by Alys Clare
Straightening up and pulling away slightly, he held Yves by the shoulders and studied him. His brother’s pleasant face was beaming his delight, which, Josse fervently hoped, suggested that, whatever had brought him to England to seek out his elder brother, it was nothing too terrible.
‘Josse, you look good!’ Yves was saying, slapping Josse on the arm. ‘This English country life must suit you!’
‘Aye, it does.’
‘They told me at New Winnowlands where I might find you and, after they’d put me up for the night – she’s a good cook, that serving woman of yours, isn’t she? – they gave me directions and saw me on to the right road.’ Another grin. ‘Ah, dear God, but it’s good to see you!’
Josse, suddenly remembering where they were, took a step back. ‘Yves,’ he said, ‘a moment, please.’ Turning to the Abbess, he said, ‘Abbess Helewise, may I present to you my younger brother, Yves d’Acquin? Yves, this is Abbess Helewise of Hawkenlye Abbey.’
Yves bowed deeply. ‘My lady Abbess, it is a great honour at last to greet the woman we at Acquin have heard so much about,’ he said gravely. ‘I am your servant.’ He bowed again.
Josse, observing the Abbess, hoped that she would not find Yves’s manner rather overcourtly; he does not know, he fretted, that she is a plain-speaking, down to earth woman, even if she is an abbess . . .
He need not have worried. The Abbess, smiling, was clearly unperturbed by Yves’s display of Gallic charm; she was asking him the usual questions that one asked a new arrival, about his journey, were the family well and so forth, clearly at her ease.
That particular small concern out of the way, Josse thought, but why is he here?
The Abbess, bless her, must have read his mind. Turning to him, she said, ‘Sir Josse, your brother will, I am sure, desire to speak to you in private. You may take him to my room, if you wish, and I will send refreshments.’
Josse looked at Yves, who nodded swiftly. ‘Aye, then, Abbess Helewise,’ Josse said, ‘if you are sure we shall not put you out?’
‘Not in the least,’ she said smoothly, ‘I am expected over in the infirmary.’
With a silent but steely look around at the various members of her community – Sister Martha, Sister Ursel, the wide-eyed Sister Anne and Brother Augustus – the Abbess dismissed them back to their duties.
And Josse took his brother’s arm and led him across to the cloisters and along to the Abbess’s room.
‘Now then, what has brought you all the way across the Channel to see me?’ Josse asked him as soon as the door was closed behind them. ‘Is anyone sick? Is there trouble at Acquin?’
‘No, everyone is well, thank the good Lord’ – ‘Amen,’ Josse said fervently – ‘and the estates run smoothly. We had an excellent harvest this year, Josse, we’ve got it all in now and we shall do well this winter, us and the animals, although we’ll be putting plenty of meat down to salt come Martinmas to see us through the lean times, and––’
‘Yves,’ Josse reprimanded him. ‘I may know very little of farming, but even I know about that.’
‘Of course. I apologise, Josse, you must be keen to know my news.’
‘Keen,’ Josse murmured, ‘is an understatement.’
Yves leaned forward – Josse had shown him to the Abbess’s throne-like chair; it seemed, he thought ruefully, that he was forever destined to perch on the uncomfortable and insubstantial little stool – and said, ‘Josse, we had a visitor.’
‘A visitor?’ Surely, not such a rare occurrence.
‘Aye. He came looking for Father. He was dressed simply and he had but the one lad with him, yet there was something about him, some air that suggested he might not be the poor man he posed as. He said, “I come from far afield in search of one Geoffroi d’Acquin, and I have at last made my way here to Acquin.” Well, we told him straight away that Father was dead – Mother, too, though he did not in fact ask after her – and then he said to me, “You are his heir.” So then I said no, I was the second son, the eldest was Josse – you, that is – and the man said, “Where, then, is this Sir Josse?”’
‘And you said I had a manor in England, aye?’ Josse, impatient, wished Yves were not quite such a long-winded teller of tales.
