by Alys Clare
They set out on the last leg of the long road home in the late autumn of 1149. Again, misfortune struck; they were at the foot of an Alpine pass when a life-threatening snowfall occurred. They had food enough now, and there was nothing for it but to descend down the pass, find shelter and camp until the weather relented.
They finally came down on the northern side of the mountains at the beginning of March. They had been snowbound, they had got lost, and the Burgundian’s kinsman had taken a bad fall. But they were alive.
As they rode on, Geoffroi constantly expected that the Lombard would announce he was leaving them; his home must now lie to the west, and the direction in which the trio was travelling was north-west. But the Lombard said nothing.
Finally, Geoffroi asked him.
With a rueful glance at him, the Lombard said, ‘My friend, I would, if I may, travel on with you.’
Amazed, Geoffroi said, ‘Haven’t you had enough of travelling? As God is my witness, I have!’
The Lombard smiled. ‘Ah, Geoffroi, but you probably do not have a young woman waiting for you at home, whose formidable mother will insist becomes my wife the moment I have got my boots off.’
‘You are promised in marriage?’
‘Yes. Oh, she is fair, and I dare say will make me a splendid wife. But not just yet. I wish to spend a little more time free and single before I am forced to settle down and chained to the house for ever more. I would dearly love to travel the road home with you, if you will have me.’
Moved by his friend’s honesty, and flattered by the fact that he obviously enjoyed Geoffroi’s company sufficiently to desire some more of it, Geoffroi agreed.
They bid farewell to the Burgundian’s kinsman on the road from Beaune to Veézelay. Then, hearts high and singing as they went, they marched on north and, in the fine spring weather of 1150, they came at last to Acquin.
PART THREE
France and England, 1150–1165
9
As Geoffroi led the way along the Aa valley towards home, the Lombard held back.
Turning to him, believing his sudden slowness to be due to fatigue, Geoffroi said encouragingly, ‘Have heart, my friend! We are almost home!’
‘Yes, so I suspected,’ the Lombard replied. With a grin, he added, ‘You have been increasing your pace steadily all morning. I reasoned that, like a weary horse at last come close to his stable, the scent of home is hastening your steps.’
‘I hadn’t realised.’ Geoffroi grinned back. ‘Will you not step out beside me so that we may march along together?’
‘No.’ Now the Lombard came to stand by him, resting a hand on Geoffroi’s shoulder. ‘My friend, you should go in to your kin alone. They may still have faith that you will return safe to them, they may have given you up for lost. Either way, your homecoming will be an emotional time, and best for family eyes alone, not witnessed by a stranger.’
Geoffroi regarded him with affection. ‘Not a stranger to me,’ he said quietly.
The Lombard bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘No. But to them, I am unknown and, in the instant that you step once more over your father’s threshold, unwelcome.’
‘But––’ Geoffroi, frowning, met his companion’s dark eyes. And realised there was no need to say more.
‘Go on,’ the Lombard urged. ‘I will not be far behind.’
Geoffroi gave him one last look. Then, unable to restrain himself, he turned and headed away, at first walking but quickly breaking into a run, up the track that led to home.
As always, it was the tops of the watchtowers on the outer corners of the great Acquin courtyard that came into view first. As he hurried on, the long, low roofs of the main buildings became visible, the warm spring sun beating down on them and catching blueish glints and shimmers from the flint; it was lavender coloured in the bright light.
Now he was almost there.
He ran through the small village that surrounded the manor, aware of curious eyes peering out at him but not wanting to stop. Past the church, where someone called out to him. He ignored the cry.
Then at last up the path to the gates.
Slowing down, stopping, he stood and gazed into the courtyard.
He could hear voices from somewhere within; they would be preparing the noon meal. Somebody laughed. Was it Esmai? He thought so. Another female voice responded, full of affection. His mother.
He felt as if a slow and gentle hand were squeezing his heart.
Then a man appeared from one of the storerooms, heading towards the family accommodation, head down, lost in contemplation.
