Faithful Dead

by Alys Clare

  He asked her. So eager was she to say yes that she had thrown herself on him, shouting ‘I will! Oh, I will!’ even before he had finished getting the words out.

  Geoffroi d’Acquin and Ida, daughter of Herbert of Lewes, were married on Midsummer’s Day of the following year. The seventeen-year-old bride, who did not seem to be able to keep her adoring eyes off her tall husband, wore a garland of flowers on her auburn hair; Geoffroi, gazing down at her as she clung to his arm, thought, eyes as blue as the midsummer sky. Aye, now I see it for myself.

  Herbert, I thank you.

  12

  From the start, Geoffroi and Ida were happy together. Ida took to Acquin as soon as she saw it – country girl that she was, the landscape and the quiet rural setting suited her well – and she quickly grew to love the lady Matilda, Geoffroi’s mother. She became, to a greater extent than Geoffroi had dared to hope, given her youth, a dependable, capable and beloved member of his family. If she missed her own mother and her childhood home, she never said, and Geoffroi did not ask.

  Geoffroi’s brother Robert was not well. They all realised it and, it seemed to Geoffroi, they all made private preparations for what rapidly began to seem the inevitable. The poor man, skeleton-thin, and racked with pains in both his stomach and his chest, lasted through the summer and saw the harvest in, although he himself had no hand in it.

  Satisfied that he left Acquin in Geoffroi’s good hands – ‘You really have had enough of soldiering, haven’t you, Geoffroi?’ – Robert d’Acquin died in the warmth of a golden September evening, three months after Geoffroi had brought home his bride. And, with his passing, Geoffroi took up the title and the responsibilities of Acquin, and his new life truly began.

  He had the firm support of his mother; and the lady Matilda probably knew as well as, if not better than, anyone did how to run the estate. But she could not go out herself to order and command the busy daily round of the farmer, and neither could frail Esmai nor young William, about to leave Acquin and enter a monastery near Rouen.

  Geoffroi, feeling the weight of Acquin descend on to his back, was more grateful than he could say for the presence of the Lombard. ‘I know you want to go home,’ he said one day to his friend, ‘and I know, too, that I am wrong to detain you here, but––’

  ‘You do not detain me,’ the Lombard said calmly. ‘I choose to stay.’

  ‘––but if you’d just agree to remain with us for another few months, just while I get used to everything,’ Geoffroi continued as if he hadn’t heard, ‘I should thank you with all my heart and keep you always in my prayers.’

  The Lombard said, with the faintest irony, ‘How kind.’

  The Lombard was true to his word and remained at Acquin through that winter and the following spring and summer. Geoffroi gradually ceased to consult him before making big decisions, and the time finally came when he didn’t consult him at all, instead merely informing him once a decision had been made, and then more from courtesy and habit than from necessity.

  By early autumn, it was apparent that Ida was pregnant.

  The state became her; Geoffroi thought she had never looked lovelier and he fell in love with her all over again.

  It was perhaps their very apparent happiness together – and the attendant redundancy of anybody else – that made the Lombard finally decide that, at long last, it was time for him to head for home. Perhaps, as Geoffroi remarked to Ida, he had started to think that a wife and family of his own would not be a bad thing.

  They saw him on his way one dull September day, just short of the first anniversary of Robert’s death. Both Geoffroi and the Lombard were feeling the effects of the farewell feast which Matilda, Ida and their serving women had prepared the night before; the wine had flowed in almost as lively a manner as the Aa now rushed along between its banks.

  Geoffroi wished for a swift final parting; sentimental man that he was, he hated saying goodbye. Especially to such an old friend, and especially when that friend was hardly likely ever to come back to Acquin. It seemed that the Lombard, too, was affected by the emotion of the moment; he must have had tears in his eyes, Geoffroi thought, as, deeply moved himself, he stood watching the distant figure ride away. For why else, unless it were to hide them from me, would he not meet mine?

  In the months that followed, the Acquin region – indeed, much of north-east Europe – saw some of the worst weather it had known for years. Cold followed rain, persistent damp and fog brought chills and ailments, animals fell sick, and then people did, too. Strangers were seen: a dark man and his companion, furtive, skulking in the shadows like Death himself.

  In February, the plague came.

