Faithful Dead (10 page)

Yves crossed himself. ‘God rest his soul,’ he said quietly.

‘Amen.’

‘He seemed a decent enough type,’ Yves mused. ‘And you have to admire an old man who takes a long journey to keep faith, whatever that meant, with a friend from the past.’ He sighed.

Josse said cautiously, ‘A long journey?’

‘Yes. He’d come up from Lombardy. Or was it Liguria? Somewhere foreign, anyway.’

Foreign. There was that word again.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Josse said, his heart thumping, ‘that your old man supplied a name?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Yves said easily. ‘Didn’t I say? Well, he didn’t actually supply it – he was rather cagey, if I remember rightly. But I overheard that lad of his one day – he was in a right bother, looked nervous and edgy, as if he’d done something bad and was waiting to feel the weight of his master’s wrath. Anyway, he was muttering something about keeping out of the old man’s way – at least, that’s what I thought – and he referred to him by name.’

‘And?’ Josse fought to retain his patience.

‘He was called Galbertius Sidonius. Strange name, isn’t it? See, I said he was foreign!’

They had, Josse thought, deprived the Abbess of her room for long enough. Still stunned by Yves’s revelation, Josse led his brother across to the infirmary, where they found the Abbess in conversation with the infirmarer, to whom Josse presented his brother.

‘We have much to talk about, my brother and I,’ Josse muttered to the Abbess. He told her about Yves’s old man and, more crucially, his identity, and the Abbess’s eyes widened.

‘I see what you mean,’ she murmured back. ‘Will you not make use of my room to untangle this maze, if you can?’

‘Thank you but no, my lady. We will find a quiet corner in the accommodation down in the Vale where we can talk all night, if we need to, without feeling that we disturb you.’

‘And where, with luck, you yourselves will not be disturbed,’ she added shrewdly. ‘You have told your brother of your royal visitor?’ She was whispering so softly now that he could hardly make out the words. ‘And of your interview with John Dee?’

‘No, not yet. But I shall.’ He added grimly, ‘I have the strong sense that it will require every scrap of knowledge, and more intelligence than I fear Yves and I possess, to solve this mystery.’

She shook her head. ‘Sir Josse, do not predict defeat before you have even begun!’ she admonished him. ‘I have faith in you, and I shall pray that God guides you towards illumination.’ Briefly she pressed a hand on his arm, and he was grateful for her touch. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, Sister Euphemia awaits.’

‘Of course. Please.’ He bowed and, catching Yves’s eye, led him out of the infirmary.

Down in the Vale, he told Brother Saul what he required and Saul, after a moment’s reflection, provided it. Soon Josse and Yves were settled in a draught-free corner, screened from curious eyes by a few sheep-hurdles, with adequate bedrolls to lie on and a small fire to cheer them. Since dusk was beginning to fall, it also provided them with some welcome light.

When Saul’s quiet footsteps had faded, Josse told Yves of Prince John’s visit to New Winnowlands, of the dead man found in the bracken, of his trip to see John Dee and everything else that he could think of that might have the remotest relevance.

When he had finished, Yves was silent for so long that Josse was beginning to think he had gone to sleep. But then he said, with a deep sigh, ‘Josse, this is all very well.’

‘What is?’

‘This wealth of detail with which you have just assailed me.’ Josse heard the smile in his brother’s voice.

‘But?’ Josse was quite sure there would be a ‘but’.

‘But it’s not the place to start,’ Yves said firmly. ‘This mystery begins, if we think about it logically and in sequence, with Galbertius Sidonius deciding he must come to see Father. I would guess, in retrospect, that Galbertius knew he was dying, and wanted to make his peace – what was his expression? Keep faith, yes – with Father before it was too late.’

‘He and Father must have been friends, then, long ago,’ Josse said. ‘Do you recall the name, Yves?’

‘No.’

‘Neither do I. Not a very good or close friend, then, else surely he would have visited Acquin, got to know Father’s wife and family.’

‘You speak sense,’ Yves agreed.

Sense it might be, Josse thought as the silence extended. But it serves our purpose not at all.

He said cautiously, ‘Perhaps there is another way into this maze. Perhaps, Yves, we should look at it from Father’s point of view. Could we not remind ourselves of his life – what he did, whom he knew, that sort of thing – and see whether any sudden shaft of light comes to aid us?’

‘Would that help?’ Yves sounded dubious.

‘Well, it can’t hurt.’ Josse leaned on one elbow and looked across at Yves, on the other side of the little fire. He looked in that moment so like his father that Josse’s heart gave a lurch; they had all loved Geoffroi dearly and Josse, for one, still missed him; the death of a beloved father left a hole that could never really be filled. ‘Would it not be a rare treat,’ he added slyly, after a moment, ‘to lie here in the soft darkness and, with our memories and our love, conjure up our father?’

There was the faint sound of a sniff, then Yves said, somewhat shakily, ‘Aye, Josse. It would.’

Geoffroi d’Acquin, twenty-two years old, healthy and strong, sang lustily along with the other soldiers as they rode out of Antioch on the long road south to Jerusalem. Many of the soldiers were old campaigners, and were putting their own lewd words to the familiar tune; Geoffroi, who had picked these up months ago, sang them too, laughing as he did so with the sheer joy of being young, fit, mounted on a fine horse and riding to war.

Geoffroi knew, almost as soon as he knew anything, that he was going to be a soldier. His first sword had been a small bolt of wood; not very large but heavy enough to lay open his elder brother’s head when Robert failed to duck out of the way in time. The three-year-old Geoffroi had received a beating – not a severe one, for his parents did not believe that the right way to discipline children was to thrash obedience into them – and, far more painfully, he had been deprived of both his little sword and his hobby horse for a whole week.