Geoffroi said, ‘Father?’
The man turned. Caught sight of Geoffroi, standing in the gateway. Instantly his face lit with love and happiness and, crying out ‘It’s Geoffroi! Geoffroi’s come home!’ Robert d’Acquin tripped and stumbled across the courtyard to take his son in his arms.
The joy of being home again was so great that it seemed there could never be enough celebration and thanksgiving.
Geoffroi had been away for almost three years. His family, with no idea of how long he would be gone and therefore no yardstick by which to judge whether or not he was overdue, had spent the months of his absence alternating between bright optimism and the darkness of despair. Their parish priest, Father Herluin, had encouraged the former and gently reprimanded them for the latter, reminded them that despair was a sin against the Holy Spirit. Being a human being as well as a priest, however, he had understood a mother and a father’s anxiety and grief for a missing son and he had imposed but light penance.
They had never stopped praying for him. Father Herluin told him so, in a quiet moment when Geoffroi had sought out the priest to ask how they had fared while he was away. Nor had their belief in the rightness of his crusade ever wavered; not, at least, according to Father Herluin. He added, however, as, after hearing Geoffroi’s confession, he walked with him out of the church and saw him on his way, ‘I trust, my son, that there will be no more crusading in the immediate future?’
And Geoffroi, understanding what it was that lurked unspoken behind the words, said, ‘No, Father Herluin. There will not.’
He could see for himself, once the euphoria of homecoming had begun to wane, what his long absence had done to his family. His father, who bore by far the greater part of the weighty responsibility of Acquin, had aged by more than the three years that Geoffroi had been away. It could not be the work and the heavy duty that had worn him down, Geoffroi reasoned, for he had been accustomed to those burdens for all of his adult life, since inheriting Acquin from his own father. And it was not as if Sir Robert had missed Geoffroi’s contribution to the labour of running the estate because, as a page, a squire and finally a knight, he had always lived away from home and never made any contribution.
He talked it over with the Lombard, now a popular and honoured guest at Acquin. (‘Any man who travelled, fought and suffered with my son,’ Sir Robert had told him, ‘is as welcome here as Geoffroi himself.’) The Lombard, who, it seemed to Geoffroi, observed much but spoke little, gave the matter due thought before replying.
‘I think, my friend,’ he said eventually, ‘that what ails your father would have come to him anyway, for he suffers from the pains in the joints and the narrowing of the chest that afflict many men as they begin to grow old.’
‘He is not all that old,’ Geoffroi protested.
The Lombard shrugged. ‘Maybe not. But he has lived a demanding life, would you not say? A life of hard work, out in all weathers, so that the damp of autumn and the chill of winter have entered his bones and taken up permanent lodging there?’
‘But––’ Geoffroi began. Then, lapsing into silence, he gave a brief nod.
The Lombard reached out to touch his arm. ‘Do not take the burden on to yourself,’ he said softly. ‘Whilst the long absence of a loved son might not do much to assuage an ageing man’s pains and ailments, it certainly is not a primary cause of them.’
As always, Geoffroi refle
cted, his friend spoke good sense.
‘I worry about my brother Robert as well,’ he said, the words bursting out of him in the relief of actually speaking his concerns out loud. ‘He does not look healthy. He coughs – have you heard him at night? – and he has a pallor that is not natural in a man who spends much of his day out of doors. And there is the matter of Adela.’
Geoffroi’s brother Robert, they said, had fallen in love with a neighbouring lord’s daughter, adoring her from afar while he plucked up courage to court her. But he dallied too long, and she married another. Robert, according to his sister Esmai, had been heartbroken. Still was, for all that Adela was now a wife of a year or more and expecting her first child.
The Lombard sighed. ‘For some men, it is like that. They love, they lose, they are hurt beyond comfort.’
‘But there must be other girls, if Robert has set his heart on a wife and a family!’ Geoffroi protested.
The Lombard looked at him steadily. ‘For some, yes, there is recovery and then the joy of a new love. For others . . .’ He let the sentence trail away.