‘Aye, that I did. So then this fellow said, “To England I must go,” and, even though we offered to put him up for a while – he didn’t look too well and he had a nasty, hacking cough – he wouldn’t hear of it. He kept saying, “I have already left it too late, I fear. I have missed Sir Geoffroi, and this I must bear as best I may.” So Marie gave him some of her green liniment to rub on his chest – you know, that stuff that stings like the Devil’s prongs and makes your eyes water? You once said you preferred the cough – and we gave the two of them, the man and his lad, a hearty meal and some good, red wine.’
‘And then?’
‘Then they left. Patrice and my Luke rode with them some of the way and reported back that, when last seen, the old fellow and the boy were stepping out strongly on the road to Calais.’
Josse was thinking very hard. About an elderly man who had died in early August in Hawkenlye Vale. Who had had a bad cough, and been attended by a youth. A foreigner.
Abruptly he said to Yves, ‘When was this? When did the old man arrive at Acquin?’
Yves shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘You’ll not like to hear this.’
‘Go on.’ Josse’s tone was relentless.
‘It was back in July. Round about the middle of the month, maybe later. Oh, I’m that sorry, Josse, I know full well I should have come to tell you sooner – after all, we had no idea what he wanted with you and, for all I know, he could have meant you harm. But, you see, we were just beginning on the harvest and then, early in August, we had a week of storms – terrible, they were, rain like you never saw – and it put us back. Then there was a deal of pumping-out to do – the Aa overflowed her banks here and there and some of our lower pastures were flooded, too, and we had to––’
‘It’s all right, Yves.’ Josse got up and went to put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I understand. There are great demands made on the farmer, I am aware of that well enough, even if I don’t fully know what they all are.’
‘Please don’t think that I am complaining,’ Yves said earnestly. ‘I love the life, love Acquin like my own life’s blood. I’m only glad that––’ He broke off abruptly, looking confused and slightly embarrassed.
‘Glad that your elder brother decided he was a military man and not a farmer?’ Josse supplied, with a laugh. ‘Yves, my dear brother, if you are glad, so am I, to have someone not only capable and willing but eager to take on Acquin and all its dependants and responsibilities.’ He hesitated. He was reluctant to embarrass his brother further, but some things needed saying, and he did not get the chance very often.
‘You do a fine job with our family estates,’ he said quietly, after a pause to collect his thoughts. ‘I do not come home near as often as I should, but, whenever I do, it is to find everything running smoothly and efficiently, a happy, healthy family in residence and, in our lands all around, what appears to me to be a contented and prosperous population of peasants.’
Yves, red in the face, muttered something about having a deal of help from Patrice, Honoré and Acelin, but Josse knew full well that the younger brothers were followers, Yves the leader.
After himself, that was.
And, as he had just said, he did not go home nearly as often as he should.
Changing the subject – which, he thought, would come as a relief to them both – Josse said, ‘Did the old man say anything else? How he had come to know our father, for instance?’
Yves shook his head. ‘No. We pressed him, well, as far as politeness allowed, but he would say nothing of his mission. He kept repeating, “I must keep faith with my friend. It is too late for him, so I must find his eldest son and present myself to him instead.” He didn’t seem like a threat really, Josse, in truth he didn’t. If we’d fe
lt that he was dangerous, we should not have told him where to find you.’
‘I know that well enough, Yves. Do not punish yourself.’ Josse walked across the room and back, thinking. Then: ‘In any case, even if he did intend harm, it is too late.’
‘Too late?’
‘Aye. If your old man is the man I am thinking of, then he’s dead. He came here. His cough must have got worse, for he wanted to take the healing Holy Waters administered by the Hawkenlye monks down in the Vale. Only he left it too late. During the night before he was due to take the cure, he died.’
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.’
PART TWO
Outremer, Summer 1148
‘God has instituted in our time holy wars, so that the order of knights and the crowd running in its wake may find a new way of gaining salvation.’
Guibert of Rogent
6
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.