by Alys Clare
‘But––’ Objections rose in Geoffroi’s mind. It was winter, and no season for travelling. How would his mother feel if he went away again? And what about poor Robert, having to bear full responsibility for the estate all by himself ? Should Geoffroi even be thinking of what amounted to a jaunt, when all was said and done, when his father had not been dead much more than a month? Would they even be able to find Herbert of Lewes’s kin?
Still, he had said he would return his friend’s belongings to his kin. And that had been a solemn promise.
Turning to the Lombard, already feeling the faint stirrings of excitement that the prospect of a journey always brought, Geoffroi said, ‘All right. We’ll go.’
10
Despite the winter season and the normal unsuitability of its weather for travelling, Geoffroi and the Lombard journeyed the short distance up to the coast, and then across the Channel, without mishap. The wind strengthened and turned round to the south-west as they took ship for England, which, while making the crossing rough enough for both men to succumb to seasickness, also had the effect of speeding up the ship’s progress and so lessening the time spent at sea.
Neither man having set foot in England before, they had no idea where Lewes might be. They were relieved to be told it was not much over a day’s ride away from the port – there were inns, apparently, where they could put up overnight if necessary – and that the way was easy to find. Follow the track that runs along the top of the downs, they were told – up there, on the cliffs; it would be drier and easier at this time of year than the road that ran along the foot of the downs – and descend into the valley of the Ouse river once you have passed Firle Beacon and the Caburn.
They had no idea what these last two features would look like, and they set off trusting to their luck that the landmarks would prove unmistakable.
They were entranced by the track along the cliffs. In that cold, frosty December, they seemed to have the land to themselves, and they rode along together in good spirits. They knew somehow, without having been told, that the way they trod was ancient, perhaps dating back to the very first inhabitants of this green and misty land; for one thing, the track was etched deep in the chalky soil, and for another, there were strange and puzzling relics which suggested earlier populations that had now vanished. There were the remains of stout walls; built so close to the cliffs that their outer sections had vanished, they had fallen away, as the very cliffs themselves had crumbled, into the restless, hungry grey sea below.
Who had lived there? Why had they felt the need to build so close to the cliff edge? Against whom had they felt driven to defend themselves?
There were signs of magic, too. Signs that those early inhabitants of Britain, whoever they were, had worshipped a very different God. In a grove of mighty oaks on the top of a summit they saw balls of mistletoe, and into the aged trunk of the host tree was carved a small figure that looked like a pregnant woman. And, close by, there was what appeared to be a broken stone altar.
Early on the second day they saw, on the hillside away to their left, the figure of a white giant. Hugely tall, he held spears in each of his outstretched hands. There was a faint hint of facial features – the giant looked stern, solemn – and he seemed to be wearing a plumed helmet.
‘Who is he?’ Geoffroi asked in an awed whisper, as if the giant might overhear and resent the question. Resent Geoffroi’s ignorance. But the Lombard merely shrugged.
The Caburn was a prominent, rounded hill with the marks of ruined, circular walls. Firle Beacon was covered in humps that suggested ancient burials. Both locations made the travellers edgy, so that they looked uneasily over their shoulders and seemed to feel unseen, secret eyes on their backs.
It was a relief to come down off the lonely cliff-top track and follow the road that led along the Ouse to Lewes.
The town was bustling, and there was any number of people of whom to ask directions. Herbert of Lewes? Ah, yes, brave knight that he was, he lived down that-a-way. Follow the stream, over the bridge, on for a while and you’ll see his manor up on the rise.
The manor was a compact stone house, its outer courtyard wall decorated with bisected flint stones, whose greyish sheen made a pleasing contrast with the reddish-gold of the stonework. A wooden gate stood open; Geoffroi and the Lombard rode through it, drawing rein just inside.
Two men, one young, one old, were bending over a brindled hound that lay on his back at their feet. The younger man was scratching the hound’s belly, making the dog wriggle and howl with pleasure.
Geoffroi called out, ‘Good day to you both! I seek the household and kin of Herbert of Lewes. Am I come to the right place?’
The older man instantly stood up – as far as his bent spine would allow – and said, his face suddenly grave, ‘Aye. This is Sir Herbert’s house. And just who might you be?’
Geoffroi slipped from his horse’s back; the Lombard held out his hand and took the reins.
‘I am Geoffroi d’Acquin,’ he said. ‘I would speak with Sir Herbert’s family.’
The old man studied him for a silent moment. Then, with a brisk nod, he said, ‘Follow me, please.’
Geoffroi turned to exchange glances with the Lombard, who shook his head minutely and said quietly, ‘You go in alone – it was you who knew the man. I will wait here.’
Geoffroi followed the old man up a shallow flight of steps that led to the entrance to the house. The main living accommodation seemed to have been arranged at first-floor level, over an under-croft. Inside, they entered a wide hall with a fire crackling in a hearth at the far end. The furnishings were few – a table pushed against one wall, on which stood some rather elegant candlesticks; a chest or two; some benches – but they were solidly made, from good English oak, Geoffroi guessed, with the deep shine that comes from many years of diligent polishing.