And Geoffroi, grieving, found no comfort.
The Lombard, sympathy in his face and in his tone, said, ‘My friend, to ease your torments over how you find your father and your brother, think now about your mother.’
With relief, Geoffroi did so. And – as he suspected the Lombard had intended – his expression lifted.
The lady Matilda, Geoffroi’s mother, uncomplicated soul that she was, had spent the years of her son’s absence keeping her hands busy with her wide daily round of tasks, her mind occupied with the care and duty she owed to her family and to her husband’s tenants, and her heart with God. Or, more likely, with Geoffroi, which, since he was away on God’s business, amounted to the same thing. To have Geoffroi home safe and sound had caused her such joy that she had wept for at least half an hour, before turning to practical matters such as arranging a bath for him, attending to his small hurts and beginning on the huge task of washing and mending his clothes.
She moved now, Geoffroi had noticed, with a permanent smile on her face.
But there were also Esmai and young William.
His sister Esmai, he had noticed, had become very thin. Her small face had still a childlike look, and her figure was boyish, with hardly any breast development. She ate sparingly, and appeared to need a lot of sleep. When Geoffroi had broached the subject with his mother, she had said, with a small sigh, that Esmai had not come into her womanhood as she ought, and that she was therefore probably doomed to the life of a spinster. ‘No man wishes to wed a barren wife,’ Matilda said sadly, ‘no matter how pretty and bright she is, no matter how lively her conversation nor how deft her hands when she plies the needle.’
Geoffroi, understanding, had given his mother a hug. ‘She does not need a husband and a home of her own while she has us and Acquin,’ he said stoutly.
But his mother, returning his hug, made no reply.
William, fifteen years old and a quiet, studious boy, had set his heart on becoming a monk.
Geoffroi was only partially comforted by his conversation with the Lombard, and he sought out Father Herluin to talk it all over with him.
‘The trouble, you see,’ Geoffroi concluded, after outlining his worries in considerable detail to the patient priest, ‘is that, not really having studied them all that closely before I went away, I cannot say how much these changes that I observe are to be laid at my own door.’
‘Not your door alone,’ the priest said mildly. ‘You did not answer the call to go on crusade for your own good, now, did you?’
‘I was greatly relieved and comforted by the knowledge that taking the cross would earn me remission of my sins,’ Geoffroi said honestly.
‘Which of us would not be?’ Father Herluin instantly replied. ‘But God provided this great opportunity for you and for all crusaders, and you must not think there is any blame or guilt attached to having answered God’s summons.’
‘But my father looks so old!’ Geoffroi cried. ‘My elder brother sickens, my sister does not thrive and William wants to be a monk!’
The priest waited a moment while Geoffroi collected himself. Then he said, ‘My son, these are things that happen to men and women. God has a pattern and a plan for us all, and you must not think that what you have done, in all good faith, has altered what the Almighty had in store for your family.’ When Geoffroi made no answer, the priest said gently, ‘Geoffroi? Do you understand what I am saying?’
Geoffroi nodded.
But he was not sure he felt very reassured.
With the honourable aim of trying to make amends to them all for his absence, Geoffroi threw himself into the life of the manor. Dutifully he presented himself to his father every morning to hear the plan of the day’s work, and obediently he waited for his elder brother to say which tasks were his to see to. Then Geoffroi, always deferring, always humble, would offer to take on the remainder, never too proud to ask for help, never missing an opportunity to ask his father or his brother how they would go about whatever job he was tackling.
To his amazement, he discovered that he loved it.
The Lombard, helping him both by his capable hands and strong back and by his moral support – he seemed to understand without being told that this was something Geoffroi just had to do – told Geoffroi that he was a farmer now, not a soldier. And Geoffroi, agreeing with a happy smile, found that he did not have one single regret for the life he now seemed to have left behind.
In the autumn of the year in which Geoffroi came home, his father, Robert d’Acquin, finally succumbed to his long illness and the pain it caused him. He died peacefully, shriven of his sins and surrounded by his loving family, three days before the feast of All Saints.
