Faithful Dead Read online

  The boys grew. Josse, it became clear, was exactly like his father and wanted nothing from life but to be a soldier. He was sent away, just as his father had been, to the household of Sir Girald de Gisors, although the head of the household there was now the son of the man who had instructed Geoffroi.

  Ida, who never forgot her English home, insisted that each of her sons spend time with their Uncle Hugh in Lewes. Her own mother, the lady Ediva, died peacefully a couple of years after Acelin was born. She had lived to enjoy not only her five grandsons but also the three little girls born to Hugh and his wife; as she had apparently said shortly before her death, what more could any woman ask?

  Yves had inherited his grandfather’s love of the land and, with the encouragement of his parents, he took an active part in the running of Acquin from a young age. While the thirteen-year-old Josse was moving in the exalted circles of the Plantagenet court – even meeting the young Richard, on one memorable occasion – Yves, at eleven, was already a very valuable part of the Acquin management.

  Geoffroi, watching his beloved Ida grow in stature, girth, confidence and serenity, shared with her a joy in their sons that he would have not thought possible. I have been given so much more than I deserve, he thought; I am thankful, to my very bones, for everything.

  He barely gave his hectic past a thought unless it was at the prompting of his sons. Josse, naturally, whenever he came home would plague his father to tell him about the crusades and the infidel and what weapons they used and how the Christian army won, and Geoffroi was only too happy to comply. The younger boys would creep towards their father as he sat by the fire, his eldest son at his feet, and listen wide-eyed to Geoffroi’s tales. They preferred it when he passed on the stories he had picked up from other men, closer to the heart of the great ones’ lives; in their shrill little voices they would plead, ‘Tell us about the kings and the queens! Tell us about the rich people, the lords and the ladies, and the king’s sorcerer!’

  Sometimes Geoffroi would tell the tale of how he saved a little infidel boy, and how a grateful grandfather gave him a sapphire the size of your fist in thanks. From her quiet corner the other side of the fire, Ida would say mildly, ‘Your fist? I would say, closer to your thumb.’

  And sometimes, when wine had made him maudlin, Geoffroi would mention the Lombard. But even then, he could not bring himself to admit his suspicions about his old friend. Once, when Yves asked what had happened to the Eye of Jerusalem, Geoffroi said, ‘Eh? What became of it, you ask? I don’t know, son. I suppose I must have lost it.’

  And, in the end, he half-believed it himself.

  The boys’ beloved Aunt Esmai died in the cold winter of 1173. And, in a hot July three years later, Geoffroi himself died, as a result of falling from the top of a laden wagon bringing in sheaves of ripe, golden corn.

  Cut down, like the Corn King, with the harvest.

  Ida, who lost a part of herself when he died, nevertheless knew it was too soon for her sons to be robbed of both their parents. Yves was still but fourteen, and Acquin too heavy a burden for him alone just yet, even with the support of his younger brothers. And Ida did not want Yves to put pressure on Josse to come home, not when Josse was just beginning to throw himself – with no small success – into his military career.

  She lived until February 1180. Then, sad to leave her children but overjoyed at the prospect of joining Geoffroi, she died.

  One after another, the younger brothers married and, in time, sons and daughters were born to them. While Josse followed his own star, his kin guarded and tended Acquin.

  Geoffroi’s home, which he had loved and to which he had returned after his great crusading adventure, where he had taken his beloved Ida as his wife, was in safe hands.

  PART FOUR

  England, Autumn 1192

  13

  Josse and Yves had talked for hours.

  Some time towards the dawn, Josse awoke from his first deep sleep. He felt restless. Too many memories had been stirred up, and his mind did not want the calm peace of sleep. He glanced across at Yves, who was fast asleep, on his back with his mouth slightly open and snoring gently. Josse grinned. Dear old Yves. It had been a rare pleasure, that long night of reminiscence. So vividly had the memories flowed back that, at one time, Josse had looked up and thought that he saw Geoffroi and Ida standing in a dark corner, smiling down on their two eldest sons.

  They weren’t there, of course. Although Josse would hardly have been surprised if they had been.

