Hurnwych, England, AD 1302
As if in a dream the last mile before Hurnwych opened up before them.
Jared walked easy in respect for Perkyn’s hobble and had time to take it all in. They were dressed as pilgrims just as they had been when they’d departed but this was from the generosity of the Order who had cared for them as sheep restored to the fold. Alms clinked in their scrip, their sclaveins plain but robust. Their staffs were stout and their broad hats were adorned by the pewter palm badge of the Holy Land pilgrim.
They walked on. Jared was keyed up for an emotional tide of recognition but it didn’t come. The gnarled oak at the bend he remembered, but it was strangely bereft of significance – it was just there. And the gentle rolling country in all its grace and beauty was if anything startling, so deeply green with rain-washed verdancy after the arid near-desert he’d known for years.
Villeins toiled in their strip fields, ignoring mere travellers, and a boy who drove a flock of geese only gave them a glance.
The manor house came into view: he saw a sad shabbiness. It was so much smaller than he recalled, far less grand and imperious.
And beyond, sitting massively on the hill was Castle Ravenstock.
Prepared for a surge of hatred and memory, instead he saw that washed by sunlight the bluff walls had somehow lost their menace. After the great Crusader fortresses he’d seen this was very much a lesser, mediocre pile and he was strangely moved; he’d changed more than he’d known.
Beside him Perkyn was quiet and apprehensive.
This was the Banbury road with pilgrims a not uncommon sight and they reached the bridge and the common without being stopped.
As they drew nearer, Jared’s heart began beating painfully. Over to the left was the rude street of his birthplace and home, for which he had so long wistfully pined. It was not far – and then he stood before the place he had left so many years ago in grief and fury.
It was smaller and changed: was that another room added to the rear? The tavern was still there, and with a couple of early customers.
‘Here we go, then, Perkyn.’ He went to the door and gave a hail.
A woman unknown to him opened it and frowned. ‘No use coming here for alms, brother. I has three bantlings and a sick husband to nurse!’
‘Oh. Sorry to disturb you, sister.’
His home was now that of another.
Uncertain, he hesitated then made for the other side, to the smithy, which from the pungency of smoke and quenched metal was in full use.
At the open-fronted forge was the unmistakeable form of Osbert, inspecting the piece he had just worked. A young lad was at the bellows and another stood back – he knew neither.
Osbert wheeled round to see who had come. A moment’s incredulity and he gave a hoarse cry. ‘Jared! By the God that sits above and you’re restored to us!’
He clasped Jared tightly to him and a sob escaped.
Himself overcome, Jared’s eyes stung as he croaked a response.
‘By all that’s holy,’ Osbert swore. ‘And I’ll not rest until I’ve heard your story!’ Flushed with pleasure he threw over his shoulder, ‘We’re finished for the day, you two. Get the forge down and you’ll find us in the tavern. Come, Jared – and you, Perkyn. We’ve a pile of things to talk about, I fancy!’
It was dreamlike – so much the same, so different.
In the tavern they sat on the comfortably dark-worn seats in the old way, but the serving maid was a stranger as were the two customers nearby who looked up curiously.
‘Osbert. How goes my mother? There’s a stranger in—’
‘Sorry to tell you, lad, but she passed on.’
‘She always knew you’d come back. Made us keep all your old things – they’re still here.’
Jared blinked back tears but knew that for him the past was for ever out of reach.
The young boy he’d seen in the forge appeared at the door. ‘Fire’s out, tools away – can I go now?’
‘No.’ Osbert said with an odd catch in his throat. ‘Come here, lad.’
The boy approached Jared uncertainly. Only twelve or so he held himself well, his dark hair the same as his own and with a pleasing countenance.
‘As this is my apprentice and will desire to make your acquaintance. Younker, this is Master Jared.’
He paused for just a moment then added softly, ‘And he is your father.’
Daw! Little David – could it be …?
The lad stood staring, his eyes wide and hands working at the cap he held.
‘I … I’m right pleased to see you, David,’ Jared said in a low voice. ‘How are you?’
Their child who he’d held in his arms and …
The youngster held back, unsure and guarded, saying nothing.
