Alys Clare - The Paths of the Air

Gerome was a short, stout man who had probably once been strong but whose body was running to fat. Under his remaining grey-streaked brown hair his round, ruddy face wore a smile that creased up his light hazel eyes.

‘I have come from Hawkenlye Abbey,’ Josse began.

‘Yes, so my manservant tells me,’ Gerome replied. ‘We hear great things of the Abbey, Sir Josse.’

‘I am sure that they are all true,’ Josse said. Then: ‘There are two wounded Knights Hospitaller lying in the infirmary, Sir Gerome. They have come to England from Outremer searching for a runaway monk of their Order. Since neither is able to leave his sickbed, I have volunteered to search for the missing monk.’

‘Two Hospitallers,’ Gerome said, his eyes narrowed. ‘They have already been here.’ His sister made as if to say something but with a gesture of his hand Gerome silenced her.

‘They came to Hawkenlye,’ Josse said, ‘and then on to the priory at Tonbridge, where a fire in the guest wing killed a third monk who had joined them on the road after they left Robertsbridge.’

‘How terrible!’ Gerome seemed shocked. Then, his worried eyes meeting Josse’s, he said, ‘And was this fire an accident, Sir Josse?’

It was, Josse thought, a strange question. ‘Why do you ask?’

Gerome eyed him candidly. ‘Because there is much more to this tale of a missing Hospitaller than you know.’ He turned to the dais and gave his sister and his daughter a bright smile. ‘We will not further disturb your sewing, my dears — our male chatter may make you misdirect your needles!’

‘You do not disturb us, Gerome,’ said his sister, ‘and indeed we should prefer to hear-’

But Gerome, it seemed, had made up his mind and was not going to allow anyone, even his sister, to be a party to a conversation that he deemed unsuitable for their ears. ‘Sir Josse and I shall take a turn in the walled garden,’ he said firmly, ‘for it is sheltered there and we will not be interrupted.’

The final five words, Josse thought with a private smile, had the force of an order. He bowed to the women and followed Gerome across the hall and down the steps into the courtyard. They went through an arch in the wall and along a path, then through an opening in a second wall, on the far side of which was an area of low hedges and beds, the latter at present just bare earth. The sun shone on the far wall and there was a bench set in a recess. Gerome strode over to it, invited Josse to be seated and then settled himself beside him.

‘I am sorry I had to bring you out here,’ he said.

‘I do not mind,’ Josse replied. ‘The sun makes it feel more like spring than winter.’

‘You are charitable,’ murmured Gerome. ‘My sister is a good woman but she does not have enough to do. She loves to speculate and she insists that she knows best. Oh, it isn’t that I do not love and respect her! It’s just that-’ He shrugged helplessly.

‘Just that you like a quiet life?’ Josse suggested.

Gerome beamed. ‘Precisely. My beloved wife died, you see,’ he plunged straight into the revelation, leaving Josse still grinning inappropriately from the last exchange, ‘and my two elder sisters are wed, although one is ailing…’ He frowned. ‘Which is why my sister Maria runs my household, and very efficiently she does it. My needs and comforts are attended to in the most solicitous fashion and I can’t complain. My dear Erys succumbed to the fever, you see.’

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Josse said gravely.

‘We were very happy.’ There was a catch in Gerome’s voice. ‘Erys bore my daughter Editha, whom you just met, and then we had Columba, and then Erys had poor little Maella, only she lived but a few hours and then she died. Two days later, her mother was also dead. Columba was but four years old and not strong, Sir Josse, and she too succumbed to the fever. So I lost three of them in a week.’ Gerome stared straight in front of him and Josse saw tears rolling down his face.

‘You have my deepest sympathy,’ Josse said. ‘I cannot begin to imagine what it was like.’

Gerome wiped his eyes. ‘The Lord gives, the Lord takes away,’ he muttered.

It seemed to Josse scant comfort. But it was not for him to comment; if Gerome derived consolation from his faith, so much the better.

Gerome seemed to have recovered his cheerful spirits. With a smile he said, ‘You are probably wondering why I tell you these things, Sir Josse. There is a reason, believe me.’ He paused, as if weighing his words. Then: ‘I have kin in Outremer. My great-grandfather won lands in Antioch in the course of the crusade of 1096 and they were left to his elder son, with this manor — ’ he waved an arm — ‘left to the second son, whose descendant I am. Godfrey — the son who inherited in Antioch — married and his wife gave birth to two daughters and one son, Raymond, who was sickly and who died young, having sired two daughters and no sons. His elder daughter, the lady Aurelie, is, however, a formidable woman and in many ways the equal of most men. She was advantageously wed to Count Hugo of Tripoli but the lack of boy children has continued even into her generation, for although she did bear her count a son after two daughters, the little boy — his name was Hugo — died of a flux of the bowels before he reached his first birthday.’

‘Your family been cursed with bad fortune,’ Josse said.

‘Cursed?’ Gerome queried the word. ‘Perhaps. Yet these things are all too common, Sir Josse, especially in Outremer, where the climate really does not suit us. Anyway,’ he said, with the air of a man picking up the thread of his tale, ‘my cousin Aurelie’s lands were threatened in the dangerous times that culminated in Hattin — you know of Saladin’s great victory there?’

‘I do.’

‘Well, Aurelie and her count sent word to us here in England that she was hard-pressed and needed our assistance. I have no sons of my own but I have men who owe me allegiance and, like many another with kin in Outremer, I was willing to go and help. I’ll freely admit that my motives were not entirely selfless. My cousin and her count are fabulously wealthy and I knew full well that her gratitude would be expressed in a manner that would do a great deal more than reimburse my expenses, as indeed has proved the case.’ He glanced down at his golden brown, butter-soft leather boots polished to a high shine. ‘There is little, Sir Josse, that my womenfolk and I lack these days.’

Josse smiled but did not comment.

‘I arranged to take a party of twenty-five knights out to help my cousin defend what is hers,’ Gerome continued. ‘Aurelie’s desperate appeal came in the summer of’85.’ He drew a steadying breath but nevertheless his voice trembled. ‘It was four years since I had lost my wife and my two youngest daughters but still I grieved. It was selfish, I know, for poor Editha was as affected as I was, but when Aurelie’s plea came, I jumped at the chance to get right away from this place which, at that time, gave me nothing but memories of what I had lost and could never regain. The cure worked, Sir Josse.’ He met Josse’s eyes with disarming frankness. ‘When I returned, my manor and my life here were washed clean of sorrow. Or perhaps it was I that was washed; I do not know. I still remember my beloved Erys — not a day passes that I do not think of her — but now I picture her alive and laughing instead of — well, never mind.’

He was, Josse thought, a man made for happiness. What a blessing that he had been allowed to find it again.

‘My sister and my daughter are now the sole recipients of my love,’ Gerome was saying, ‘and they seem to manage quite well to share out between the two of them that which once encompassed more. But enough — this isn’t what you came to hear.’