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 demands 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.’
‘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.’