  At Acquin, where the family and the villagers were a reasonably self-sufficient unit, they were safe; as safe, anyway, as anybody could be. But it did not stop them from suffering sleepless nights of terrible anxiety. It did not stop them praying long and hard for others; the local priest saw to that. Father Herluin, who did not spare himself in striving to save the living, care for the sick and comfort the dying, stressed upon his parishioners that it was their duty to go down on their knees to pray for God’s love for the suffering and, each day that they themselves were spared, thank Him for His mercy.

  As he worried over what was happening in other, less fortunate households, it occurred to Geoffroi to wonder if the Eye of Jerusalem could be of any help; to wonder, indeed, if he dared propose the use of such an infidel thing to Father Herluin. But the Lord helps those who help themselves, Geoffroi reminded himself; and, besides, why had God allowed the Eye to fall into Geoffroi’s hands if he was not supposed to use it for the good of his fellow men?

  And Father Herluin was a compassionate and broad-minded man. Unlike other churchmen whom Geoffroi had encountered, both on crusade and afterwards, the local priest did not subscribe to the entrenched belief of the average western cleric that all Christians were good and all non-Christians were terrible sinners, debauched and vicious and beyond God’s mercy. Geoffroi had seen too much evidence to the contrary to support such a view and when, on returning to Acquin, he mulled over such matters with Father Herluin, he had been heartily relieved to find that the priest did not brand men as sheep or goats, preferring to obey Christ’s teaching and leave such judgement to God.

  Talking the matter over with Ida as they lay in bed one night served to make up Geoffroi’s mind; he would offer his services with his magic Eye and, if the priest thought he could be of help, he would go with Father Herluin to try out the jewel’s healing powers.

  In the morning, choosing a moment when the household was occupied elsewhere and the courtyard was empty, he crept through the stables and the disused storeroom and across to the wall in which he had hidden away the Eye.

  It was not there.

  Stupidly, for it was a very small hiding place, he felt all around the aperture that he had hollowed out between the stones. Then he looked on the floor, then up at the rafters over his head. It was only when he found himself down on hands and knees, feeling all over the cobwebby, dusty flagstones, that he had to admit the truth.

  The Eye had vanished.

  In that first instant of horrified reaction, he almost believed that the jewel had disappeared of its own volition. He had always thought of it as something awesome, something that answered to laws known only to itself. And he had always half-believed that it was only on loan; that, someday, somehow, Mehmed would regret his generous gesture and come to fetch his prize back again.

  Was that it? Slowly he rose to his feet, brushing dust and old, dead leaves from his knees. Had the Eye gone home again?

  The shock wore off as he walked slowly back to the house. Of course it hadn’t, he told himself firmly, don’t be so foolish! Somebody had stolen it.

  This logical conclusion led to another thought which, in its way, was even more dreadful than imagining the Eye to have made off all by itself. Because, when Geoffroi thought it through, he realised that, with the possible exception of one person, nobod
y in the world knew where he had hidden the Eye. He had not even told Ida; oh, he had wanted to, but she had not let him. ‘The Eye is yours, my love,’ she had said firmly, ‘and I wish no part in it, no, not even to know of its whereabouts. For, who can say, I might be tempted one day to try to use it, and that would not be right.’

  He had wondered afterwards if she might be afraid of the Eye. He would not have blamed her if she had been; he was a little afraid of it himself.

  No, he thought as he made his way to where Ida would be finishing dressing, preparatory to descending from their bedchamber. No, my Ida can neither have moved the Eye herself nor have told anyone else where it was concealed. And no other soul at Acquin even knows that I possess it.

  Except possibly one.

  And he is no longer here, but now back home in Lombardy.

  With a muffled moan, Geoffroi slumped down on the cold stone step and put his head in his hands. And, against his will, a picture formed in his mind. Of himself, on his return from that second visit to Lewes when, on the prompting of a dream, he had taken the Eye with him and helped to heal Ida’s little brother. Going out to the hiding place at dusk the day that he and the Lombard had returned to Acquin, he had heard a small sound as he dusted off his hands after replacing the Eye in its hiding place. Looking around him in alarm, he had seen a pair of doves on the stable roof, cooing and fluttering as they settled. You are too nervous! he had reproached himself, crossing the courtyard back to the house. Where the Lombard stood, just inside the door and slightly breathless.

