Faithful Dead

by Alys Clare

  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.’

  11

  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.

  Eventually, and with a weird and rather unpleasant feeling that he obeyed another’s whim, Geoffroi got out of bed and, tiptoeing so as not to disturb his brothers and the Lombard, crept out of the chamber and outside into the courtyard.

  Even in the dark, he went unerringly to the place where he had hidden his treasure. He moved the concealing stone aside – not without difficulty, for it was some time since he had been out to look at the Eye – and put his hand inside the secret aperture. His fingers found the leather bag, and he drew it out.

  He had to have a look.

  He opened the bag and held out the Eye, suspended on its chain and gently turning.

  Aye. It was as beautiful – and as strange – as it had been in his dream.

  He had intended to put it back in its bag and hide it away again. That was his intention; he was quite sure of that.

  He was therefore quite surprised when, getting back into bed, he felt the hard shape of the Eye in its bag beneath him as he lay down.

  In the morning, he would have put the whole experience down to a febrile dream. Except that there was the Eye, against his heart where he had borne it for so long. Very well, then, he thought. I shall take it with me on my travels. Why not? I can keep it concealed, that I know well enough. I brought it safely home all the way from Damascus, through all the perils of that journey. In comparison, a short visit across the Channel to Lewes is nothing.

  Nevertheless, he resolved to attach a new, stout piece of leather thong to the Eye’s bag, by which to hang it around his neck.

  He also resolved never to let anyone else see it.

  Geoffroi and the Lombard set out, with a spring in their steps, later that morning. It was May, the sun was shining and there was a light, refreshing breeze; perfect travelling weather. They crossed the Channel (this time without being sick) and, once again, followed the now familiar route to Lewes.

  They covered the miles from the port to the town in a day. Their boat had arrived very early in the morning and, the month being May and not December, there was more daylight in which to ride.

  They went round the edge of Lewes, not needing to ask directions now, and, a little before sunset, rode into Herbert of Lewes’s courtyard.

  As if she had been waiting for
them, Ida came rushing out. Geoffroi’s smile of delight froze as he saw that she had been crying; sliding off his horse and hurrying towards her, he was about to ask what was the matter when she threw herself into his arms.

  Even his acute awareness of her distress could not entirely rob the moment of its sweetness.

  But she was sobbing now, and he made out the words, ‘Oh, you’re here! I’m so glad, I’ve prayed and prayed for you to come! It’s Hugh – Hugh has a fever, and Mother and I have tried everything, and he still burns as if he’s on fire!’

  Geoffroi froze.

  She felt it, poor lass, even in her anguish. Pulling away slightly so that she could look up into his face – he was a lot taller than she was – she said, ‘Geoffroi? What is it? What’s the matter?’

  Instantly he recovered himself. Now was not the moment to go numb with terror at the thought of just what it might be that he carried around his neck, if, indeed, there ever was such a moment. Perhaps, he thought, in a swift burst of practicality, I should just thank God that I do carry it.

  It was only later – a long time later – that it occurred to him to wonder just which, or whose, God he should thank.

  Now, giving Ida a little shake, he said firmly, ‘Nothing is the matter. Take me to Hugh – it may be that I can help him.’

  A smile broke through her tears, and, with a touching faith that he hoped – prayed – he was worthy of, she said, ‘I knew you’d save him.’

  She took his hand and ran with him inside the hall, up a stair, along a narrow passage and past what appeared to be a small family chapel. Then into a chamber – not round, like the one in Geoffroi’s dream – where Hugh lay on a wide bed, his mother sitting beside him pressing a cloth to his forehead.

  She looked up at Geoffroi.

  She did not speak, but he read in her eyes, as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, my daughter believes in you, sir knight. Now let us see what you can do.

  He said, ‘Greetings, my lady.’

  ‘Geoffroi.’ She bowed her head.