Geoffroi would say as he grew up that he had ridden before he walked, although this was a slight exaggeration; the riding in question had been sitting in front of his father on the great bay, Heracles, his shrill, ten-month-old voice screaming with a mixture of excitement and terror. By the time he was five, he was looking after his own pony (with the discreet help of a kindly groom) and was, as his mother used to remark, too fearless for his own good.

Geoffroi had always understood that it was Robert, his elder by three crucial years, who was the heir to the Acquin estates. His parents, Sir Robert and the lady Matilda, encouraged their second son in his military ambitions; Robert was more than capable of inheriting the responsibilities of the landlord’s role, in due course, and it would be better to have his closest sibling and natural childhood rival out of the way when he did so. Besides, there were other children to stay at Acquin and augment its population; there was Esmai, three years Geoffroi’s junior, and the youngest child, William. Born after a gap of six years, he was the baby of the family and its pet.

When Geoffroi was seven, he went away from the family home at Acquin to do his service as a page in the household of one of his father’s oldest friends. Sir Girald, a vassal of Geoffrey Plantagenet of Anjou, was a tough master and, despite his affection for the boy, he showed him no leniency. Geoffroi learned his craft the hard way. In time, and still in Sir Girald’s household, he became a squire; impatient, restless, Geoffroi waited for the chance to put all the skills that he had acquired over the last ten years into practice.

He did not have too long to wait. In 1145, when he was nineteen, he was sent with a detachment of Sir Girald’s fighting men to join the retinue of the young Henry FitzEmpress. Henry, the son of Geoffrey Plantagenet and his wife, the Empress Matilda of England, was, through his mother’s line, grandson of Henry I of England. His father had been invested the previous year with the ducal crown of Normandy by his overlord, Louis VII of France. Henry, although still but twelve years old, was already showing strong signs that he would follow in his father’s ambitious and energetic footsteps – Geoffrey’s acquisition of Normandy had been by conquest – and the excitement, daring and ambition of the Plantagenet court suited Geoffroi down to the ground.

He won his spurs in the autumn of 1145.

The timing was perfect.

For the past year, worrying news had been reaching Western Europe from the east. Fifty years ago, the First Crusade had succeeded in wresting the Holy Places of Outremer from the Turks; the four crusader states had then been established, the most important being the kingdom of Jerusalem. In the winter of 1144, however, the city of Edessa, capital of the first crusader state, fell to the Saracens under the command of Zengi, governor of Aleppo and Mosul. Although Zengi did not live to enjoy the fruits of his conquest for long – he died in the following September, assassinated, so they said, by a slave – he was succeeded by his son, Nureddin, whose reputation as a cruel fighter preceded him. A religious fanatic, he made it no secret that he would not rest until he had brought about a full Moslem reconquest of the Holy Land.

The crusader states, hard pressed, sent increasingly desperate pleas for help and, in December of 1145, the new Pope, Eugenius III, responded.

The Pope delegated the great Bernard of Clairvaux to preach the new crusade. At Vézelay, over the Easter celebrations of 1146, his passionate address moved thousands; led by King Louis of France and his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, men and women of all stations in life raced to follow their example and take the cross. Such was the demand that the supply of cloth crosses ran out and Bernard had to tear up part of his habit to make more.

Among the enthusiastic press of people, his face alight with a mixture of religious devotion (Bernard of Clairvaux was a charismatic speaker) and sheer high spirits, went the new knight, Sir Geoffroi d’Acquin.

Preparations for the great enterprise took a full year. While the King and Queen taxed their subjects until they squeaked and churches rushed to proffer their treasures, ordinary knights such as Geoffroi hurried home to see how many debts could be called in, and just how much could be sold or bartered, in order that they should set out fully equipped. A good horse, armour and weapons did not come cheap; that his family would have to tighten their belts and make sacrifices, Geoffroi well knew. However, knowing them as he did – as he
hoped
he did – he also knew that, in this most vital of the services that Christendom rendered unto God, they would do so willingly and give him their wholehearted support. They would also – he did not even have to ask – pray for him constantly.

The vast crusading army – royalty, lords and ladies, noblemen, knights, crossbowmen, foot soldiers, siege engineers, craftsmen, clerics, nurses, cooks, camp followers and general hangers-on, numbering some 100,000 people in all – finally set out from Paris in June 1147. They met up with the Emperor Conrad of Germany in the city of Metz, and the two armies then proceeded by separate routes eastwards and southwards. Geoffroi, marching with the French, travelled down through Bavaria to the Danube, which they followed through Hungary and Bulgaria.

By October they had reached Constantinople. After their long trek down across the continent, the armies were ready for a rest and might have stayed longer – despite the fact that their welcome was swiftly running out – had it not been for an eclipse of the sun in the fourth week of the month. Before the army’s confidence and resolve could be undermined by the swiftly-spreading rumours that this was a bad omen and meant the crusade was doomed, Louis ordered that they strike camp and march on south.

The evil fortune that so many felt to have been predicted by the eclipse was not long in striking. A disobeyed order in the desolate, windswept hinterland of Turkey laid the great army open to attack; the Turks ambushed the crusaders in a narrow pass and slaughtered thousands. The shocked crusaders regrouped and made for the coast, where, after enduring terrible conditions, plague and near-starvation, those who were left finally took ship for the Holy Land.

The malign influence of the eclipse’s curse had not yet finished with them. Storms and tempests beat down on the fleet of ships, many of which foundered; some of those who landed safely had spent almost a month at sea, for the relatively short and normally calm crossing from Anatolia to Antioch.