The Forebear's Candle: A time travel mystery and love story set against the intrigue of Henry Tudor's England

by Clive S. Johnson

  They sat quietly for a while, Jusuf unable to take his gaze from Mistress Trewin’s hands in her lap, hands she absently wrung together. Finally, she sniffed back her tears.

  “Maeloc’s friend Master Wilfred did not see my husband’s mortal remains. He’s assured me he could not swear to his death, not in truth upon a Bible, nor in truth by his own conscience, knowing the hurt it would bring my position. Without mortal remains it would take three good men and true to swear witness upon the deed, for Maeloc then to be pronounced as having departed this life.”

  “So, you have a little time yet, then, Mistress, at least until others return from the battle.”

  “Or if none saw him die or are prepared to swear upon it, then until three years have passed. I’m told it’s not uncommon for the defeated dead to be consigned to a common grave, their names never known, their deaths unattested.”

  “Three years,” and Jusuf contemplated what this might mean. “Would it be possible,” he eventually ventured, “for the time Rodrigo and I remain here—until next Spring in all likelihood—that my labours for the smithy could carry on paying what would be due each quarter day?”

  For the first time, Mistress Trewin smiled, a small smile that lit Jusuf’s heart far more so than her own features. “I would be beholden to you, Master Jusuf. Truly I would. For ever in your debt, for, you see, my sewing alone could never bring in enough coin.”

  Jusuf sat back and considered it further. Certainly, the mistress had been kind to take them both in in the first place, but he recognised something else that coloured his thoughts. Something that sat uneasily with the burden he’d long since taken on, and which only now, regrettably, he allowed himself to remember.

  Then he wondered why Mistress Trewin had felt compelled to disclose the loss of her love for her husband, and the loss of the child she’d carried. It seemed somehow far more than simply an explanation for her restrained wifely grief.

  Mistress Trewin averted her gaze whilst he thought some more, again staring into the hearth. This time, though, as he too stared that same way, it felt as though a warm fire blazed there. His face felt the heat of those imagined flames, and he spoke before he’d really concluded his reasoning, his voice sounding unlike his own.

  “I will promise you my labours, Mistress Trewin, for as long as your husband’s contract of tenure should last.” He couldn’t, though, quite bring himself to lay his final condition upon the tail end of his words: that his promise must end when the Nao Providência be free once more to carry him and his burden to Santander.

  24 The Weaving of Strands

  When Jusuf came to leave Mistress Trewin’s cottage and went back into the almost deserted barn, he found Rodrigo had prepared him some food. His bowl and a chunk of bread lay on one of the benches, not far from where Old Meg sat on a stool, his friend leaning against the bench behind her.

  “How be she?” Meg quietly asked.

  “Bearing up,” he told her as he put his bag down to one side on the bench.

  “She be a strong maid, that one,” and the woman rose a little stiffly to her feet, then stared at him as he sat down to his meal. “But then, a maid’s strength can only go so far, Master Jusuf. Only so far in this world of ours afore she be a-needing a man’s name.”

  Jusuf stopped his spoon before his lips and slowly turned to look up at the old woman. Behind her back, Rodrigo smiled to himself. She curtly nodded and creaked her way towards the cottage door, freeing Jusuf at last from her stare.

  He noisily slurped at the spoonful of hot potage as Meg called out, “Am I all right a-coming in, Gwenna?” Then, as she closed the door behind her, they heard her say: “Just wondered if there be anything I could do for thee, afore I get off home”.

  Jusuf stared at Rodrigo. “What was all that about?” he said in Arabic.

  “She doesn’t miss a thing, our Old Meg, though I reckon I’m not that far behind her myself,” and he seemed somewhat amused.

  “Well, whatever she meant, I’ve something just as puzzling you might cast some light on,” and as Jusuf ate, he went through, for Rodrigo’s ears, what the mistress had told him.

  Rodrigo’s eyes steadily widened as his brows lofted. When Jusuf had finished, he whistled softly to himself, but then said nothing, only propped his elbow on the bench, raised its cupped hand to his chin and stared off into an unseen distance.

