It was perhaps their very apparent happiness together — and the attendant redundancy of anybody else — that made the Lombard finally decide that, at long last, it was time for him to head for home. Perhaps, as Geoffroi remarked to Ida, he had started to think that a wife and family of his own would not be a bad thing.
They saw him on his way one dull September day, just short of the first anniversary of Robert’s death. Both Geoffroi and the Lombard were feeling the effects of the farewell feast which Matilda, Ida and their serving women had prepared the night before; the wine had flowed in almost as lively a manner as the Aa now rushed along between its banks.
Geoffroi wished for a swift final parting; sentimental man that he was, he hated saying goodbye. Especially to such an old friend, and especially when that friend was hardly likely ever to come back to Acquin. It seemed that the Lombard, too, was affected by the emotion of the moment; he must have had tears in his eyes, Geoffroi thought, as, deeply moved himself, he stood watching the distant figure ride away. For why else, unless it were to hide them from me, would he not meet mine?
In the months that followed, the Acquin region — indeed, much of north-east Europe — saw some of the worst weather it had known for years. Cold followed rain, persistent damp and fog brought chills and ailments, animals fell sick, and then people did, too. Strangers were seen: a dark man and his companion, furtive, skulking in the shadows like Death himself.
In February, the plague came.
At Acquin, where the family and the villagers were a reasonably self-sufficient unit, they were safe; as safe, anyway, as anybody could be. But it did not stop them from suffering sleepless nights of terrible anxiety. It did not stop them praying long and hard for others; the local priest saw to that. Father Herluin, who did not spare himself in striving to save the living, care for the sick and comfort the dying, stressed upon his parishioners that it was their duty to go down on their knees to pray for God’s love for the suffering and, each day that they themselves were spared, thank Him for His mercy.
As he worried over what was happening in other, less fortunate households, it occurred to Geoffroi to wonder if the Eye of Jerusalem could be of any help; to wonder, indeed, if he dared propose the use of such an infidel thing to Father Herluin. But the Lord helps those who help themselves, Geoffroi reminded himself; and, besides, why had God allowed the Eye to fall into Geoffroi’s hands if he was not supposed to use it for the good of his fellow men?
And Father Herluin was a compassionate and broad-minded man. Unlike other churchmen whom Geoffroi had encountered, both on crusade and afterwards, the local priest did not subscribe to the entrenched belief of the average western cleric that all Christians were good and all non-Christians were terrible sinners, debauched and vicious and beyond God’s mercy. Geoffroi had seen too much evidence to the contrary to support such a view and when, on returning to Acquin, he mulled over such matters with Father Herluin, he had been heartily relieved to find that the priest did not brand men as sheep or goats, preferring to obey Christ’s teaching and leave such judgement to God.
Talking the matter over with Ida as they lay in bed one night served to make up Geoffroi’s mind; he would offer his services with his magic Eye and, if the priest thought he could be of help, he would go with Father Herluin to try out the jewel’s healing powers.
In the morning, choosing a moment when the household was occupied elsewhere and the courtyard was empty, he crept through the stables and the disused storeroom and across to the wall in which he had hidden away the Eye.
It was not there.
Stupidly, for it was a very small hiding place, he felt all around the aperture that he had hollowed out between the stones. Then he looked on the floor, then up at the rafters over his head. It was only when he found himself down on hands and knees, feeling all over the cobwebby, dusty flagstones, that he had to admit the truth.
The Eye had vanished.
In that first instant of horrified reaction, he almost believed that the jewel had disappeared of its own volition. He had always thought of it as something awesome, something that answered to laws known only to itself. And he had always half-believed that it was only on loan; that, someday, somehow, Mehmed would regret his generous gesture and come to fetch his prize back again.
Was that it? Slowly he rose to his feet, brushing dust and old, dead leaves from his knees. Had the Eye gone home again?
The shock wore off as he walked slowly back to the house. Of course it hadn’t, he told himself firmly, don’t be so foolish! Somebody had stolen it.
This logical conclusion led to another thought which, in its way, was even more dreadful than imagining the Eye to have made off all by itself. Because, when Geoffroi thought it through, he realised that, with the possible exception of one person, nobody in the world knew where he had hidden the Eye. He had not even told Ida; oh, he had wanted to, but she had not let him. ‘The Eye is yours, my love,’ she had said firmly, ‘and I wish no part in it, no, not even to know of its whereabouts. For, who can say, I might be tempted one day to try to use it, and that would not be right.’
He had wondered afterwards if she might be afraid of the Eye. He would not have blamed her if she had been; he was a little afraid of it himself.
No, he thought as he made his way to where Ida would be finishing dressing, preparatory to descending from their bedchamber. No, my Ida can neither have moved the Eye herself nor have told anyone else where it was concealed. And no other soul at Acquin even knows that I possess it.
Except possibly one.
And he is no longer here, but now back home in Lombardy.
With a muffled moan, Geoffroi slumped down on the cold stone step and put his head in his hands. And, against his will, a picture formed in his mind. Of himself, on his return from that second visit to Lewes when, on the prompting of a dream, he had taken the Eye with him and helped to heal Ida’s little brother. Going out to the hiding place at dusk the day that he and the Lombard had returned to Acquin, he had heard a small sound as he dusted off his hands after replacing the Eye in its hiding place. Looking around him in alarm, he had seen a pair of doves on the stable roof, cooing and fluttering as they settled. You are too nervous! he had reproached himself, crossing the courtyard back to the house. Where the Lombard stood, just inside the door and slightly breathless.
Did I deliberately put the awful suspicion from my mind because I felt us to be so close? Geoffroi wondered now. Did I tell myself that to believe him capable of spying on me was an insult to our long friendship, to the many hardships we had shared, to the support we had given each other over so many miles and so many months?
With another groan, he realised that it was true. He had believed, that night, that the Lombard might have crept out to see what his friend was up to. Which raised the further, equally disturbing question: had the Lombard known what Geoffroi took to Lewes with him and so secretively brought home again?
Needing the comfort of his wife, Geoffroi got to his feet and went on up to their chamber. There she was, now noticeably rounded with pregnancy, her lovely face serene and happy; hurrying towards her, he knelt at her feet and told her what had happened. And what he suspected.
She said nothing for some moments, merely stroking his head with a gentle hand while his anguish subsided. Then she said quietly, ‘You are sure, my love? There can be no other explanation? Can it not be possible that someone else in the household witnessed you either fetching the stone from its hiding place or putting it back?’
‘I have tried to think that there might be some other culprit,’ Geoffroi replied, ‘but in my heart I know there cannot be. The occasions on which I have taken the Eye out of concealment are so very few that I can remember every one with clarity. Each time, Ida, I made sure I knew beforehand where everybody was; I cannot have been observed, I would stake my life on it!’