gold thread picked out, harness and jess, the hawker’s bird aloft against a sun also in gold rimmed with red, bloodshot. All above a crucifix. “Master.” The Butler passed him a plate, the weight a betrayal of its worth; de Clare’s opulence began to lean upon Maynard. The more accustomed his eyes grew to the light of the fire, the less accustomed those sights about him. Behind the Holy Father, hung upon the wall a huge map, left in its own frame polished plate a mirror, and in one corner a bird, talons dipped in gilt, large eye and hideous beak. “Master Maynard, the family, the sons?” This interjection cut adrift his wandering thoughts. “Father, they are bastards and none of his neither but by adoption. He has no natural children.” “Then Captain it seems your work is plain before you. What of the deeds and title? Morgan’s death is nothing if my cousin fails in his inheritance. Well.....?” “The papers are in Gloucester still, with the Uncle.” “Are you certain, how can you be?” “Sir, the money lender himself should know the price of coin and of loyalty, you have servants in your pay as does he. Who would not rather act for God as well as their own purse. He has a righteous maid who is ready in her faith.” “So..... you satisfy me, I should not have questioned your report.” The Abbot motioned once more toward the brother at the table, pen held in abeyance. He left. “Captain, my cousin must have these deeds and this, obstruction... removed, before the year is out.” The Holy Father lifted himself up, beckoning the soldier close. “ For your wife, take this”. He held out a small, hide bound Psalter. “Does she read? No matter, it will serve her just as well unopened, in her solitude.” He clasped Maynard’s wrist, tight within a trembling grip of skin, and tendon. “Reflect Captain, how tortuous long is an absent heart. Do your duty.” At this his strength expired, the Abbot fell back into the enclosing burrow of his robes, his hand held aloft awaiting its due subservience, crooked under the clamour of gold and pearl. Maynard knelt and removed himself. Outside stood Walter. “This way, Sir.... I’ve kept you a room with a fire beside.” Used to the old man he followed him with no thought of his benefactor’s pains; the room had indeed been hard fought for, a hanging promised the next day filled the Abbey’s Lay-House. The Captain’s mind rested on his Theresa. “Sir is there ought else? Will I leave you tinder for the morning....?” “Aye, aye and we break fast early, I can’t abide the stench of piety. Have the mare ready.” He looked out through the small embrasure, sky now dark, but the scaffold trembled eerily in oily torchlight. “Who is it they drop?” “A hedge priest Cap’n, for sedition and as talks God’s word out of his mouth and not the Church’s Book, nor their Priest. Can he know God’s meaning Sir?” “It would seem unlikely, why should our Lord Abbot sentence his brother in Holy Speech, if it is Holy. Surely Walter, even you must consider such an end proof of heresy.” “G’night Cap’n, you’ll be right I’m sure, and if not? Though he be some mother’s grief, husband or son?” Walter closed the door behind him, shutting out what dim light there was. * The river looped upon its course was a fair sight mid the flowering trees and thick grass. Above a quiet pool, locked in stone disgorged from red earth; lit an arc of blue, a dragonfly, wings appearing static in its hover. The old man rode behind the Captain, and behind him two men walked. They carried bows and at their belt each a long knife. Mail was of little protection, was weighty and expensive, men were cheap. Maynard looked over his shoulder, face scarred from left eye to lip; an old wound, healed and not easily seen. Walter knew it was there, had sown it up and drained the bile off it, black and yellow seeping. He found the Captain in Bristol; a young boy for sale along the wharf side. And ashore with wages in his wallet, he thought the lad an unexpected gift for his wife. When the two came home the cottage was a ruin and Walter’s Mistress gone; dead or captive they never knew. So, the boy grew and left for France, to return ten years by, now hard and close, grim. It was the birth of Maynard’s own son changed him and brought a gentler light into his cold eye, or so Walter deemed. Out over the river he caught the swallow’s tail, dive, and flick the water into bright spray; as it took the whirring insect in its beak. And otherwise he saw, as though held back, the arrow shake its cockfeather. A white streak of malice to drive the steel a measured yard through Rob’s chest. He did not look long, bridle snatched, the two riders leapt for the trees. He did not need to