  “So,” Jusuf eventually had to say, “why tell me about her and her husband, and the babe she lost?”

  “Hmm, well,” and a twinkle appeared in Rodrigo’s eyes, “that last one’s plain enough to answer. If she’s been made barren by her loss, then the mistress will have little chance of finding a new husband. No man is willingly going to choose to die without a blood heir to follow him on.”

  “Do you think that’s what Meg meant when she said a woman could only go so far?”

  “You may be slow sometimes, my friend, but you are at least making a fine name for yourself as a blacksmith; I’ll give you that. I keep my eyes and ears open when I’m about, you know, especially in the taverns. Only yesterday there were some miners in the Garland Ox talking about coming to see you, something about improving their tools. And I know the priory are more than content with your work. Mistress Trewin was only saying the other day how she’d never seen Brother Jowan so pleased before, certainly not when paying out for work done them.”

  Jusuf could only stare at Rodrigo, his mouth gaping, the remains of the food in his bowl for the moment forgotten.

  “You know, Jusuf, you could do far worse than settle here in Bodmyn. At least you’d be your own man, not servant to a master as you are in Ceuta.”

  “Here? In Cornwall? I don’t think I could live the rest of my life in such a cold place, Rodrigo, and this is its summer. And anyway, that’s the only reason I’m abroad: on my master’s errand; in service to his orders.”

  “Cornwall’s a long way from Ceuta, Jusuf. A very long way.”

  Jusuf thought hard about this novel idea, almost too afraid to believe it could really be within his own choosing. But he knew, deep down, he would have to deliver his burden to Santander, his chance of living here in Cornwall then lost for ever.

  “You could always return to Bodmyn from Santander,” Rodrigo was saying, but then brought himself up short. “Ah, but the Nao Providência would have to return straightaway to Ceuta, with whatever lading could be taken onboard before you’d be allowed ashore to do the deed. The captain would insist on covering some of his losses. So how, without our ship, would you get away promptly enough from Santander? For if you stayed with us and sailed on to Ceuta, you’d never get back here in time to meet the smithy’s next quarter day payment.”

  Jusuf, though, had already decided, seeing no way to weave all the strands together into a serviceable cloth. Certainly not one to clothe such an unthinkable hope.

  “How long,” he asked Rodrigo, “do you really reckon it will take the captain to have his petition to the King granted? Keeping in mind how Henry’s thoughts must be consumed by his war with Scotland. And not helped, of course, by the unrest fomenting here in Cornwall.”

  Rodrigo sucked in air through his teeth as he poured ale into his mug from a jug by his elbow. He took a long quaff and stared hard at Jusuf. “Quite honestly, despite what the captain said, I’d be surprised if he got back before, well, before the end of next summer. I’ve already decided to make my own way back to Portugal if we hear nothing from him by then.”

  “More than a year, eh? But still less than the three Mistress Trewin’s likely to have left of her tenure here—provided the payments are kept up.”

  “Which reminds me: I know you said your gift would remain potent for a long time, but long enough to last through to the end of next year?”

  Jusuf laughed, but quietly, wary of disturbing the mistress and Old Meg with such an unseemly sound. “I was assured, my friend, that it would remain ‘Efficacious for a thousand years’.”

  “A thousand, eh? Is that so? I
n which case, if by the time the Nao Providência is once more at our service, and the mistress has found another place to lay her head by then, you could still complete your master’s quest and return with us to Ceuta as planned. Better late than never, I suppose. But you’ve time on your side, Jusuf, so there’s no pressing need to make up your mind either way, not just yet.”

  Jusuf finished off his meal then reached across and upended his bag, spilling its contents onto the bench. “Well,” he said, sorting through his things, “at least I’ve work to keep me occupied. This new bell headstock and frame I’ve got to forge should make a pretty penny or two for the smithy. It’s going to need the finest of iron, though, properly wrought, and quenched just right.”

  “Well, of all the blacksmiths in Bodmyn, I’m sure you’re the best for the task, my friend,” but then the cottage door opened and Meg came through.

