“I’m sorry, Jusuf, I thought you were behind me. Come and meet Dom Francisco Lopes. He’s a monk from Mosteiro de Santa Maria de Alcobaça, not far from Lisboa. His party are going to visit the Canons Regular of the Lateran at their Priory of Saint Mary in Bodmyn, and he’s graciously consented to allow us to walk with them. It’ll be safer, and save us having to ask our way, and no doubt getting lost.”
As they negotiated their way along the quayside, towards the monk and his travelling companions, doubt struck Jusuf. “But I’m not a Christian,” he whispered, pulling Rodrigo to a halt. “They won’t want—”
“I’ve already explained. You’ve no need to worry. Come on. Dom Francisco seems a kindly brother.”
“Explained what?” but Rodrigo was too busy avoiding those busily about them as he encouraged Jusuf on.
As they approached the monk, he fixed Jusuf in his kindly gaze, finally greeting him with, “Ah, o Bom Samaritano.” His blossoming smile gave Jusuf a warm welcome. The Dom took Jusuf’s large hand in his own, and lightly patted it. He then leant in closer and, in passably good Arabic, offered, “May God favour you through the one you call Allah.”
“In his name may I…” Jusuf habitually began, but then swallowed and held his tongue.
“God works in mysterious ways, Jusuf al-Haddad. It beholds us all to look for His ways in those of others.” Then he drew in another monk, one draped in a black cloak worn over a black habit. Dom Francisco spoke to him in English, too rapidly for Jusuf to follow, but he understood the returned suspicion in the man’s eyes, and the brief, hollow smile he offered Jusuf.
After a rapid exchange between the two monks and Rodrigo, in both English and Portuguese, Dom Francisco explained in Arabic, “I have much to discuss with my fratrem in Deo Brother Thomas, Jusuf al-Haddad, but perhaps time will allow us a word or two later.” He again smiled up at Jusuf before joining Brother Thomas at the head of their party as it made preparations for leaving.
Jusuf whispered to Rodrigo, “What did you tell him?”
“Only the truth,” Rodrigo said, a genuine warmth in the smile he then gave Jusuf.
12 The Last to Know
“What I don’t understand,” Rodrigo said to Jusuf, as they waited for the travelling party’s baggage to be loaded onto a handcart, “is why this quay’s so large.” He looked about it, then down into the river flowing between its quaysides.
“Well, I suppose it must be because they do a lot of trade,” Jusuf offered, not sure what Rodrigo was getting at.
“But nothing bigger than a small boat can get in here. Just look at the draught it’s got,” and he pointed down into the clear water.
Jusuf saw the glint of small fish darting here and there against the dark grey-brown sludge at the bottom, the water clearly no more than waist deep. He looked again at the long and broad quaysides, then at the large two-storey buildings facing onto them. Finally, he shrugged.
“Maybe you ought to ask.”
A young, black-robed monk stood nearby, directing two lads in the loading of the handcart. Rodrigo drew him into discourse, a smile slowly growing on the monk’s face as he pointed towards the North. When they’d finished, Rodrigo seemed surprised as he came back to Jusuf and stared down into the water again.
“Tin mining,” he said. “The brother told me that until about a hundred years ago this was known as ‘The Port of Fawi’, one of the busiest along the south coast. It was from here that most of the tin was carried out, and what made Lostwithiel Cornwall’s capital. He said seagoing vessels could ply their way to and from here, up and down the river on the high tide.”
“But it’s high tide now, and the river’s not that deep.”
“It isn’t now, Jusuf, no, but it used to be a lot deeper.” He barked a short laugh. “It seems that what raised Lostwithiel’s fortunes also diminished them: the tin, Jusuf, the tin.”
When Jusuf only stared blankly at him, Rodrigo explained: “I’ve learnt that tin’s mined by washing the loose spoil off into a nearby stream. What they never put a thought to, though, was what happens to the spoil after that. Well, it eventually gets carried down into the rivers, of course…like this one.” Rodrigo pointed into the water. “And that’s what that is: hundreds of years of silt, washed down from off the moors north of here.”