wait long, with shock he saw the shaft’s tip press out his gut; no more pain than the dragonfly and then too, oblivion. Maynard let go the pallid head, he had sensed something awry; Walter’s body floated into the middle of the water, soon it was gone. It was luck alone that of the four, he lived; the soldiers were unimportant, but the old man. The old man had raised him and though he knew he had been bought a slave.... cloud wearied the sky. To occupy his thoughts, the Captain dismounted and leading the dun mare, considered the extent of his knowledge concerning Thomas Morgan son of Ialo and his wife Miriam, who also styled herself Kathrin. Raphael of Oxford, the King’s Jew had taken surety from Valerie De Clare, of a loan. Title to land granted to de Clare, but safe against future recovery as it lay over the border. Safe until Miriam wed a Welshman, Ialo ap Rhos, a common bowyer. It had been foolish to kill Raphael, but that had been his predecessor’s transgression; now his grandson lived, an heir, but to Maynard’s knowledge, one ignorant of his wealth. He knew that Simon Brecon in his masquerade as native was Miriam’s brother and kept the papers in Gloucester. He knew also that he could not openly strike Simon, the monks too had their debts. Yet the Holy Father had made his obligation clear and he had faith in the Abbot of Tintern. The creak of the gibbet spoke his authority, the axe his persistence. The Captain’s faith was staunch. His Lord was cruel but just; he had seen enough men die to know it better to serve one master at a time. And to whom beside the Abbot should such as he scrape a knee. Not even the King of England could escape Tintern’s holy remonstrations. These thoughts accompanied Maynard home and if he had no definite intent, his loyalty remained undiminished. Theresa and the children were upon him soon enough. Mal an elderly seven took the saddle to the stable, as he carried Gwen by her ankle into the hearth. He sat and looked at his wife. “Where’s your Da? I thought he was with you.” The Captain made a brief motion, she took up her apron and went to the fire. “This smoke, Ralf you said you’d have it looked to....” He touched her arm. Supper was noisy, Mal excited that his father should be at the table, let his bowl cool. “How big was it Dad, was it bigger than me?” His response to the Captain’s tale of the visit with the Abbot, and his eagle. Dusk brought peace, together they sat overlooking the cattle; black against rose pink cloud on the horizon. Above their heads the whispered flap of wings and beyond, in the distance the fading cry of birdsong. Soon to be swallowed by the creeping in of night. Glowing the cottage breathed warmth, yellow light splashed out the threshold. “What happened?” He explained, she took his hand, silently. His grief shook him, it caught at his lip, as a dry leaf that would tremble and fall. It tore at his eye and made his fingers to shake. “He was behind me, I pulled the reins, but it took him....” The Captain stood abruptly, these thoughts were strangers, death was not. She seemed to guess at this and turned away. “It gets cold, I will sit at the fire.” In brief moments the sky had darkened, the withered holly a silhouette. Stars appeared, in timeless and indifferent orbit. This he understood, this was his fate. As the heavens moved to God’s purpose, so he served. And if the old man stopped an arrow destined for himself, then this too was meant. Maynard’s philosophy permitted no doubt, he knew death to be final, just as the Abbot’s word. Inside, his wife awaited. He talked to the Bailiff, though nothing would be done. People might keep their doors close for a time, but such lawlessness was common in the March. Men beyond the pale, though not beyond the Holy Father, should he wish to pursue his justice, even into Hywel’s country. The Captain’s home stood adrift from the other houses, but not so far as made commerce infrequent. Being known to be in the employ of the Abbot, he commanded a due regard; as did his family, and masses were ordered for his foster father. Such was the public ritual of mourning. In private too, neighbours offered up their sentiments, for Walter had been known to them. Tintern was a demanding landlord. The villagers spent much of their time attending vast fish ponds, settled between their cotts and the river. At the north end a troughed leat brought in water and hatchlings; down a cascade that the carp and bream and trout, not being salmon, could not scale. The ponds themselves were wide and shallow, so carnivorous pike were caught before they grew too large. Boys practised their archery, and occasionally a heron filled the