Faithful Dead (20 page)

Father Herluin suggested privately to Geoffroi that another baby might serve to take her mind off her grief. But Ida seemed disinclined for lovemaking, and Geoffroi, loving her as he did, would not force her.

Then, in the September of 1156, the lady Matilda succumbed to a brief but violent fever and joined her husband in death.

With William gone to Rouen and Esmai now a semi-invalid, home seemed a quiet, empty place of unremitting hard work and little else. Geoffroi wondered if there could ever be any happiness at Acquin again.

Then at last, on a bright spring day when he persuaded Ida to ride out with him and see the beauty of the sun on the new green grass, things changed. They spotted a small clump of primroses sunning themselves at the top of a low bank, and Geoffroi, too eager, hurried over to pick one for her and slipped, sliding all the way down the bank and landing with one foot in the muddy sludge at the edge of the Aa river. Ida, sombre face creasing into a wide grin, burst out laughing.

The laughter released something in her; holding her in his arms, he felt her mirth turn to tears, and she wept as she had not done since the baby’s death. But then, when she dried her eyes, she turned her face up to him and said, ‘Oh, Geoffroi, I feel better. I do! It’s as if––’ She frowned. ‘As if I’ve turned a corner and, although she’s still there, I don’t have to look at her every moment. Is that terrible?’

He fought to control his voice. ‘No, my sweet, not terrible at all. Natural, I would say. And––’ He wondered if he should say what had come to mind; it was something Father Herluin spoke of, prayed for.

‘And what?’

He stared down at her, bending his head to kiss the tip of her nose. ‘Father Herluin would say it’s a sign of God’s compassion.’

‘God’s compassion,’ she repeated softly. Then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.

Their second child was born on 10th October 1160, six years after they had lost their first.

He was a strong, healthy boy who suckled enthusiastically, slept deeply and peacefully and seemed to grow under their very eyes. They named him Josse, and he healed his mother’s sore heart.

Geoffroi often wondered, as the years went by and the family grew, whether the tragedy of their first, lost child had been because she was a girl. For Ida, who soon became as efficient at motherhood and child-rearing as she was at everything else, gave birth to four more sons in fairly quick succession, each as lusty and as healthy as their eldest brother. Yves was born in the early autumn of 1162, Patrice in November of the following year, Honoré in March of 1165 and Acelin in the heat of August in 1166.

Even the thin spinster Esmai responded to a houseful of boys; summoning from unsuspected depths a voice worthy of a warrior, she ruled her young nephews, whenever they were left in her care, with a firm hand that only they knew hid a loving heart and a mouth just made for laughter.

Acquin responded to the happiness of the family. Year after fruitful year saw good harvests, healthy stock, contented tenants. Geoffroi, walking one evening with his old friend the priest, was not in the least surprised when, stopping to admire the peaceful scene of the manor standing serenely at the top of the valley, Father Herluin said with forgivable smugness, ‘There! I told you so!’

The boys grew. Josse, it became clear, was exactly like his father and wanted nothing from life but to be a soldier. He was sent away, just as his father had been, to the household of Sir Girald de Gisors, although the head of the household there was now the son of the man who had instructed Geoffroi.

Ida, who never forgot her English home, insisted that each of her sons spend time with their Uncle Hugh in Lewes. Her own mother, the lady Ediva, died peacefully a couple of years after Acelin was born. She had lived to enjoy not only her five grandsons but also the three little girls born to Hugh and his wife; as she had apparently said shortly before her death, what more could any woman ask?

Yves had inherited his grandfather’s love of the land and, with the encouragement of his parents, he took an active part in the running of Acquin from a young age. While the thirteen-year-old Josse was moving in the exalted circles of the Plantagenet court – even meeting the young Richard, on one memorable occasion – Yves, at eleven, was already a very valuable part of the Acquin management.

Geoffroi, watching his beloved Ida grow in stature, girth, confidence and serenity, shared with her a joy in their sons that he would have not thought possible. I have been given so much more than I deserve, he thought; I am thankful, to my very bones, for everything.

He barely gave his hectic past a thought unless it was at the prompting of his sons. Josse, naturally, whenever he came home would plague his father to tell him about the crusades and the infidel and what weapons they used and how the Christian army won, and Geoffroi was only too happy to comply. The younger boys would creep towards their father as he sat by the fire, his eldest son at his feet, and listen wide-eyed to Geoffroi’s tales. They preferred it when he passed on the stories he had picked up from other men, closer to the heart of the great ones’ lives; in their shrill little voices they would plead, ‘Tell us about the kings and the queens! Tell us about the rich people, the lords and the ladies, and the king’s sorcerer!’

Sometimes Geoffroi would tell the tale of how he saved a little infidel boy, and how a grateful grandfather gave him a sapphire the size of your fist in thanks. From her quiet corner the other side of the fire, Ida would say mildly, ‘Your fist?
I
would say, closer to your thumb.’

And sometimes, when wine had made him maudlin, Geoffroi would mention the Lombard. But even then, he could not bring himself to admit his suspicions about his old friend. Once, when Yves asked what had happened to the Eye of Jerusalem, Geoffroi said, ‘Eh? What became of it, you ask? I don’t know, son. I suppose I must have lost it.’

And, in the end, he half-believed it himself.

The boys’ beloved Aunt Esmai died in the cold winter of 1173. And, in a hot July three years later, Geoffroi himself died, as a result of falling from the top of a laden wagon bringing in sheaves of ripe, golden corn.

Cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.