  Closing his eyes once more and settling down to try to sleep, he saw in his mind’s eye his father, sitting in his accustomed place by the fire, with Ida opposite him suckling a newborn baby. Acelin, would it be? Or Honoré? There at Geoffroi’s feet sat Josse and Yves, and on his lap, half-asleep, thumb in his mouth and fingers playing delicately with the hair on his father’s forearm, another small child. From time to time Geoffroi would place a gentle kiss on the top of the little down-covered head nestling into his neck.

  Geoffroi was talking. His voice came quite clearly to Josse; half-awake, half-dreaming, he heard his father say, ‘and do you know what the emir gave me? It was a huge sapphire, as big as your fist, set in a golden coin! There was writing etched into the gold, but I did not know how to read it – they told me that the words were in a language called Aramaic, which was the language of the Persians. They had an empire, you know – they were conquerors with a vast army, and when they marched they were invincible. They took Babylon, and Assyria, and Turkey, and Syria, and even Egypt, and they would have gone on to expand into Greece except they came up against Alexander the Great, and he had an even mightier army than the Persians. But that’s another story – I was telling you how I came by the stone that they call the Eye of Jerusalem, which a fat old man too large to ride into battle gave to me, because I saved the life of his little grandson. The sorcerer said it was a magical stone, you know, and would always warn me when a secret enemy approached, so I carried it safely, all the way home from Outremer to Acquin, and it saved the lives of many of my companions. It even saved the life of your Uncle Hugh, when I took it to England with me when I went to court your mother.’ Josse smiled, watching as his father sent a loving glance across the fireplace to his mother, who smiled equally lovingly back at him. ‘And it was so beautiful, boys, that I loved just to hold it up and look into its depths, where, if you were very careful and caught the light just right, you could see an eye, the jewel’s very own eye, staring out at you . . .’

  Aye. The Eye of Jerusalem. That had been Father’s best tale of all. And it had been a tale that did not have a satisfactory end.

  Josse thought on. Worrying at half-resolved ideas, trying out theories until they began to clarify, slowly he drew a tentative conclusion. Then, as sleep finally won him over, he dreamed that his father had grown a long milk-white beard and carried a tiny girl in arms suddenly grown like the limbs of a tree.

  As they were eating the simple breakfast brought to them by Brother Saul the next morning, Josse said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Yves.’

  Yves grinned. ‘Thought you might have.’

  ‘Aye.’ Josse laughed briefly. ‘Plenty to dwell on, in all those memories we brought up last night.’

  ‘Go on, then.’ Yves reached for another piece of bread. ‘What have you been thinking?’

  ‘You remember how Father used to tell us of that wondrous, magical sapphire he was given in Damascus?’

  ‘The Eye of Jerusalem. Of course, it was always the story that I liked the best.’

  ‘Remember what he would say when we asked where the stone was now?

  ‘Aye. He’d say he’d lost it, and he always looked so sad.’

  Eager now, Josse sat forward, face close to his brother’s; for some reason that he did not stop to query, he lowered his voice to a level that only Yves could have heard.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ he whispered. ‘That friend who travelled home from Outremer with Father and stayed on with him at A
cquin––’

  ‘The Lombard?’

  ‘Aye, the Lombard. Supposing it was not friendship that kept him so long with Father? Supposing he had caught a glimpse of the Eye on one of those occasions that Father used it, and decided he would not rest until it was his?’

  ‘You’re suggesting he stole from Father?’ Honest, decent Yves was clearly shocked at the idea. ‘From his friend? When he was Father’s guest?’

  ‘Aye, I am,’ Josse said tersely. ‘The way I see it is this. Maybe the Lombard even knew about the Eye right from the start, from the very night Father was given it. You wouldn’t know, Yves, because you’re not a soldier, but, believe me, it’s not easy to keep anything a secret when the men of an army eat, rest, exercise and sleep side by side, together every moment of every day. Even when they’re not fighting.’

  ‘Father used to say that Grandfather Herbert was the best source of information in all of Outremer,’ Yves said, a smile on his face.