The family’s grief was mixed with a certain relief, entirely on Sir Robert’s behalf, that he was now out of his agony and safe in the arms of the Lord.
The younger Robert, inheriting the title and the estate, seemed to grow more pale and weary under the load. Geoffroi, suffering for his brother even while he mourned his father, worked even harder, offering his strength to compensate for Robert’s weakness. But, whatever he did, nothing seemed to remove the look of miserable resignation from his brother’s pallid face.
Out hunting with the Lombard one bright winter morning – the Lombard insisted that Geoffroi allow himself a few pleasures amid his toil and his worries – the pair of them drew rein on top of a small knoll overlooking the Aa river. It was swollen with late autumn rains, and sang so loud a song as it hastened along that they had to shout to be heard over the noise.
‘You know, my friend,’ the Lombard said, ‘there is something you should be thinking about.’
‘Aye? And what is that?’ Geoffroi’s voice sounded terse, even to his own ears, but it was difficult not to be short with people implying that he was being negligent, when so many cares constantly pressed down on him.
‘Your brother is sinking,’ the Lombard said baldly. ‘And when he dies, you will inherit Acquin.’
‘Do you not think that has occurred to me?’ Geoffroi replied crossly.
‘Yes, of course it has.’ The Lombard’s tone was soothing. There was a pause, then he said, ‘Do you recall what I said when I first rode on north with you instead of making for home?’
Geoffroi turned his mind back, with some difficulty, to those days of the long, hard journey home; they seemed half a lifetime away. ‘Aye. You said you wished to have some more time of freedom before going back to take up the responsibilities of home, hearth and family.’
‘Indeed,’ the Lombard agreed. ‘Responsibilities which you, my friend, have had thrust upon you whether you sought them or not.’
‘I do not mind!’ Geoffroi protested. ‘Would you have me desert my family when they need me most?’
‘No, Geoffroi.’ The Lombard wisely waited while Geoffroi’s brief anger spent itself. Then he said, ‘For the moment, Robert is able to cope with the demand
s of Acquin, relatively slight as they are in this winter season. I suggest, my friend, that you and I grasp this opportunity that presents itself for the pair of us to have one more small adventure together.’
Geoffroi managed a grin. ‘Not another crusade.’
The Lombard laughed. ‘No, not that. But what I propose relates to our crusade, in a way.’
Illogically, a picture of the Eye of Jerusalem flashed into Geoffroi’s mind. He wondered why that should be; he had hidden the jewel safely away on his return home, in a place where nobody could possibly find it, and, apart from occasionally going to have a furtive look at it, he left it alone. There had been no call to use its peculiar powers; here in Acquin he had no enemies – none that he knew of, anyway – nobody had tried to poison him, no one had suffered a bad wound, and his father’s sickness would not have been helped by a febrifuge.
If he were honest with himself, the whole business of a magic jewel with supernatural powers now seemed a little far-fetched. Against the mundane problems of getting in the harvest, coping with floodwaters that threatened tenants in the lower-lying areas, and the normal aches, pains, grumbles and moans that were the usual human lot, a magnificent sapphire set in gold that had belonged to a Turkish emir seemed somewhat irrelevant.
So, what had the Lombard in mind?
Turning to him, Geoffroi said, ‘Explain.’
‘You had a friend, an Englishman, yes?’
‘Yes. Herbert of Lewes. He died.’
‘I know. You told me about him. You also told me that you had been entrusted with his belongings, to take home to his kin.’
‘I have not had a chance!’ Geoffroi cried. ‘Have I not been occupied, every waking minute since my return, with my own kin? They have first call on me, you must realise that!’
‘I do, I do,’ soothed the Lombard. ‘What I propose is that we travel to England together, you and I, and seek out Herbert of Lewes’s home. By so doing, you will fulfil your undertaking and, at the same time, afford yourself a break from your cares and your labours here in Acquin.’