Three people sat on a bench facing the fire, their backs to the entrance. Two were women, one a boy. The younger woman had just said something – in a pleasant, light-toned voice – that had set them all laughing.
The old man cleared his throat and, having gained the trio’s attention, said, ‘Here is a visitor, my lady. He is called Sir Geoffroi of Acquin, and he comes seeking the kin of Sir Herbert.’
Instantly, the mirth faded from the three faces.
The older woman stood up and approached Geoffroi. She said, ‘I am Ediva, wife to Sir Herbert. What tidings do you bring?’
There was the shadow of pain in her blue eyes, and her handsome face seemed suddenly to have taken on downward lines. Stepping towards her and taking her outstretched hand – held out in greeting or to ward off whatever he was about to say? – in both of his, Geoffroi knelt before her and said, ‘My lady, I was with Sir Herbert in Outremer, and I fear to tell you that I bear grim news. He was––’
But already she was nodding. ‘He is dead, yes, sir knight, this we know. Have known, indeed, for many months, since his kinsman returned home and told us.’
Much of the tension left Geoffroi. Feeling himself slump, he bowed his head.
The woman hurried to crouch beside him. ‘Sir Geoffroi? Are you sick? What ails you?’ Her voice was kindly, solicitous.
Quickly raising his head, he said, ‘Nothing, my lady, nothing!’ He managed a smile. Looking up into her concerned face, he added frankly, ‘I must admit to being relieved, that is all. Throughout the journey I dreaded breaking the news of Herbert’s death to his widow and his family, and here you are already aware of it.’
The other woman and the boy had crept over as well now, and they, too, knelt down on the floor beside Geoffroi and the older woman. The boy said, ‘Have you come far, sir?
‘He has come from Acquin,’ the younger woman said; hers was the sweet-toned voice. Glancing at her, Geoffroi took in that she was young – fifteen, sixteen? – and had her mother’s bright blue eyes.
And that she was extremely lovely.
He would have liked to extend the glance into an all-out stare, but t
he lad was plucking at his sleeve.
‘I know that,’ he was saying, ‘but I don’t know where Acquin is. Do I?’ he turned to hiss at the girl. ‘I suppose you do, miss know-it-all,’ he added in a cross whisper.
The older woman – surely the mother of what just had to be a sister and brother – said mildly, ‘Enough, you two.’ Then, still kneeling on the floor, she called up to the old man, who had retreated a respectful distance and was now hovering by the door. ‘Symond? Will you fetch refreshments, please?’
There was a muttered, ‘At once, my lady,’ and the old man quietly let himself out of the hall.
The blue-eyed girl opened her mouth to speak, but her mother held up her hand. ‘A moment,’ she said softly. ‘I would ask first, sweet.’
The girl dropped her eyes.
And Ediva, an anxious hand resting on Geoffroi’s shoulder as if it were he, not she, who was in need of comfort, said, ‘We know he is dead, but no more than that, for his kinsman had the tale from another and could give us no details of the circumstances.’ She paused to take a shaky breath and then said, ‘Will you tell us, Sir Geoffroi?’
And, sitting on the clean rush-strewn floor of a small Sussex manor house, Geoffroi did so. He spoke of how Herbert and he had become friends – he made light of their period of convalescence in Antioch, dwelling on the light-hearted rather than the distressing or crude aspects – and of how they had each valued the other as a friendly face in a vast army far from home. Then, sensing that this anxious family wanted to get the worst over with, he hurried on to what had happened outside Damascus.
‘I was not beside him when he died,’ he said, looking in turn into each pair of eyes; the lad, too, had inherited his mother’s shade of bright, almost lavender blue, ‘but I spoke the same night with a man who was. He told me––’ He paused. Could he – should he – tell them the bare truth?
But, reading him right and understanding his hesitation, Ediva said, ‘Please, sir, continue. We have imagined such dreadful things that surely the truth can be no worse.’
So, simply and quickly, he told them.
‘He was in the press of knights before the city,’ he said. ‘He was fit, well, sound, full of enthusiasm. In the midst of his vibrant life, he took an arrow in the neck. The wound itself was slight but, in his haste to be rid of it and return to the fray, he dragged it out and tore some vital organ. He bled to death, even there as he sat his horse.’
There was a silence. Then Ediva said shakily, ‘It was swift, then? He did not suffer?’
Geoffroi took her hands. They were icy. ‘My lady, I think not. He was dead so quickly and, if I know anything of battle wounds, I would guess that he felt little pain.’ He paused, then added, ‘It is in the nature of fighting. At the time, the emotions run high, like a fever in the blood, and even a severe wound can go almost unfelt. It is only afterwards, when the battle is over, that the pain sets in. And Herbert––’
‘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.
There’s my wife – lovely, she is, comely, welcoming, capable – and there’s my boy, Hugh. Ah, Geoffroi, my lad, but you should see my girl, my Ida! Hair like autumn leaves, rippling right down to her waist – why, she can sit on it! Imagine that! Eyes like the summer sky, and a waist you could encircle with your two hands!
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 t
heir 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.