pot at home. Having served its purpose, the now quiet water trickled back to the river. Ranks of reed and sedge captured young fish and the meagre dribble that covered the plants’ roots was not deep enough for larger catch to escape. A Lay-Brother served as officer and guard, in hungry seasons the ponds were an attraction; to not only the locals, but those from further afield who knew of their repute. Once catastrophe had struck, the river in flood over-climbed its bank and scoured clean the land. Then the Monks took their tithe in corn or coin, and the poor went without or sold their children as slaves, as had been the Captain’s own history. Such an event was rare, and year to year the ponds yielded up their profit. The officer kept his tally, but knew on high days a family might feast on trout. It suited the Abbey to overlook such an incentive. This expanse of water was often hung about with a fine mist. Cold it sat all day unless the wind break it, and clear the rippling surface. Then with the sun low, the pond decked in purple silk, solid. Maynard’s stay could not be long, he collected firewood, borrowing the Reeve’s cart, filling the yard. The boy must break it up at his mother’s need. He left them at the gate and could not tell when he should return. One final backward glance found the three waving. The Captain raised his hand in salute, turned into the wood and from their view. His plan was simple enough; he knew the Uncle’s shop in Gloucester, and with the husband’s absence, construed it only time and patient observation needed to bring him to Morgan’s family. He had told the Abbot true in naming the children as couth by adoption only. However the loss of his own father, had brought to him the realisation that blood was but one tie. And that Morgan, an honest man, could care for his as Walter had treated him. The way was wide and even, and soon he came to the ford. He got down and led the mare across, the clip of her hooves made ragged by the flowing stream. His boots too, splashed through the stew of water and silt, running thick until further downstream it cleared once more; sufficient to see the shadow of an eel wind its way through tangled boulders. Mounted and on the far bank the path led now between hanging oaks, alongside open fields. Here were sheep, hundreds of them and a herder with his dog. “G’day Sir.” “Aye is that, this will be the Abbey’s stock.” “You’m fair correct in that statement Sir. Whom else beside them Monks ud graze this pasture? I’s a small cask bestowed aside that gate, would you be after a sup? Sit, sit Dwcan.” “You’re kind father, it is a dry wind, will it remain so?” The man handed up his flagon. “Aye, a day, but we’ll have rain afore the week’s ended, bound to when it returns to the west. You’m going far mister?” “Gloucester.” “That’s a largish place them says, I baint never been, I’ve been to Chepstow, to the market.” “Aye, its big enough, but man, it is a speck in London’s eye.” “You’d ha travelled a bit then Sir, baint for such as us, hey boy.” The herder kneaded the collie’s forehead. “We likes it here, and specially today when the sun shines.” The Captain left the pair to their sheep, and the service of Tintern. As the old fellow and his dog must protect the Abbot’s property, it fell to Maynard to regain a portion of the same. And as the dog would fall on a wolf cub before it could grow to threaten the flock; so too would he. Morgan surely would value his boys over a piece of paper. The Captain’s morality was not offended by the notion, the exchange would see the lad returned. And should the offer be refused, was fate. He was his master’s servant in all. Morning passed and with it the miles, he had ridden through the Dean Forest, and in the distance Gloucester. The spire heavenwards visible, and faint the striking of bells, carried over the red earth by the same breeze that raised up a blanket of dust. His faith denied compassion and he was without pity. CHAPTER ONE. “Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah. Ul-Allah.” Voices from below as clear shards of ice, fractured the iridescent blue. Shrill cries top sintered snow, and contest the air about our ears; beneath, a sonorous dirge beat out its communal origin. The caravan, a necklace of bright jewels: gold, green, red, black and silver silk fold and flutter, about their mannekins. A shifting stream of colour that would out dazzle the crystal canvas, now draped over the long raking buttresses of the mountain; Janda min Amal. This close to heaven the call of prayer more a plea for recognition, than a paean of praise My guide, Abdu-Abbi, raised his crop in brief recognition. We turned