Jusuf stared at Rodrigo. “Sounds a bit like digging your own grave! And, well, strikes me there’s a lesson somewhere in that tale. It’s weird, though. I never realised this was the part of Inglaterra where all the tin I use comes from,” but then movement stirred about them.
The baggage had finally been loaded, the monks already stepping out along the quayside, the two lads drawing the handcart falling in behind. Rodrigo and Jusuf followed at the rear as the quayside led them all out into a narrow street that ran between low, grey rubble-stone houses. Jusuf only got a brief look, however, before the party ahead turned off. They dipped into a low arched passage beneath the upper storey of one of the first properties.
Beyond it and down a narrow alley, they came to the crossing of a wider street. Here, they turned north onto its busier way, its throng of townsfolk readily stepping aside. But Jusuf’s gaze was drawn above the bobbing heads of the monks, up beyond the roofs of the tight-pressed buildings further down the long curving street, and he drew in a sharp breath.
A spire, like the point of an upthrust spear, seemed to float in the air above the town, reaching high into the fleeting grey sky. It appeared to beckon them on until briefly obscured as they came between two facing gable walls at the end of the street.
But as they walked out into another but busier and broader one, Jusuf had to stop and stare. Before him, reaching up from within its sacred patch of open ground and high above everything else around, rose a huge and mighty Christian church.
Rodrigo’s calls eventually nudged Jusuf’s wonder aside, bringing his gaze lower, to where his companion now stood before an arched gate in a low wall on the other side of the street, urging him over.
When Jusuf joined him, Rodrigo suggested Jusuf wait with the cart and its two attendants, whilst he caught up with the monks, at whom he then pointed. They were entering the church by a long porch, jutting out from its south aisle.
“These lads have just told me,” Rodrigo said, nodding towards the cart’s attendants, “that Dom Francisco and his travelling companion had to come upriver shortly after putting in at Foy, to catch the tide. So this is their first chance to give thanks to God for their safe passage. And you know, I think I’d like to give thanks to God myself, Jusuf, for having put us on the same path as the brothers. At least now we’re not likely to get lost.”
Jusuf smiled and nodded, then watched Rodrigo hurry along the path to the church. As he disappeared inside, Jusuf felt eyes upon him. He turned to find himself held in the cold stares of the two young lads. A chill ran up his back, his wary eyes searching out the look on the faces of those passing by.
He felt a little easier, a little less alone, when he found nothing more than curiosity. The older ones even returned him the odd nod.
Jusuf breathed in deeply before walking a little way into a lane that ran beside the west wall of the churchyard. He stopped and gazed along it, beyond where it passed beneath the spire and on towards yet more town properties. He then sat down on a raised tuft of grass, apart from the cart, and leant back against the wall, his shoulder bag safely between his legs.
The warmth of a suddenly freed sun struck his face, lifting both his gaze and his spirits. The morning’s curtain of grey cloud had finally been swept aside by the hot and high sun’s beam, casting Jusuf’s shadow dark against the bright dirt of the lane at his dusty feet. And sitting there, warming his bones, he again breathed in deeply, and this time waited.
“You nodding off?” Rodrigo’s voice eventually challenged.
Jusuf opened an eye and peered up at him as Rodrigo leant down, nearer Jusuf’s ear.
“I wouldn’t, not if you want to hang on to that bag of yours—and w
hat’s inside,” and they both looked down at it, the shoulder strap fortunately still looped around Jusuf’s leg.
“Maybe,” Jusuf said, “your thanks to your God have placed a blessing upon it,” and he grinned up at his companion’s narrowing eyes. Then he looked around, realising they were alone. “Where’s your monks…and the cart?”
“The brothers have gone on by a door on the north side. They waved the cart on to them, but for some reason you didn’t seem to notice,” and Rodrigo grinned knowingly as he offered Jusuf his hand.
“I wouldn’t want to bring you any more pain, Rodrigo,” and Jusuf pushed himself to his feet unaided, hoisting the bag carefully onto his shoulder.
When they got to the end of the lane, the monks were well ahead. Jusuf could see them further down the wider street they’d turned into, already beyond the end of the churchyard’s northern wall and between the press of yet more huddled houses. Jusuf reckoned they were heading back in the direction of the river.
