Faithful Dead (17 page)

‘Herbert did not live to suffer an afterwards,’ Ediva finished for him.

He met her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he said quietly, ‘No, my lady. He did not.’

A sob broke from the girl. Ediva put out her arms and the girl threw herself against her mother. Crooning gently, lovingly, Ediva soothed her daughter as if she were a frightened, hurt animal. The boy, after a brief and unsuccessful attempt to hold back his tears, gave way; Ediva, sitting there on the floor, extended her arms to include her son. Meeting Geoffroi’s eyes over the girl’s head, Ediva said, ‘They loved their father dearly.’

‘He was a loveable man,’ Geoffroi replied. ‘And, believe me, my lady, he loved all of you, too. He was so proud of you, and his tales of happy family life were a comfort when we were all so far away from our own kin.’

Ediva smiled. ‘Yes, I can imagine. He liked to talk, did my Herbert.’

She sat gazing into the distance at something only she could see. But, Geoffroi thought, it was a cheerful scene, for the small smile continued to lift her lips.

Suddenly Geoffroi could hear Herbert’s voice, quite clearly in his head.

This, then, this girl sobbing out her grief for her lost father, was Ida.

Gradually the sounds of weeping lessened and, eventually, ceased. The four of them went on sitting on the floor; it was actually quite pleasant, Geoffroi thought, relaxing in the warmth of the fire, except that there was a spiteful little draught coming from somewhere . . .

He was just craning round to see if he could find its source when abruptly Ida sat up, wiped her wet face with her hands and said, with a surprised laugh, ‘Look at us! Why are we all crouched down here like a band of beggars when we have perfectly good benches to sit on?’ Rising swiftly to her feet, she pulled her mother up after her and, glancing over her shoulder at Geoffroi with what he was quite certain was a flirtatious look, she added, ‘Come, sir knight! Come and warm your toes.’

Geoffroi was taken aback at the sudden change from tears to light-hearted humour. His puzzlement must have shown on his face; Ediva, watching him, said, ‘Ida! Hugh! Go and find Symond, if you please. I cannot think what has happened to the refreshments I ordered. Tell him to hurry up, will you? Our guest would like his ale and food now, not tomorrow.’

When her children had gone, she said quietly, ‘Sir knight, do not think badly of them. They mourned their father deeply and sincerely when news came of his death, believe me. What you saw today was, I think, the final outburst. It may have appeared brief, but it should be viewed for what it is; a part, merely, of their whole sorrow, to which I hope – I pray – that your timely visit has now put an end.’

Geoffroi, highly embarrassed that she should imagine he criticised them, hastened to reassure her. ‘Please, my lady, it is not for me to judge! I would not dream of telling anyone else how to go about coping with the loss of someone as dear as Herbert clearly was to all of you.’ Out of the blue, he remembered; how, indeed, had he forgotten, even momentarily? And, knowing he wanted to share his memory with this kind, sensible woman, he said, ‘I have just lost my own father. I know what it is like.’

Now Ediva’s arms were around him, motherly, reassuring. ‘There, there,’ she murmured. ‘And yet, despite your loss, still you take the trouble to visit us, in this winter season, to bring your message of comfort? Sir Geoffroi, we are in your debt.’

Geoffroi’s conscience pricked him as he recalled that there had been another reason for this excursion. He said, ‘Well, to be honest, I was glad to make the journey for my own sake as well. It – I – that is, things can get depressing, at home, and it was––’ It was useful to have an excuse to get away for a while? No, heaven forbid! He couldn’t say that!

But Ediva, as if she understood, said softly, ‘Of course. And why not?’

He was saved further awkwardness by the arrival of Ida bearing a tray of food and mugs, and Hugh with a jug of what smelled like mulled ale. Belatedly remembering the Lombard, presumably still patiently waiting outside, Geoffroi said, ‘May I summon my companion? He waits out in the courtyard.’

Ediva said, ‘Of course! Why did you not tell us that you were not alone?’ With a shake of her head as if to say, men! she nodded at Hugh, who hurried outside, and soon the Lombard was being introduced to the family and urged to sit right up close to the fire and have some ale to take the chill out of his bones.

It seemed, Geoffroi thought later, that this was a celebration. He could not work out precisely why it should be so, and concluded that the reason might have been implied in what Ediva had said: his visit, or rather the tidings he brought, had helped this likeable, friendly family by answering their final questions regarding Herbert’s death. Now they could put aside their fearful imaginings, abandon for ever those dreadful mental pictures of him suffering, bearing some terrible wound, crying out in the agony of a long drawn-out death.

For it had not been that way, and now they knew it.

Was that not worth a celebration?

The hours passed quickly in cheery conversation and, when Geoffroi went out to see that the horses were comfortable, he was surprised to see that the short winter daylight was drawing to a close and darkness was falling.

Back inside the hall, he said to Ediva, ‘My lady, I regret that we must be on our way. It is almost dark, and we have to find lodgings.’

‘Nonsense,’ she replied briskly. ‘You are our guests. You have come all this way – yes, where
is
Acquin, exactly? – and you must stay with us. Yes, children?’

Ida and Hugh said, ‘Yes!’ Ida, Geoffroi couldn’t help but notice, flashed him a brilliant smile.

He realised, with a strange leap of the heart, that the very last thing he actually wanted to do just now was to ride away.