north, away from the peaks that mark the watershed between the narrow coast; its rocky teeth our ship’s despair, and the steepening valleys that run down to the Great River, Al-Wadi-Ilkifre. Our destination Granada, the chief place of Andalus. Where we should meet Master Torro’s agent, the Jew, Baruch Tabibe of the Karnatt, doctor and man of learning. He visited the Calif’s house, and his library; it was this that fed my hope. “Twm, I can give you money and passage and provenance, would boot a Prince to Jerusalem. Elias, Master Torro is from a home mired in the past. Perhaps there you may find knowledge of her malady.” Was now three months since, the children’s noise distant, Uncle’s arm raised at the quay; Nan absent, with Mistress Mary. Hope, what is it? A delusion that fires a man’s passion and blinds him, binds him to airy promises and heathen oaths. Or is it some celestial beacon, now clear as the day sun, from time to time shrouded, but irreducible. I had no answer and so let my guide lead. His smile, pitted black, was lent some honesty by this disfigurement. “Master, Master Morgan, see, Granada, see.” And, in the distance shimmering above the ice-field, the bulbous steeples of countless minarets. No more or less as bodies of the heavens; night’s panoply made visible by sunlight. We came down to it by a cobbled path, through terraced groves of orange; that strange sweet sharp scent heavy on the dew. Even in the day’s dawning the warmth of the earth held our limbs. Though behind us the towering snows lay still, implacable seeming, but false; for here beside our path runs liquid, little floes, murmuring there own ululation. The city was vast, beguiling; women who sat at the roadside, bold with their looks and loud with the import of their baskets, full with bread, grape, fish, fruit and all. “Abdu.” “Rass.” “Is your master’s home close? They worry the horse, and me.” In answer he laughed and beat upon the flailing arms with his whip, but with no strength. * Tintern, a grey cliff in rain filled clouds, its walls weeping, low in the mead that runs down to the Wye. A rider stooped at the trees edge, he had come from Gloucester without halt, over the sullen swollen Severn; its turbid water clumsy about the knees of sunken elms. The deluge had not ceased, and seeking some refuge he had drifted into the wooded escarpment. Below him, smoke struggled upward from chimney and cottage, a whisper of it wreathed about his sodden cowl. He had come to castle gates in war, clad less doleful or onerous. “Lo, watch, lo.” “I knows that call, is it you Captain?” “Aye, aye, open up Walter, am I a fish as should be moated? Give me a roof to drown below.” “I come Captain, here...” Mid the gloom a lantern beckoned the rider forward, though he must dismount to pass the wicket. Beneath the gatehouse he shook his hood back. “Why Walter, you took no word of me, and open the gate, how so?” The guard an old man, shifted, his reply wary. “We were told you come Cap’n, and knowing you like a son, if you excuse me Sir, I made them open; wanting to get you to fire and flagon before the Abbot, Sir.” “Walter,” he drew the watch close, “you presume upon our past ...” to the soldiers assembled, “take my horse. Friend, to the warmth, there is an icy chill in these stone guardians.” “Yes Captain, they are not generous hosts.” The rider dismounted was well past youth, but his step sure led him to the Abbot’s office. Here Hugh de Clare sat folded within soft linen and warm wool, feet upon a stool that they keep from the cold flags and racing draught feeding the great fire and brazier. He took off his cap, massaged its felt between long fingers and replaced it on the dome of his skull. The Abbot motioned to a clerk. “Brother, your pen is wet, the ink runs?” “Yes Father, are you thirsty, will I call the Butler?” At this they both turned to the door. Wherein entered the self same. “Abbot, Master Maynard is arrived, shall I bring him ?” Clare nodded. The room was less than Maynard had anticipated, but sovereignty need not give itself to display; the man in front of him seated, burned with it. As did every vassal that bore the mark of the Abbey’s iron ‘T’, branded in men’s flesh as cattle, cut into their ears as sheep. He had passed enough broken down walls and abandoned common, turned over to the fleece; to value the Holy Father’s appreciation of his flock. “Lord.” “Captain Maynard, sit, we are private here, you need not be a slave to custom. I know your loyalty and obedience. Joseph fetch a tray for the Master, hurry.” The Butler left, a Lay-Brother by his dress. “What news?” The Abbot nodded to the scribe. “Morgan is gone abroad, was