The days passed. In the forge Jared made short work of the backlog and in the process came to know a little more of his son, but Daw kept his distance from the exotic man with the extravagant fables claiming to be his father.
Occasionally he and Perkyn would lark about and lapse into Turkish, to the exasperation of Osbert and the wonder of the boy, or turn a piece in the Arab fashion, curved and exotic, and perhaps go for outlandish compounds in quenching oils to bring up curious patterns on the bare metal.
Father Bertrand chanced by and was disappointed that he’d been unable to visit the Holy Sepulchre and speak of it to him for he’d never been there himself.
A little later a stiff-faced John Frauncey called, sent by the bailiff to beg him for a pair of ornamental barn hinges in the Moorish style. After only the minimum foolery and teasing of the self-important lackey Jared agreed and two days of diverting work later produced a fanciful set that had the whole village talking.
The house was built: the only available space rather closer to the woods than he cared for but it was good to settle in to his own dwelling. He offered a place in it to Perkyn – in return for what they’d shared but also he didn’t want to be alone. Daw had decided he’d prefer for now to stay with his Uncle Osbert.
And merciful heavens, the nightmares had not returned. His mind sometimes briefly shied at fleeting reminders, but it had been years ago now and the hurt had faded into wistful remembrance.
Jared wanted to go forward with life but apart from Daw he had no family, no one to care for.
He missed Kadrİye. She would have been given his share of the plunder and be comfortably off. They’d never been close, the distance from concubine to master too great to bridge, but a woman to share a life with was surely fundamental to existence.
But here in Hurnwych there were none his age – gone thirty – who hadn’t been married off years before. And it had to be faced, after what he’d seen, could he find contentment with a young and innocent village girl?
Perkyn was quiet, clearly affected by his experiences but insisted that he wanted nothing but peace and calm.
The towering vision that had seized Jared of tearing down castle walls with devil dust had now faded. Although the knowledge was within him the ambition seemed absurd and didn’t fit with this land of peace and order, so different to the surging waves of slaughter and violence he’d known. All he wanted now was blessed normality, to take up the life he once had, to fit in to the rhythms of the seasons and the lives of everyday folk in Hurnwych.
The villagers treated him with respect and deference but this was not what he wanted. In the tavern and in conversation they would hold back in awe at what he might say and his opinion on things was final. Even Father Bertrand would anxiously look his way as if in fear of contradiction if a sermon happened to mention the Holy Land.
He had to accept it: he was not of their world any more. His ordeal and adventures had separated him from them, his knowledge of the world so infinitely greater, his perspectives not theirs.
At least he had his work. He took to adding Turkish flourishes to farm tools, a warlike gleam to a scythe blade, socketed three-edged arrowheads for an appreciative Watkyn.
It brought results but not what he expected. One afternoon a hard-faced stranger took a seat in the tavern and asked for him. It turned out to be the Ravenstock armourer.
After some guarded talk it became clear that he was much impressed with Jared’s skills. The craft of armour and blades was greatly superior to pedestrian blacksmithing and Jared was putting out work with the mark of a first-class artificer. Not only that, after his experiences he could be expected to be up with the latest know-how and military fashions from out there in the wider world.
The man was concerned for his job!
If ever they heard about it, Jared would certainly be a catch for the castle. The irony was that he would spit on any offer to work up there. However, he agreed that for a useful fee he would take in work to be passed off as the armourer’s own, which would bolster his position there with its quality and modern touch.
The smithy was prosperous and busy. There was now security and a future for Jared but he was restless.
Daw was still preferring his Uncle Osbert’s company, possibly because they’d been so close for these years, or was it that the young lad was finding it hard to deal with a man so at odds with every other around him? Either way it was hurtful.
He would persevere, of course, for Daw was all he had in this world, but meanwhile there was one great need he had to satisfy.
He had to find himself again.