Ida, who lost a part of herself when he died, nevertheless knew it was too soon for her sons to be robbed of both their parents. Yves was still but fourteen, and Acquin too heavy a burden for him alone just yet, even with the support of his younger brothers. And Ida did not want Yves to put pressure on Josse to come home, not when Josse was just beginning to throw himself – with no small success – into his military career.

She lived until February 1180. Then, sad to leave her children but overjoyed at the prospect of joining Geoffroi, she died.

One after another, the younger brothers married and, in time, sons and daughters were born to them. While Josse followed his own star, his kin guarded and tended Acquin.

Geoffroi’s home, which he had loved and to which he had returned after his great crusading adventure, where he had taken his beloved Ida as his wife, was in safe hands.

Josse and Yves had talked for hours.

Some time towards the dawn, Josse awoke from his first deep sleep. He felt restless. Too many memories had been stirred up, and his mind did not want the calm peace of sleep. He glanced across at Yves, who was fast asleep, on his back with his mouth slightly open and snoring gently. Josse grinned. Dear old Yves. It had been a rare pleasure, that long night of reminiscence. So vividly had the memories flowed back that, at one time, Josse had looked up and thought that he saw Geoffroi and Ida standing in a dark corner, smiling down on their two eldest sons.

They weren’t there, of course. Although Josse would hardly have been surprised if they had been.

Closing his eyes once more and settling down to try to sleep, he saw in his mind’s eye his father, sitting in his accustomed place by the fire, with Ida opposite him suckling a newborn baby. Acelin, would it be? Or Honoré? There at Geoffroi’s feet sat Josse and Yves, and on his lap, half-asleep, thumb in his mouth and fingers playing delicately with the hair on his father’s forearm, another small child. From time to time Geoffroi would place a gentle kiss on the top of the little down-covered head nestling into his neck.

Geoffroi was talking. His voice came quite clearly to Josse; half-awake, half-dreaming, he heard his father say,
‘and do you know what the emir gave me? It was a huge sapphire, as big as your fist, set in a golden coin! There was writing etched into the gold, but I did not know how to read it – they told me that the words were in a language called Aramaic, which was the language of the Persians. They had an empire, you know – they were conquerors with
a vast army, and when they marched they were invincible. They took Babylon, and Assyria, and Turkey, and Syria, and even Egypt, and they would have gone on to expand into Greece except they came up against Alexander the Great, and he had an even mightier army than the Persians. But that’s another story – I was telling you how I came by the stone that they call the Eye of Jerusalem, which a fat old man too large to ride into battle gave to me, because I saved the life of his little grandson. The sorcerer said it was a magical stone, you know, and would always warn me when a secret enemy approached, so I carried it safely, all the way home from Outremer to Acquin, and it saved the lives of many of my companions. It even saved the life of your Uncle Hugh, when I took it to England with me when I went to court your mother.’
Josse smiled, watching as his father sent a loving glance across the fireplace to his mother, who smiled equally lovingly back at him. ‘
And it was so beautiful, boys, that I loved just to hold it up and look into its depths, where, if you were very careful and caught the light just right, you could see an eye, the jewel’s very own eye, staring out at you
 . . .’

Aye. The Eye of Jerusalem. That had been Father’s best tale of all. And it had been a tale that did not have a satisfactory end.

Josse thought on. Worrying at half-resolved ideas, trying out theories until they began to clarify, slowly he drew a tentative conclusion. Then, as sleep finally won him over, he dreamed that his father had grown a long milk-white beard and carried a tiny girl in arms suddenly grown like the limbs of a tree.

As they were eating the simple breakfast brought to them by Brother Saul the next morning, Josse said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Yves.’

Yves grinned. ‘Thought you might have.’

‘Aye.’ Josse laughed briefly. ‘Plenty to dwell on, in all those memories we brought up last night.’

‘Go on, then.’ Yves reached for another piece of bread. ‘What have you been thinking?’

‘You remember how Father used to tell us of that wondrous, magical sapphire he was given in Damascus?’

‘The Eye of Jerusalem. Of course, it was always the story that I liked the best.’

‘Remember what he would say when we asked where the stone was now?

‘Aye. He’d say he’d lost it, and he always looked so sad.’

Eager now, Josse sat forward, face close to his brother’s; for some reason that he did not stop to query, he lowered his voice to a level that only Yves could have heard.

‘What do you think of this?’ he whispered. ‘That friend who travelled home from Outremer with Father and stayed on with him at Acquin––’

‘The Lombard?’

‘Aye, the Lombard. Supposing it was not friendship that kept him so long with Father? Supposing he had caught a glimpse of the Eye on one of those occasions that Father used it, and decided he would not rest until it was his?’

‘You’re suggesting he
stole
from Father?’ Honest, decent Yves was clearly shocked at the idea. ‘From his friend? When he was Father’s
guest
?’

‘Aye, I am,’ Josse said tersely. ‘The way I see it is this. Maybe the Lombard even knew about the Eye right from the start, from the very night Father was given it. You wouldn’t know, Yves, because you’re not a soldier, but, believe me, it’s not easy to keep anything a secret when the men of an army eat, rest, exercise and sleep side by side, together every moment of every day. Even when they’re not fighting.’

‘Father used to say that Grandfather Herbert was the best source of information in all of Outremer,’ Yves said, a smile on his face.

‘Exactly!’ Josse pounded a triumphant fist on the planks of the table, making it bounce on its supports. ‘Just what I mean! I shouldn’t be surprised if they all gossiped ceaselessly. When not engaged in fighting, there’s little more tedious than being a soldier stuck in camp with nothing to do but moan and speculate. A good bit of rumour-mongering always serves to lighten the mood.’

‘You ought to know,’ Yves said.