his passage booked, for what reason none that I have found. To his Uncle’s business? The merchant, is returned to Gloucester and the kind regard of your cousin, Father.” Here the Captain paused to loosen his belt, or to judge his host’s temper, or both. The brother returned and brought to the table a large tray: beef, bread, cheese, a fowl broken apart, wine and cups of silver. He laid it down and Maynard now noticed the cloth spread across the trestles boarded shelf. An allegory of sorts; here below and upward looking is a serf, his shoulder broken to the plough, beyond a wood, in which a woman to an oak is captive leashed. In gold thread picked out, harness and jess, the hawker’s bird aloft against a sun also in gold rimmed with red, bloodshot. All above a crucifix. “Master.” The Butler passed him a plate, the weight a betrayal of its worth; de Clare’s opulence began to lean upon Maynard. The more accustomed his eyes grew to the light of the fire, the less accustomed those sights about him. Behind the Holy Father, hung upon the wall a huge map, left in its own frame polished plate a mirror, and in one corner a bird, talons dipped in gilt, large eye and hideous beak. “Master Maynard, the family, the sons?” This interjection cut adrift his wandering thoughts. “Father, they are bastards and none of his neither but by adoption. He has no natural children.” “Then Captain it seems your work is plain before you. What of the deeds and title? Morgan’s death is nothing if my cousin fails in his inheritance. Well.....?” “The papers are in Gloucester still, with the Uncle.” “Are you certain, how can you be?” “Sir, the money lender himself should know the price of coin and of loyalty, you have servants in your pay as does he. Who would not rather act for God as well as their own purse. He has a righteous maid who is ready in her faith.” “So..... you satisfy me, I should not have questioned your report.” The Abbot motioned once more toward the brother at the table, pen held in abeyance. He left. “Captain, my cousin must have these deeds and this, obstruction... removed, before the year is out.” The Holy Father lifted himself up, beckoning the soldier close. “ For your wife, take this”. He held out a small, hide bound Psalter. “Does she read? No matter, it will serve her just as well unopened, in her solitude.” He clasped Maynard’s wrist, tight within a trembling grip of skin, and tendon. “Reflect Captain, how tortuous long is an absent heart. Do your duty.” At this his strength expired, the Abbot fell back into the enclosing burrow of his robes, his hand held aloft awaiting its due subservience, crooked under the clamour of gold and pearl. Maynard knelt and removed himself. Outside stood Walter. “This way, Sir.... I’ve kept you a room with a fire beside.” Used to the old man he followed him with no thought of his benefactor’s pains; the room had indeed been hard fought for, a hanging promised the next day filled the Abbey’s Lay-House. The Captain’s mind rested on his Theresa. “Sir is there ought else? Will I leave you tinder for the morning....?” “Aye, aye and we break fast early, I can’t abide the stench of piety. Have the mare ready.” He looked out through the small embrasure, sky now dark, but the scaffold trembled eerily in oily torchlight. “Who is it they drop?” “A hedge priest Cap’n, for sedition and as talks God’s word out of his mouth and not the Church’s Book, nor their Priest. Can he know God’s meaning Sir?” “It would seem unlikely, why should our Lord Abbot sentence his brother in Holy Speech, if it is Holy. Surely Walter, even you must consider such an end proof of heresy.” “G’night Cap’n, you’ll be right I’m sure, and if not? Though he be some mother’s grief, husband or son?” Walter closed the door behind him, shutting out what dim light there was. * The river looped upon its course was a fair sight mid the flowering trees and thick grass. Above a quiet pool, locked in stone disgorged from red earth; lit an arc of blue, a dragonfly, wings appearing static in its hover. The old man rode behind the Captain, and behind him two men walked. They carried bows and at their belt each a long knife. Mail was of little protection, was weighty and expensive, men were cheap. Maynard looked over his shoulder, face scarred from left eye to lip; an old wound, healed and not easily seen. Walter knew it was there, had sown it up and drained the bile off it, black and yellow seeping. He found the Captain in Bristol; a young boy for sale along the wharf side. And ashore with wages in his wallet, he thought the lad an unexpected gift for his wife. When the two came home the cottage was a ruin and Walter’s Mistress