  Hesitating only an instant, he said, putting all the authority he could summon into his voice, ‘I shall need water. Drinking water, if you have it.’

  Ediva rose from her stool and fetched a jug and cup. ‘Here. Fresh from our own spring, cool and pure.’

  He nodded. Very aware of the two pairs of eyes on him – Hugh lay as if asleep, except for his violent restlessness – he poured out half a cupful of water. Then, feeling foolish and unconfident – what if it fails? – he reached inside his tunic and beneath his undershirt and took out the leather bag. Removing the Eye, he held the jewel concealed in the palm of his hand. Then, keeping his movements hidden, he dropped it into the cup and swirled it around in the water.

  Then, approaching the bed, he slid his hand and forearm beneath Hugh’s head, raised him a little from his damp pillows, and held the cup to the boy’s lips. Hugh took a sip, then another. Then, to Geoffroi’s surprise, he brought a hand out from beneath the bedcovers and grabbed the cup, gulping down the remainder of the water as if he hadn’t drunk for a week.

  Then, the small effort having exhausted him, he slumped back on his pillows. He closed his eyes. After a few moments, he emitted a faint snore.

  Into the stunned silence of the room, Ediva said, ‘Well! What have we here, Sir Geoffroi? A knight or a wizard?’

  Not entirely sure that the remark should be taken as a joke, Geoffroi turned to her. He met her frank blue eyes, so like Ida’s. And made up his mind.

  ‘I was given a precious jewel,’ he said quietly. ‘In Damascus. I – I was able to render a service for an Emir and, although I swear to you that it was not done with reward in mind, he chose to make me this gift.’

  For the first time since it had been in his possession, Geoffroi held up the Eye. He showed it first to Ediva, then to Ida, who gave a gasp.

  ‘And this jewel allows you to feed water into a sick boy who has refused a drop for the last two days?’ There was distinct irony in Ediva’s tone.

  Geoffroi said, ‘I do not know, my lady.’ He hesitated. ‘That it has the power to assuage a fever is indeed one of the claims made by the man who gave it to me. And this is not the first time it has helped someone who was burning up.’

  Ediva raised one eyebrow, but made no comment.

  Desperate, wanting only to say the right thing and not alienate the mother of the young woman he loved, Geoffroi blurted out, ‘But you will have been praying, my lady, you and Ida both, and also there is the natural resilience of youth, and really I make no claim for the Eye, since it is far more likely that Hugh here was ready for a good drink, and that he––’

  Surprisingly, Ediva began to laugh. ‘Geoffroi, my dear man, stop,’ she said, coming to stand beside him and placing her hand on his. ‘Who knows, ever, what brings about recovery – or the hope of it – when a loved one is sick? All that we know is that, for the instant, Hugh has at last drunk some water and seems a little better.’ She glanced down at her son. ‘Now, if you will stay with him, I wish to go to give thanks to God that my prayers have been answered.’

  Geoffroi and Ida stood side by side as Ediva swept past and headed down the passage towards the chapel.

  When she had gone, Ida said very softly, ‘There! I knew you’d come and I knew Hugh would get better.’ There was such certainty in her voice that his heart gave a lurch. In a whisper that he barely heard, she added, ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  Not thinking, letting his intuition guide him, he turned to her and took her little hands in his. ‘Ida, I will never let you down,’ he whispered back.

  He would have said more – quite what, he did not know – but at that moment they heard a footstep out in the passage. In case it might be Ediva, on her way back, they sprang apart. Geoffroi went to the bed to lay a hand on Hugh’s forehead – sweating freely now, and correspondingly cooler – and Ida went to pour out some more water.

  The respite gave Geoffroi time to collect his thoughts. As his racing heartbeat gradually slowed down, he closed his eyes and sent up a swift but sincere prayer of gratitude that he had been in the right place at the right time.