  Did I deliberately put the awful suspicion from my mind because I felt us to be so close? Geoffroi wondered now. Did I tell myself that to believe him capable of spying on me was an insult to our long friendship, to the many hardships we had shared, to the support we had given each other over so many miles and so many months?

  With another groan, he realised that it was true. He had believed, that night, that the Lombard might have crept out to see what his friend was up to. Which raised the further, equally disturbing question: had the Lombard known what Geoffroi took to Lewes with him and so secretively brought home again?

  Needing the comfort of his wife, Geoffroi got to his feet and went on up to their chamber. There she was, now noticeably rounded with pregnancy, her lovely face serene and happy; hurrying towards her, he knelt at her feet and told her what had happened. And what he suspected.

  She said nothing for some moments, merely stroking his head with a gentle hand while his anguish subsided. Then she said quietly, ‘You are sure, my love? There can be no other explanation? Can it not be possible that someone else in the household witnessed you either fetching the stone from its hiding place or putting it back?’

  ‘I have tried to think that there might be some other culprit,’ Geoffroi replied, ‘but in my heart I know there cannot be. The occasions on which I have taken the Eye out of concealment are so very few that I can remember every one with clarity. Each time, Ida, I made sure I knew beforehand where everybody was; I cannot have been observed, I would stake my life on it!’

  ‘There, there,’ she comforted, ‘do not distress yourself.’ Her hands continued to stroke his head. ‘Then if, as it seems, the Lombard truly is the thief, then we must ascribe his action to unbearable temptation, and we must pray for him.’

  Her charity did not surprise him, but nevertheless he was stung to protest. ‘Ida, he has robbed me of a thing of great beauty and value! And you say we must pray for him?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ she insisted. ‘For he was your true friend, Geoffroi, of that there is no doubt. We must pray for him because the evil one tempted him, and he had not the fortitude to resist.’ He was about to make a sour comment but she overrode him. ‘He deserves your pity, my love. How do you think he feels, knowing that he has stolen from his great friend and has no means of making recompense? How, Geoffroi? Will he not feel like the worst cur on God’s earth?’

  But Geoffroi, who had no idea, made no answer.

  When he was calm again and he and Ida prepared to go and join the household, she said, practical girl that she was, ‘What a good thing it is that you had not yet mentioned the magical stone to Father Herluin. As it is, you have not raised his hopes for nothing.’

  Ida and Geoffroi’s first child was born in April that year, 1154. The baby was a girl, and they named her Eleanor. Their delight in her was tempered by anxiety, however; she did not thrive.

  Ida’s mother came over on a prolonged visit, and she and the lady Matilda put their experienced heads together and tried various remedies and therapies. Sometimes the baby responded, usually not. She was pale, disinclined to feed, and her breathing had a distinct rattle.

  ‘If I only had the Eye,’ Geoffroi said to Ida one sleepless night, ‘then I could make her well.’

  ‘You do not know that, my love,’ Ida replied. ‘There is no real proof that your magical stone ever did anybody any good. Is there?’

  ‘But––’ No. She was right. ‘No. It could all have been mere coincidence.’

  ‘Just so,’ she agreed, adding lovingly, ‘Do not torture yourself with what might have been.’

  Torture myself ? he thought, looking into her deadly white face, eyes circled with darkness, their lids perpetually pink from her secret weeping. Oh, Ida, I would give the entire world, my own self included, if I could only make our child well and make you smile again.

  The baby gave up her brief struggle in October.

  Geoffroi, wondering how anyone could grieve as Ida did and still live, entered a time of grey misery from which, for a while, he almost believed he would never emerge. Shouting at the priest one day, histrionically he demanded that God tell him what terrible sin he had done, that Ida and he should now be so punished.

  Father Herluin let him rage. Then, when he was quiet, said gently, ‘There is no answer to your question, Geoffroi. And the only comfort I can give you is to say that you will be better, in time. Ida will recover. And so will you.’

  But Ida was sick. The light in her eyes had gone out, and she was listless, unenthusiastic. Geoffroi took her over to England for a stay with her mother and Hugh, and the change of scene seemed to do her good. But then they came home again, and the loss of her child was once more right there before her.

  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 co
mpassion.’

  ‘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!’