gone; dead or captive they never knew. So, the boy grew and left for France, to return ten years by, now hard and close, grim. It was the birth of Maynard’s own son changed him and brought a gentler light into his cold eye, or so Walter deemed. Out over the river he caught the swallow’s tail, dive, and flick the water into bright spray; as it took the whirring insect in its beak. And otherwise he saw, as though held back, the arrow shake its cockfeather. A white streak of malice to drive the steel a measured yard through Rob’s chest. He did not look long, bridle snatched, the two riders leapt for the trees. He did not need to wait long, with shock he saw the shaft’s tip press out his gut; no more pain than the dragonfly and then too, oblivion. Maynard let go the pallid head, he had sensed something awry; Walter’s body floated into the middle of the water, soon it was gone. It was luck alone that of the four, he lived; the soldiers were unimportant, but the old man. The old man had raised him and though he knew he had been bought a slave.... cloud wearied the sky. To occupy his thoughts, the Captain dismounted and leading the dun mare, considered the extent of his knowledge concerning Thomas Morgan son of Ialo and his wife Miriam, who also styled herself Kathrin. Raphael of Oxford, the King’s Jew had taken surety from Valerie De Clare, of a loan. Title to land granted to de Clare, but safe against future recovery as it lay over the border. Safe until Miriam wed a Welshman, Ialo ap Rhos, a common bowyer. It had been foolish to kill Raphael, but that had been his predecessor’s transgression; now his grandson lived, an heir, but to Maynard’s knowledge, one ignorant of his wealth. He knew that Simon Brecon in his masquerade as native was Miriam’s brother and kept the papers in Gloucester. He knew also that he could not openly strike Simon, the monks too had their debts. Yet the Holy Father had made his obligation clear and he had faith in the Abbot of Tintern. The creak of the gibbet spoke his authority, the axe his persistence. The Captain’s faith was staunch. His Lord was cruel but just; he had seen enough men die to know it better to serve one master at a time. And to whom beside the Abbot should such as he scrape a knee. Not even the King of England could escape Tintern’s holy remonstrations. These thoughts accompanied Maynard home and if he had no definite intent, his loyalty remained undiminished. Theresa and the children were upon him soon enough. Mal an elderly seven took the saddle to the stable, as he carried Gwen by her ankle into the hearth. He sat and looked at his wife. “Where’s your Da? I thought he was with you.” The Captain made a brief motion, she took up her apron and went to the fire. “This smoke, Ralf you said you’d have it looked to....” He touched her arm. Supper was noisy, Mal excited that his father should be at the table, let his bowl cool. “How big was it Dad, was it bigger than me?” His response to the Captain’s tale of the visit with the Abbot, and his eagle. Dusk brought peace, together they sat overlooking the cattle; black against rose pink cloud on the horizon. Above their heads the whispered flap of wings and beyond, in the distance the fading cry of birdsong. Soon to be swallowed by the creeping in of night. Glowing the cottage breathed warmth, yellow light splashed out the threshold. “What happened?” He explained, she took his hand, silently. His grief shook him, it caught at his lip, as a dry leaf that would tremble and fall. It tore at his eye and made his fingers to shake. “He was behind me, I pulled the reins, but it took him....” The Captain stood abruptly, these thoughts were strangers, death was not. She seemed to guess at this and turned away. “It gets cold, I will sit at the fire.” In brief moments the sky had darkened, the withered holly a silhouette. Stars appeared, in timeless and indifferent orbit. This he understood, this was his fate. As the heavens moved to God’s purpose, so he served. And if the old man stopped an arrow destined for himself, then this too was meant. Maynard’s philosophy permitted no doubt, he knew death to be final, just as the Abbot’s word. Inside, his wife awaited. He talked to the Bailiff, though nothing would be done. People might keep their doors close for a time, but such lawlessness was common in the March. Men beyond the pale, though not beyond the Holy Father, should he wish to pursue his justice, even into Hywel’s country. The Captain’s home stood adrift from the other houses, but not so far as made commerce infrequent. Being known to be in the employ of the Abbot, he commanded a due regard; as did his family, and