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 their 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?