‘There, there,’ she comforted, ‘do not distress yourself.’ Her hands continued to stroke his head. ‘Then if, as it seems, the Lombard truly is the thief, then we must ascribe his action to unbearable temptation, and we must pray for him.’
Her charity did not surprise him, but nevertheless he was stung to protest. ‘Ida, he has robbed me of a thing of great beauty and value! And you say we must pray for him?’
‘Indeed I do,’ she insisted. ‘For he was your true friend, Geoffroi, of that there is no doubt. We must pray for him because the evil one tempted him, and he had not the fortitude to resist.’ He was about to make a sour comment but she overrode him. ‘He deserves your pity, my love. How do you think he feels, knowing that he has stolen from his great friend and has no means of making recompense? How, Geoffroi? Will he not feel like the worst cur on God’s earth?’
But Geoffroi, who had no idea, made no answer.
When he was calm again and he and Ida prepared to go and join the household, she said, practical girl that she was, ‘What a good thing it is that you had not yet mentioned the magical stone to Father Herluin. As it is, you have not raised his hopes for nothing.’
Ida and Geoffroi’s first child was born in April that year, 1154. The baby was a girl, and they named her Eleanor. Their delight in her was tempered by anxiety, however; she did not thrive.
Ida’s mother came over on a prolonged visit, and she and the lady Matilda put their experienced heads together and tried various remedies and therapies. Sometimes the baby responded, usually not. She was pale, disinclined to feed, and her breathing had a distinct rattle.
‘If I only had the Eye,’ Geoffroi said to Ida one sleepless night, ‘then I could make her well.’
‘You do not know that, my love,’ Ida replied. ‘There is no real proof that your magical stone ever did anybody any good. Is there?’
‘But-’ No. She was right. ‘No. It could all have been mere coincidence.’
‘Just so,’ she agreed, adding lovingly, ‘Do not torture yourself with what might have been.’
Torture myself? he thought, looking into her deadly white face, eyes circled with darkness, their lids perpetually pink from her secret weeping. Oh, Ida, I would give the entire world, my own self included, if I could only make our child well and make you smile again.
The baby gave up her brief struggle in October.
Geoffroi, wondering how anyone could grieve as Ida did and still live, entered a time of grey misery from which, for a while, he almost believed he would never emerge. Shouting at the priest one day, histrionically he demanded that God tell him what terrible sin he had done, that Ida and he should now be so punished.
Father Herluin let him rage. Then, when he was quiet, said gently, ‘There is no answer to your question, Geoffroi. And the only comfort I can give you is to say that you will be better, in time. Ida will recover. And so will you.’
But Ida was sick. The light in her eyes had gone out, and she was listless, unenthusiastic. Geoffroi took her over to England for a stay with her mother and Hugh, and the change of scene seemed to do her good. But then they came home again, and the loss of her child was once more right there before her.
Father Herluin suggested privately to Geoffroi that another baby might serve to take her mind off her grief. But Ida seemed disinclined for lovemaking, and Geoffroi, loving her as he did, would not force her.
Then, in the September of 1156, the lady Matilda succumbed to a brief but violent fever and joined her husband in death.
With William gone to Rouen and Esmai now a semi-invalid, home seemed a quiet, empty place of unremitting hard work and little else. Geoffroi wondered if there could ever be any happiness at Acquin again.
Then at last, on a bright spring day when he persuaded Ida to ride out with him and see the beauty of the sun on the new green grass, things changed. They spotted a small clump of primroses sunning themselves at the top of a low bank, and Geoffroi, too eager, hurried over to pick one for her and slipped, sliding all the way down the bank and landing with one foot in the muddy sludge at the edge of the Aa river. Ida, sombre face creasing into a wide grin, burst out laughing.
The laughter released something in her; holding her in his arms, he felt her mirth turn to tears, and she wept as she had not done since the baby’s death. But then, when she dried her eyes, she turned her face up to him and said, ‘Oh, Geoffroi, I feel better. I do! It’s as if-’ She frowned. ‘As if I’ve turned a corner and, although she’s still there, I don’t have to look at her every moment. Is that terrible?’
He fought to control his voice. ‘No, my sweet, not terrible at all. Natural, I would say. And-’ He wondered if he should say what had come to mind; it was something Father Herluin spoke of, prayed for.
‘And what?’
He stared down at her, bending his head to kiss the tip of her nose. ‘Father Herluin would say it’s a sign of God’s compassion.’
‘God’s compassion,’ she repeated softly. Then, standing on tiptoe, she reached up and kissed him full on the mouth.
Their second child was born on 10th October 1160, six years after they had lost their first.
He was a strong, healthy boy who suckled enthusiastically, slept deeply and peacefully and seemed to grow under their very eyes. They named him Josse, and he healed his mother’s sore heart.
Geoffroi often wondered, as the years went by and the family grew, whether the tragedy of their first, lost child had been because she was a girl. For Ida, who soon became as efficient at motherhood and child-rearing as she was at everything else, gave birth to four more sons in fairly quick succession, each as lusty and as healthy as their eldest brother. Yves was born in the early autumn of 1162, Patrice in November of the following year, Honore in March of 1165 and Acelin in the heat of August in 1166.
Even the thin spinster Esmai responded to a houseful of boys; summoning from unsuspected depths a voice worthy of a warrior, she ruled her young nephews, whenever they were left in her care, with a firm hand that only they knew hid a loving heart and a mouth just made for laughter.
Acquin responded to the happiness of the family. Year after fruitful year saw good harvests, healthy stock, contented tenants. Geoffroi, walking one evening with his old friend the priest, was not in the least surprised when, stopping to admire the peaceful scene of the manor standing serenely at the top of the valley, Father Herluin said with forgivable smugness, ‘There! I told you so!’
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.