‘Daw, I …’
Osbert intervened gently. ‘You can go, lad. Tell ’em there’ll be another two to sup tonight.’
When he’d left he added, ‘A fine boy – does what he’s told and quick with it.’
Touched by the encounter more than he could admit Jared took refuge in asking for news of the village.
There was not a lot to tell. A new lord of the manor, an earnest churchgoer who nevertheless ensured that his dues would be met in full and on time. The miller had slipped and lost a hand to the millstones. A clutch of marriages, births and deaths and the year that the harvest was all but lost to a great storm.
His house had been let to a family and the proceeds put away for David’s future – as an apprentice blacksmith he was doing well, liking the craft and taking to its mysteries with a will.
‘Jared?’ Nolly, nervous and blinking, laid eyes on his old friend. He was careworn, with lines in his features, almost unrecognisable as the jack-me-lad he’d shared frolics with in those long ago summers.
‘Hoy there, Nolly!’ he replied, but the carefree banter of old died in his throat.
‘I heard you was returned and … and …’
‘Sit yourself down,’ Osbert invited. ‘And you’re in time to hear of our Jared’s adventures!’
Another ale arrived and with it Old Yarwell, seamed and aged, his knobbly stick trembling as he shuffled in. ‘Just heard o’ you back with us,’ he wheezed. ‘You’ll have a tale to tell, I told m’self, so here I is to hear it. Get on with it, lad!’
Jared sat there, bemused. How was it possible to even begin, when not a one of those eagerly clustered around had even seen the sea, let alone the vastness of Persia. To describe a camel? A Mongol army on the move?
‘Well, I …’
‘You tell it, Master Jared,’ Perkyn came in unexpectedly. ‘I … I’m going to …’
Of course – he had his memories and friends, and after all, he’d only agreed to be a servant for the span of a pilgrimage.
‘Away you go, Perkyn. Mind you come back soon and I want to thank you properly, you hear?’
His place was taken by Will Dunning, the miller’s son who he’d thrown into the pond one May Day. Mature and balding he stood until bidden to sit, his eyes wide and respectful. Others began appearing behind him – word was spreading fast in the little village.
‘So we set out … when was it, the seventeenth or was it the eighteenth year of our King Edward, bound for Woodstock and …’
It was easy going at first as he told of familiar landscapes and names, but when he tried to convey the fear and torment of a sea voyage it came out as either bland or fantastical. His growing audience, however, was greatly appreciative and listened for every word.
When he reached the point where the knights engaged him for Acre a short, burly man with an empty socket for one eye worked himself to the front. ‘Know what you mean, young fellow. Was the same when I shipped on crusade with King Richard, the Lionheart we called ’im, fine soldier, very fine. Did I ever tell you how we—’
A chorus of cries cut him short and Jared remembered the veteran crusader archer Watkyn Sharpeye. He smiled inwardly. His own story went far beyond the tallest tales this man could ever tell.
Evening drew in before he’d even reached Tabriz and he was suddenly overcome by a tide of weariness and promised more for the next day.
‘Osbert, if my house is—’
‘Pay no mind to it. You’ll be with us this night.’
‘Kind of you, Osbert, but—’
‘It’s the way of it – Hurnwych’ll set to and we’ll have you a new house in a week.’
As it had always been done: if any of the tight-knit community needed to replace or build, all would lend a hand and the favour would be returned in due course. And for Jared it would meet a deeper need – he was unsure how he would face the memories alone.
‘I’d be grateful, Osbert. Wouldn’t want to turn out the tenants in the old place, o’ course.’
‘They’ll be happy to hear that. One more thing: the smithy. Will you be …?’
Jared smiled broadly, flexing his muscles. ‘I start at once!’
‘It’s just that I’ve more work in hand I can jump over. Daw’s a help but the forge-hand is nothing but a thick-skulled fool of a dirt tosser, all I could get.’
‘Rest easy, Osbert. I’m sure Perkyn won’t want to go back to the fields – he’s steady enough, worked with me in Persia. He doesn’t know a ploughshare from a coulter blade but can turn in a Saracen crossbow bolt in a twinkle, should you ask kindly!’