  “I’ll see ‘e both anon,” she said to them as she crossed the barn to the wicket door, where she then stopped. “I don’t think the poor maid’s thought to eat since Master Wilfred’s tidings, so maybe thee’ll conjure up something for her, eh? Then you might keep her company and her mind from her worst fears.” Again, she held Jusuf in her gaze before nodding the once to them both and stepping out into the early evening light.

  “I’ll sort something out for her, Jusuf. You go and invite her through to join us,” and Rodrigo pushed himself away from the bench. It brought Jusuf to be thankful that Rodrigo had taken to doing much of the cooking, in part payment for his portion of their lodging, for Jusuf doubted his own efforts would have sufficed.

  “Right,” he said, somewhat absently, trying hard to get his mind around all the day had brought. He’d a feeling something had eluded him, but something everyone else somehow seemed to know full well. He didn’t ask, though, for a voice at the back of his mind seemed to whisper a hint at least of what it might indeed have been.

  But then Rodrigo called from the forge, “Oh, and by the way, do you think you’d be all right looking after yourself and Mistress Trewin the week after next? You know, with all that’s happened. Because there’s somewhere I’d like to go that week.”

  “Er, well,” but then Jusuf reckoned he could get by well enough, now he was more confident with the local speech, although he’d also miss Rodrigo’s superior shipboard-style cooking. “Where were you thinking of going?”

  “Well,” Rodrigo called back, “you know I’ve been getting more carpentry work?”

  “Reviving the skills you learnt as a young shipwright, eh?” Jusuf said as he wandered into the half-light of the forge.

  “Indeed; before the sea called me away.” Rodrigo smiled, stirring a pot on the hearth’s charcoals. “But the thing is, some of the other carpenters have been talking about a church that’s having new pews fitted. I thought I’d offer my labour for…well, for free.”

  “For free? I know you managed to keep your money safe from Captain Treffry’s men, but that seems a bit—”

  “I feel a need to give thanks properly, Jusuf.”

  “Thanks?”

  “To God. For having bestowed salvation on us all from that storm,” and Jusuf finally understood, standing quietly beside his friend as he waited. “Actually, I’ve already offered to carve a pew end.”

  “Carve?”

  “Yes, something that… Well, something that came to me in a…in a dream: the Nao Providência within the teeth of the storm, its rigging torn down, and…and you, Jusuf, lifting the mast away from my chest.”

  At first, Jusuf could only stare at Rodrigo, smitten by his words, lost for his own. But then embarrassment brought its own reply: “It wasn’t just me, though, Rodrigo. Others helped me—”

  “Yes, but it was you who first came to my aid. You who led by your fine example. And the one I least expected—which shameful thought drives my need the more to give thanks to God. Thanks for salvation, and…and for a true if unexpected friend.”

  Jusuf didn’t know what to say, but then Rodrigo went on: “And what more befitting way, eh, Jusuf? With God’s good grace, I may leave something that will last the ravages of time, just as we survived the ravages of that storm. Then, my friend, my gratitude can speak out to the many who’ll come its way long after I’ve left this life.”

  The pan began to boil over and Rodrigo swore as he lifted it away from the heat, Jusuf unable to hold down his rising mirth.

  “Maybe I couldn’t do any worse while you’re away,” he told Rodrigo as the man hastily set the pan down on the stone floor. “So yes, of course I’ll cope, and you can feel free to get yourself off to… Where did you say this church was?”

  “Saint Winnow. It seems we must have passed it on the way up the Foy estuary, for it sits on its eastern bank, not far south of Lostwithiel.” Then they both looked down at the pan.

  “If you think you can rescue that,” Jusuf said, “I’ll go and ask the mistress if she’d like to come through and eat,” and he smiled at his good friend’s beleaguered look. Then he laughed and slapped him on the arm. “Let’s just hope she’s really hungry, eh? Or she’ll just have to make do with the fine bread you bought,” and at that, Jusuf left him and went through the barn towards the cottage door.