Indeed, a long stone bridge, stretching out over the river beyond the last of the buildings, eventually did come into sight as they caught up with the monks. The cart rumbled on whilst the brothers turned in through a low and wide doorway into an inn.
Rodrigo and Jusuf followed, Jusuf having to bob under the door lintel before he straightened and cracked his head against a ceiling beam. He cursed under his breath, a musty smell then assailing his nose whilst he stood still behind Rodrigo, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom.
He could hear a solicitous voice at the head of their halted party, rising above the hushed mumblings of the clearly packed inn. Somewhere, a small dog yelped, then a remote peal of laughter cut through the clammy air before Rodrigo’s dark shape moved on. Jusuf lowered his head and cautiously followed.
Two rooms, dimly lit by daylight, passed either side, giving a brief glimpse into their close press of drinkers, some straining to see the new arrivals, others hunched over their food. At the end of a barely lit passage, they turned into a bright and airy room at the rear of the inn.
Its window shutters were all thrown back, sunlight slanting in through the openings along the southern wall, adding a golden glow to a long table and its benches. An enclosed cobbled yard could be seen through the openings in the eastern wall, voices and the recognisable clatter of a kitchen drifting in on the now warm, early afternoon air. It reminded Jusuf just how hungry he’d become.
“Should we be here?” he whispered to Rodrigo as he noticed the handcart being drawn into the yard outside.
“Dom Francisco insisted we join them in their late breaking of their fast,” Rodrigo whispered back. “I get the feeling he’s making some kind of point to his Canon hosts.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because he assured me the cost wouldn’t come out of our own purses.”
“In which case, I’ll wager the Canons are paying.”
“I’d say, by the look on Brother Thomas’s face, you’re probably right, Jusuf.”
As they waited to be the last to sit down at the table, Jusuf asked Rodrigo if he knew how far they’d yet to walk for Bodmyn. Rodrigo told him he’d heard Brother Thomas tell Dom Francisco that it was five and a half miles.
“I hope we’re not long eating, then,” Jusuf said. “We’ve still to find Mistress Trewin once we get there, which somehow I don’t think we ought to be doing in the dark.”
They ended up sitting facing one another across the table, at the end nearest the door. Dom Francisco and Brother Thomas sat by the embers of the fire at the other, the remaining few monks in between. A succession of serving girls, their rose-red faces brightly scrubbed clean, came in with bowls of broth and baskets of bread, carefully placed before each man. Then they brought in beer, and a tankard of small ale for Jusuf.
Once the girls had left, Brother Thomas brought his hands together, all but Jusuf immediately bowing their heads. Slow to realise, he was about to do the same when he noticed Dom Francisco place his hand on Brother Thomas’s arm to stay him.
He said something in English, to which Brother Thomas’s mouth shrank to a thin line across his now pale face as he held the Dom in his unblinking gaze.
In a whisper, Rodrigo told Jusuf what Dom Francisco had said, translating it as: “Perhaps we may allow our heathen guest’s own Allah be included in our gratitude for this fine repast before us,” which surprised and shocked Jusuf.
An ominous silence remained in the air, until Brother Thomas lightly coughed before briefly dipping his head in acquiescence. Jusuf caught enough of his dry response to know he’d passed the saying of grace on to Dom Francisco himself. The man smiled as he tilted his own head in acceptance. Then he turned to the table and made the sign of the cross before him.
“Bless this, O Lord,” Rodrigo again translated, “and thou, Allahumma, who art His own servant, and these, Thy gifts, which we are all about to receive from Thy bounty, and by it save us all from the punishment of everlasting hellfire. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
All those present softly, albeit somewhat hesitantly, chorused “Amen”, all except Jusuf. He dared a look at Dom Francisco. The smile he found in the man’s eyes seemed so freely given that Jusuf found himself raising his head into the continuing silence and loudly speaking the word “Amen”, clear for all to hear.
Amidst the room’s still persisting silence, Dom Francisco quietly took up his spoon and began eating, a veil of innocence obscuring his features.
For some time the room filled only with the subdued sounds of their fast being broken before discourse again arose, clearly mere pleasantries and largely between the two senior brothers. Jusuf strained to understand any of it, catching only the odd word or two here and there. But eventually, Rodrigo leant forward, distracting Jusuf from his broth.