  ‘Exactly!’ Josse pounded a triumphant fist on the planks of the table, making it bounce on its supports. ‘Just what I mean! I shouldn’t be surprised if they all gossiped ceaselessly. When not engaged in fighting, there’s little more tedious than being a soldier stuck in camp with nothing to do but moan and speculate. A good bit of rumour-mongering always serves to lighten the mood.’

  ‘You ought to know,’ Yves said.

  ‘Just supposing,’ Josse went on, ‘that the Lombard got wind of some magical jewel given to Geoffroi of Acquin. For all we know, it might have been all round the camp; maybe everyone was whispering and muttering about it. So perhaps the Lombard goes a step further and thinks it would be a good idea to work on making friends with the man. I do not wish to undermine their affection for one another, which might well have been perfectly genuine. But I think it entirely possible that, because he was forewarned and looking out for it, the Lombard managed to spy on Father on one of those occasions on the journey home when he used the Eye. And after that, he couldn’t give up till he’d achieved his end.’

  Yves was frowning. ‘He knew of the Eye – at least, he knew Father had something. So he kept close to him, all the way home, and watched out to see if he could catch a glimpse of whatever it was. He managed to do so, and whatever it was that he saw convinced him that he couldn’t turn for home till he’d stolen it from Father.’ A pause. ‘From his friend!’

  ‘I know,’ Josse said gently, ‘it’s not what you would do, honest fellow that you are.’

  ‘Nor you!’ Yves cried hotly. ‘Nor any decent man!’

  ‘Hush!’ Josse glanced around him, but there was nobody within earshot. ‘But my speculations do not end there, Yves. I’m thinking that, if we are right and the Lombard did steal the Eye, then perhaps he, too, realised he had gravely offended against his friend. Perhaps, as he grew old and sick, he made up his mind that there was one thing he must do before he died.’

  ‘He travelled back to Acquin to return the Eye!’ Yves finished for him. ‘Only to find that Father was dead, so he tried to take it to you instead.’ His excited expression faded. ‘Except he didn’t get to you. He died, right here at Hawkenlye, before he could reach you.’

  Josse was watching him. ‘Not entirely bad, was he?’ he said gently. ‘He was sorry for what he had done, and he died in the very act of trying to make amends. We should not judge him too harshly, Yves.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Yves did not sound completely convinced. He sat frowning, chewing on his lip, for a while, then said musingly, ‘We can give him a name, now. The Lombard was Galbertius Sidonius.’

  ‘Aye.’ Josse, too, was frowning. There was something . . . something had been nagging at him yesterday, when he and young Augustus had been talking to the Abbess. Augustus had made some remark – about not everybody in the world being Christian – and a thought had half formed in Josse’s mind, only to be overwhelmed with everything else that had been going on.

  It was still nagging now, whatever it was, and it concerned the Lombard. Or Geoffroi. Or probably, Josse thought with a flash of frustration, both of them.

  There was silence between them for some time. Then Yves said, ‘What should we do now, Josse?’

  Josse looked at him with deep affection. I wonder, he thought, just how many times I’ve heard him say that. From when we were tiny, and trying to decide where to run away and play, to as recently as last year, wondering what to do about the field at Acquin that always floods with heavy spring rainfall.

  He reached out and clasped his brother’s arm. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said with a smile, ‘but just give me time, and I’ll come up with something.’

  Sooner than he had expected, he broke the contemplative silence again. ‘You recall I told you that Prince John came to see me, using the excuse of trying to extort rent for New Winnowlands out of me?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’ Yves smiled. ‘Hardly something I’m likely to forget, when a prince of the realm honours my brother with a visit.’

  ‘He has a certain charm,’ Josse mused, ‘and, for all we hear tell of his cunning, conniving ways, I cannot help but like him. But, to return to the point, Yves, he came looking for Galbertius. Remember?’

  ‘Aye. And you ask yourself how it comes to be, that Prince John is going to considerable efforts to find the very man who came north to seek Father and you.’

  ‘I may well ask myself,’ Josse said, ‘but I give no answers.’

  ‘What exactly did the Prince say?’