  As he drew near, he again heard that whisper at the back of his mind, the one that had tried to warn him earlier of where his heart was going. But he still wouldn’t heed it, even when that heart leapt in his chest as he rapped on Mistress Trewin’s door, and as he listened out for her sweetest of voices.

  25 Finally Brought Home

  Saint Winnow had proved stubbornly absent from Colin’s road atlas, neither in its index nor anywhere along the River Fowey or its estuary on the relevant map page. The only clue seemed to be the thin red vein of a minor road that led to an unnamed end on the east bank of the estuary, south of Lostwithiel.

  They’d set off there early in the morning, eventually turning off the main road not far before Lostwithiel, south down a narrow Cornish lane signposted for Lerryn and Couch’s Mill. Both these, too, appeared to have been overlooked by the atlas.

  Now onto minor roads, little could be seen over the high hedgebanks, just the occasional glimpse into fields and beyond, to low rounded hills in the west. Colin began to doubt they’d plumped for the right junction as the lane narrowed yet further still, snaking its way towards the morning’s grey, cloud-smudged southern sky.

  After a couple of forced U-turns, they at long last and with some relief came upon a junction almost invisibly signposted for “ST WINNOW”. It was some time, though, before this even narrower lane took them down through dense woods and out to their first sighting of a square church tower, rising some way beyond low farm buildings off to one side. The lane soon came to an abrupt but wide end, facing the waters of the estuary.

  Parked to one side of what was clearly a turning circle stood a lone car, facing a gravel track opposite that led off towards the church. Colin pulled in beside the car, and he and Kate got out.

  The silence seemed almost deafening, the view across the estuary sublime, the sweep and swoop of house martins almost magical in the warm and still air. Colin, though, felt rain in it and so pulled his and Kate’s jackets out of the boot. As they slipped them on, Colin asked Kate if she felt as nervous as he did. She nodded and bit her lip before grinning uncertainly.

  “If it’s still here, Colin, still recognisable from Rodrigo’s description, then…then it’ll be as near as damn it conclusive,” and she widened her eyes in wary excitement.

  The churchyard at the end of the track surprised Colin by its size, its wide drift of weathered and angled headstones surrounding a typically late medieval church building. It stood on a gently elevated position beside the estuary. Colin felt a few spots of rain as they followed a path between the graves to the church’s south porch, through whose heavy inner door they slipped into a musty but bright interior.

  The place seemed deserted, devoid not just of anyone else but of any sound other than the soft tread of their fe
et on the stone-flagged floor. Despite the overcast sky without, the stained-glass of the tall, narrow windows lent a joyous clarity to the air within, even with its close and clammy feel. Here, the colours of saints and of miracles cut sharply through the scent of age-old damp stonework and dry, dusty timber.

  As though an imposition on its tranquillity, Colin and Kate stepped as quietly as they could into the central aisle. There, they stood between the nave’s glossy, rum-brown pews.

  “Do a side each?” Colin whispered, and Kate nodded. He’d only looked disappointedly at his first couple of pew ends, though, before Kate’s echoing gasp startled him.

  “It’s here,” she tried to whisper, her excitement, though, echoing about the church, and Colin hurried to her side.

  “Shit,” he hardly breathed, his mouth then hanging open. They both crouched down for a closer look.

  “Wow,” Kate said, clearly in expectation of what Colin was about to say.

  “Wow,” he dutifully whispered, reaching a tentative finger out to feel the relief of the carving. “Just think, Kate, I’m touching what Rodrigo touched all that time ago. What my true friend carved with his own hands. Christ, but that’s a weird thought. And look, there they are: Jusuf and Rodrigo. Although…it’s a bit hard to see exactly what they’re doing; but isn’t that a bit of the mast poking up above the ship’s rail between them?”

  “It could be,” Kate said, peering even closer, “but it is well-worn, and a bit of the wood’s flaked off, but I’d say the one on the left definitely looks African, and the one below him European. And it’s even got a couple of the sails they didn’t manage to furl up in time.”

  “And that must be the captain on the quarterdeck, there. See?” and he ran his finger over the figure’s face. “But what’s he looking at? Hey, there in the clouds, do you see? There’s a monkey!”