Geoffroi and the Lombard stayed in Lewes for a week. They would have extended the visit longer, and were certainly pressed to do so, but Geoffroi was very aware of his own family back at Acquin. The Christmas season was fast approaching, and he must be home for the feast. It would be the first one that his family would spend without Sir Robert, and Geoffroi knew he must be there to help them all through it. Indeed, to have them help him.

It was amazing, though, how much better he felt now. He felt guilty, as if he should not be feeling so happy when his father had been dead for less than two months. He prayed for forgiveness and confessed himself humbly to the local priest who said, with what sounded like a smile, that God had sent love and happiness as precious gifts and that no man should question them when their flowering stemmed from all that was honest and honourable.

All the way back to the manor house, Geoffroi puzzled over what precisely the priest could have meant.

Later he heard that Ida had visited the priest shortly before he had done.

And he began – very tentatively and wonderingly – to think he might have stumbled on the answer.

By the time Geoffroi and the Lombard left for the journey back to Acquin, Geoffroi knew he had fallen in love with Ida.

She was bright, brave, funny, capable and, given that she was still only sixteen, mature and quite sensible. Sensible, anyway, when she wasn’t poking fun at people – Geoffroi in particular – and hooting with laughter.

He was sure – almost sure – that she felt something for him, too.

But he dared not ask. Dared not approach either Ida herself or her mother. For one thing, he had come here on a very different mission from courting Herbert’s daughter, and his sense of what was fitting did not allow him to turn the one purpose into the other. For another thing, he was quite terrified that Ida, informed that this large foreigner who had crusaded with her father had fallen in love with her and wished to ask for her hand, would fall over herself laughing.

So Geoffroi kept his peace.

He found a private moment just before his departure to present Ediva with the small parcel of Herbert’s belongings. He was about to leave her on her own to open it, but she shot out her hand and caught his sleeve.

‘No, Geoffroi, please stay,’ she said. ‘You have carried this packet so long and so far, and I would prefer you to be with me when I uncover its contents. If you will?’

‘Aye, lady,’ he said softly. ‘Gladly.’

He watched as she unfolded the cloth wrappings and took out her last mementoes of her husband.

They were not many.

A heavy gold signet ring. A fine undershirt, the fabric so soft and worn that it folded up into a small bundle. A knife. A belt.

Geoffroi had realised, when first given the package, that it could not possibly hold all that Herbert had worn and owned; clearly, his body must have been robbed while he lay dead on the battlefield. Some opportunist hand had helped itself to Herbert’s sword. To his helmet, breastplate and armour. And the clothing he had been wearing when he died, heavily bloodstained as it must have been, had presumably been buried with him.

A sudden stifled gasp brought him back to the present. Glancing quickly at Ediva, he saw that she held in her hands a carefully folded square of linen, which she unwrapped to reveal three locks of hair.

The brown peppered with strands of grey had to be her own. The short, dark auburn curl – just like Herbert’s, Geoffroi remembered – would belong to Hugh.

And the long tress with a wave running through it, its bright chestnut colour catching the light and shining like the sunset, could only have been cut from one head.

Staring at it, Geoffroi felt something – some strange new emotion – take up its place in his heart. And Ediva, as if she perceived and understood, held out Ida’s lock of hair.

‘Take it, Geoffroi,’ she said. ‘Guard it safe, as dear Herbert did. Let it serve to keep her in your heart until you come back to us.’

Geoffroi returned to Lewes in the spring.

The Lombard insisted on accompanying him; a man who stood fair to lose his heart (if indeed he had not already lost it), he maintained, ought to have a companion when he went a-courting, in case he lost his head as well and did something foolish that would land him in trouble.

Geoffroi, happy to have his friend’s company, gave way to the insistence with a smile.

He was much easier in his mind over leaving Acquin this time than he had been last December. The family had grown used to Sir Robert’s absence and it seemed to Geoffroi that, in some ways, life was now simpler and less painful for his mother, at least, now that she no longer had to live with the anxiety of caring for a sick and fast-sinking husband. His brother, Robert, seemed to be coping well with his new responsibilities. Geoffroi felt that Robert would not miss him if he were to go away on even a prolonged visit, since he clearly preferred to set about things quietly and alone, introspective as ever, and without going to the trouble of asking his younger sibling what
he
thought.

The night before he was due to leave, Geoffroi woke from a strange and intense dream. He was standing in a small, round room, a fire burning in a brazier and a woman all in white by his side. She wore a veil of some fine cloth which, while obscuring the detail of her features, yet revealed that her expression was one of grave concern.

In a narrow bed lay a sick person. When the dreaming Geoffroi tried to bend down to see who it might be, the woman shook her head and drew him away. Then she pointed at Geoffroi’s chest and said,
Where is it? Do you carry it in the accustomed place?

And in his dream he felt – just as he had felt it as he carried it for those endless miles – the Eye of Jerusalem, pressed close against his breast.

He drew it out and held it out towards the woman in white. But instead of taking it from him, she stepped back, bowed her head and made way for him now to approach the figure on the bed.

Inside his head someone said, with absolute clarity,
the Eye is yours to command. You know what you must do.

He was in the very act of holding the Eye over the burning forehead of the sick person – he thought it was a woman, or perhaps a youth – when a jolt ran through him, throwing him into a panic and waking him up.

Sweating, heart pounding, he shot up in bed.

It was a dream, he told himself, willing courage back into his veins. Just a dream.

But he found it impossible to lie down again with any hope of getting back to sleep. No matter how he tried to distract his thoughts, he kept seeing the Eye of Jerusalem; it was as if, having brought itself so dramatically to his attention, it was not going to let go.