  ‘He asked if I had news of a stranger, Galbertius Sidonius, and to be sure to send word if I came across him.’

  ‘And the old man, John Dee, did he add anything to that when you went to see him?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that he did.’ Josse scratched his head, thinking hard. ‘He confirmed that the Prince and his party had gone to London, and he informed me that Sidonius was not a young man, and so could not be the victim found here in the Vale.’

  ‘And?’ Yves was looking at him expectantly.

  ‘I think that was all.’

  ‘Yet you still appear to be racking your brains over something.’

  ‘Aye, I am, but it does not concern my visit to John Dee. No, all that he said in addition to what I have just told you was that he seemed to know how and when Father died.’

  ‘He’s a sorcerer,’ Yves said with calm acceptance. ‘People like him are meant to know impossible things. Ordinary men do well not to question the ways of sorcerers.’

  ‘Quite,’ Josse agreed. ‘He also said that the stranger would come to me – I suppose he meant Galbertius – or someone who represented him.’ He tried to think, but the image was unclear. ‘It’s all rather vague – it was almost as if he had put me in a trance.’

  ‘That’s sorcerers for you,’ Yves said knowingly, as if he knew dozens and was familiar with their little ways.

  ‘And he confirmed that he is descended from the John Dee that Father used to talk about – you know, the magician in the court of the first William and his sons, Rufus and Henry.’

  ‘I recall being frightened out of my wits when Father told tales about him,’ Yves said in a hushed voice. ‘There was one about him going out by the light of the full moon to collect the silver berries of the mistletoe from a great oak tree, a golden knife in his hand and––’

  ‘The knife!’ Josse shouted.

  ‘The knife? It’s only a fable, Josse, an old legend to entertain the children round the fire!’

  ‘Not that knife.’ The elusive fragment had returned to Josse. ‘The knife that was found in the corpse discovered down there’ – he waved an impatient hand – ‘had a curved tip. It was young Augustus saying not all folk were Christian that did it!’ He grinned broadly at Yves.

  ‘Did what, Josse?’

  ‘Made me remember, of course! Father had a knife like that – I only saw it the once, when Mother was going through his things after he died. It wasn’t the sort of knife he’d have had much use for – too small – and Mother probably refused to let him give it t
o us boys to play with in case we accidentally cut our own fingers or each other’s ears off. It had a curved tip.’

  ‘So?’ Yves sounded bemused.

  ‘He brought it home from Outremer!’ Josse cried. ‘It was a Saracen knife.’

  Enlightenment dawned on Yves’s face. ‘Which was why the lad’s comment about people not all being Christian made you think about it! Father met Muslims – met and fought them – and brought home one of their weapons as a souvenir.’

  ‘And a very similar weapon has recently been used to kill a young man here at Hawkenlye,’ Josse finished. ‘Just what, Yves, are we to make of that?’

  ‘You think it is important?’ Yves whispered.

  ‘I do, although I cannot yet say why.’ Frowning, Josse got to his feet. ‘A man from Lombardy steals a precious Outremer jewel from our father, dies trying to return it and, at the same time, another man is murdered with a knife that gives every appearance of being of Saracen origin. Aye, Yves, I know it is important.’ He strode over to the doorway. ‘Are you coming?’

  Yves hastened to join him. ‘Where are we going?’

  Josse gave a brief sound of annoyance. ‘I am sorry, Yves, I forgot. You do not know her as I do.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Aye. We’re going to talk to the Abbess Helewise, if she can spare us the time. We will tell her of all our conjecturing, and ask her to turn her considerable mental powers on to the problem and give us the benefit of her opinion.’

  ‘And that will help us?’

  Josse gave him an almost pitying look. ‘Oh, yes, Yves. Undoubtedly it will.’

  14

  Helewise had been expecting a visit from Josse and his brother, and she managed to find space in her busy day to receive them.

  Studying them as they stood before her in her room, she noted both the similarities and the differences between the two men. Yves had his elder brother’s dark eyes and thick brown hair, and there was the same suggestion of lurking humour in his face. But he was built altogether on a smaller scale than Josse: he was shorter (but then most men were) and less broad framed.