  The mood of the visit improved daily from then on. Hugh remained weak and unwell, although the fever, having broken, did not return. His mother judged that he was on the mend, and set about presenting him with a variety of dainty little dishes to tempt his appetite, accompanied always by draught after draught of water, one cupful of which each morning was subjected to the Eye’s blessing.

  Ediva, after the shock of their original reunion, now treated Geoffroi much as she had done before; whatever thoughts she might have on his possession and use of the Eye, she kept to herself. Ida, however, was far less reticent; in fact, she was not reticent at all.

  ‘I would lay odds that you have captured her heart,’ the Lombard teased Geoffroi as they settled down for sleep on the fifth night after their arrival. ‘Would that every man who went a-courting could effect a miracle cure on his sweetheart’s little brother!’

  Geoffroi had not told his friend of the Eye’s role in Hugh’s recovery, which made him uneasy since it meant he had to take credit for a healing skill that he did not actually possess. ‘Better to have no sick little brother in the first place,’ he said soberly.

  Faintly he heard the Lombard chuckle but, to Geoffroi’s relief, he did not pursue the matter.

  The next day, Ida and Geoffroi went out riding together.

  It was the first time that they had spent any length of time entirely in one another’s company. Geoffroi felt the joyful hours of that fine May day etch themselves so deeply in his memory that he knew he would never forget one moment of them. And, looking at Ida’s happy, laughter-filled face, illuminated to beauty by her love, he guessed she felt the same.

  He went to speak to Ediva one evening, while Ida was sitting with the fast-recovering Hugh.

  They sat facing one another in front of the fire in the hall; Geoffroi imagined that she knew very well
what he wanted to say, and did not waste her time by hesitation.

  ‘I have fallen in love with Ida,’ he said simply, ‘and I would like to ask her to be my wife.’ Before Ediva could speak, he rushed on, ‘I have a home to offer her – Acquin is not grand or even very large, but it is the household of a proper family, secure, full of affection, and it is set in the midst of fertile, productive land. For all that I cannot offer her great wealth, jewels or fine clothes, Ida would not want for any necessity, you have my word on that. My mother, my brothers and my sister would welcome her and embrace her as one of the family and, as for me, well, I will not cease to work to make her happy as long as I live.’ He cast around in his mind to see if he had left anything out; he didn’t think so. He raised his eyes from their studied concentration of the fire and met Ediva’s.

  She was smiling.

  ‘Geoffroi,’ she said gently, ‘Although I now know the whereabouts of Acquin, and appreciate that it is not too many days’ distant from us here at Lewes, I must say that my hope has always been that Ida would marry a man who lived close by.’

  Heart beating fast even as it appeared to plunge down towards his boots, Geoffroi said, ‘But––’

  Ediva held up her hand for silence.

  ‘I had in mind,’ she went on, ‘some kindly, honourable, courteous man who loved her deeply and whom she loved in return, who lived close by so that I might have the pleasure of seeing my beloved daughter grow in beauty as she embraced the joys of being a wife and, in time, a mother.’ She paused, looking steadfastly into Geoffroi’s eyes. ‘But,’ she went on, a smile quirking her lips, ‘I think I always knew that was asking for too much. This paragon of virtues who lived but a stone’s throw away just does not seem to exist’ – she gave a small sigh – ‘so I suppose we shall have to make do with you.’

  Geoffroi, mouth open, closed it and then said again, ‘But––’

  Ediva began to laugh. ‘Geoffroi, my dear man, I am teasing, and it is very wrong of me.’ She got up and came to sit beside him. ‘What I just said is, in essence, true. But what I did not say is that, in all important respects, you are what I should have chosen for Ida, and I am quite sure dear Herbert would have thought so too.’ There was a brief pause – her voice had broken a little as she spoke of Herbert – and then she said, ‘What woman, after all, sees her daughter establish her own household on the doorstep of her mother’s? My girl will be happy with you, Geoffroi,’ she added firmly. ‘Go and ask her if she will have you. And, if she will, you have my blessing.’