“They’ve just been talking about some unrest,” he whispered, “and strangely enough in English, not their common Latin tongue. Something about a…a rebellion.”
“A rebellion? Where?”
“Here.”
“What? In Cornwall? But—”
Rodrigo quietly shushed him, clearly again cocking his ear.
“Brother Thomas has been telling Dom Francisco that an army of some five thousand Cornishmen set out from Bodmyn only last week.” He paused again, his eyes widening the more as he listened.
“He says they’re marching on Londres, to petition the inglês sovereign, King Henry. Something about Escócia and some unjust taxes.”
Jusuf’s mouth dropped open, then his own eyes widened. “Londres? But that’s where the captain should be by now.”
“Indeed, and it’s clearly why there’s been all the toing and froing in Foy, why there was so much heated discussion.” He sat back, slowly shaking his head. “The land’s been alive with rebellion, Jusuf. Rebellion, do you hear, ever since we landed here,” then he seemed to become aware of his rising voice. “But by the Gods,” he strained to whisper, “we poor damned foreigners seem to be the last two to know anything at all about it!”
13 A Bodmyn Smithy
“It more than likely explains Senhora Trewin’s urgent need of a blacksmith,” Jusuf said to Rodrigo as they climbed what they’d been told was the road up Bodmyn Hill, although it had turned into more of a track not long after leaving Lostwithiel.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get a quiet word with Dom Francisco, seeing the Canon brothers seem so wary of talking to me about what’s going on. But you’re probably right, Senhora Trewin’s husband will almost certainly have gone off with the Cornish force. After all, armies always have need of blacksmiths.”
The hill wasn’t steep, but the sharp and loosened black stones of the road’s potholed and rutted surface steadily bruised Jusuf’s feet through his soft-soled boots. It didn’t help that somehow he seemed intent on standing on those stones dislodged by the wheels of the handcart ahead of them.
They’d also seen nothing of the countryside, not over the unbroken high hedgebanks that seemed to hem in all highways in
what they’d so far seen of Cornwall. Here, though, unlike around Foy, old and twisted trees, growing from the tops of the banks, kept them yet more removed. These trees also sheltered the road, denying Jusuf the direct warmth of the sun he’d so enjoyed on their way out of Lostwithiel.
Ahead of their party, where the road seemed to level and become straighter, Jusuf noticed a stationary wagon and its team of donkeys facing towards them. Dust rose into the air beyond it, and Jusuf could see what looked like men labouring there. The handcart came to a halt as the monks squeezed past the wagon, between its sizeable bulk and the brambled and tormentil-covered hedgebanks.
As Jusuf and Rodrigo also reached the rear of the wagon, they found men raking out a new road surface. A labourer in the back of the wagon stopped shovelling ballast out when he saw that Brother Thomas had halted to talk with one of them. He leant against his shovel but then narrowed his eyes at Jusuf and watched him gingerly walk on along the edge of the loose stones and earth.
Brother Thomas shouted something back to the handcart attendants, then fell into further discussion with a man who seemed to be in charge. In the meantime, Dom Francisco casually wandered over to Jusuf and Rodrigo as everyone else stood around and waited.
“It seems our baggage,” the Dom told them in Arabic, “is proving a bit of a problem. From what I can gather, if they move the wagon down to where the road’s wide enough for the handcart to come past, the wagon will then have to carry on by a long roundabout way to get back here. This should prove to be interesting, for the work seems to have the authority of Brother Thomas’s own priory behind it. So, I suspect we could be here for a little while yet.” He grinned as he looked past Jusuf at the two men, clearly both digging in their heels when Jusuf also turned to look.
After a while, Dom Francisco asked, “Have you got somewhere to stay in Bodmyn, Jusuf al-Haddad? An inn perhaps, or maybe with this young wife of the blacksmith you’re visiting, the one Senhor Fernandez, here, told me about, down at the quay.” Jusuf wondered what the man could possibly be thinking now.
The Forebear's Candle: A time travel mystery and love story set against the intrigue of Henry Tudor's England Page 7