masses were ordered for his foster father. Such was the public ritual of mourning. In private too, neighbours offered up their sentiments, for Walter had been known to them. Tintern was a demanding landlord. The villagers spent much of their time attending vast fish ponds, settled between their cotts and the river. At the north end a troughed leat brought in water and hatchlings; down a cascade that the carp and bream and trout, not being salmon, could not scale. The ponds themselves were wide and shallow, so carnivorous pike were caught before they grew too large. Boys practised their archery, and occasionally a heron filled the pot at home. Having served its purpose, the now quiet water trickled back to the river. Ranks of reed and sedge captured young fish and the meagre dribble that covered the plants’ roots was not deep enough for larger catch to escape. A Lay-Brother served as officer and guard, in hungry seasons the ponds were an attraction; to not only the locals, but those from further afield who knew of their repute. Once catastrophe had struck, the river in flood over-climbed its bank and scoured clean the land. Then the Monks took their tithe in corn or coin, and the poor went without or sold their children as slaves, as had been the Captain’s own history. Such an event was rare, and year to year the ponds yielded up their profit. The officer kept his tally, but knew on high days a family might feast on trout. It suited the Abbey to overlook such an incentive. This expanse of water was often hung about with a fine mist. Cold it sat all day unless the wind break it, and clear the rippling surface. Then with the sun low, the pond decked in purple silk, solid. Maynard’s stay could not be long, he collected firewood, borrowing the Reeve’s cart, filling the yard. The boy must break it up at his mother’s need. He left them at the gate and could not tell when he should return. One final backward glance found the three waving. The Captain raised his hand in salute, turned into the wood and from their view. His plan was simple enough; he knew the Uncle’s shop in Gloucester, and with the husband’s absence, construed it only time and patient observation needed to bring him to Morgan’s family. He had told the Abbot true in naming the children as couth by adoption only. However the loss of his own father, had brought to him the realisation that blood was but one tie. And that Morgan, an honest man, could care for his as Walter had treated him. The way was wide and even, and soon he came to the ford. He got down and led the mare across, the clip of her hooves made ragged by the flowing stream. His boots too, splashed through the stew of water and silt, running thick until further downstream it cleared once more; sufficient to see the shadow of an eel wind its way through tangled boulders. Mounted and on the far bank the path led now between hanging oaks, alongside open fields. Here were sheep, hundreds of them and a herder with his dog. “G’day Sir.” “Aye is that, this will be the Abbey’s stock.” “You’m fair correct in that statement Sir. Whom else beside them Monks ud graze this pasture? I’s a small cask bestowed aside that gate, would you be after a sup? Sit, sit Dwcan.” “You’re kind father, it is a dry wind, will it remain so?” The man handed up his flagon. “Aye, a day, but we’ll have rain afore the week’s ended, bound to when it returns to the west. You’m going far mister?” “Gloucester.” “That’s a largish place them says, I baint never been, I’ve been to Chepstow, to the market.” “Aye, its big enough, but man, it is a speck in London’s eye.” “You’d ha travelled a bit then Sir, baint for such as us, hey boy.” The herder kneaded the collie’s forehead. “We likes it here, and specially today when the sun shines.” The Captain left the pair to their sheep, and the service of Tintern. As the old fellow and his dog must protect the Abbot’s property, it fell to Maynard to regain a portion of the same. And as the dog would fall on a wolf cub before it could grow to threaten the flock; so too would he. Morgan surely would value his boys over a piece of paper. The Captain’s morality was not offended by the notion, the exchange would see the lad returned. And should the offer be refused, was fate. He was his master’s servant in all. Morning passed and with it the miles, he had ridden through the Dean Forest, and in the distance Gloucester. The spire heavenwards visible, and faint the striking of bells, carried over the red earth by the same breeze that raised up a blanket of dust. His faith denied compassion and he was without pity.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Aug 2013 06:40:30 +0000