Chapter 23
Galeran approached Heywood this time at a more leisurely pace, though his mind was once more full of love-making. Tonight, in their new bed, he and Jehanne could make love as they had not done since his return, but with Jehanne by his side there was nothing to race toward.
They'd lingered in London to see Aline and Raoul sail off to their new home. There had certainly been nothing muted about the new couple's happiness, and he hoped it lasted them all life long.
When Jehanne was healed, they'd begun the slow journey north again, stopping at various places to visit relatives and cement alliances.
There'd been sleeping quarters along the way that were suitable for lovemaking, but he and Jehanne had agreed to wait. It was like waiting for a wedding, for a new start. They'd start afresh in Heywood, where he had always pictured her.
And now he saw Heywood, rising before him as it had during his dreams in the Holy Land. His home. Home of all he valued in the world.
Lord William and his men had split off at Brome, and Hubert's party had separated in Hey Hamlet. Galeran rode up to Heywood with Jehanne by his side, and no army sat before his walls. This time, at his approach, the great gates opened to welcome the lord home, and his people cheered and smiled.
Jehanne rode beside him, and deliberately, he carried Donata. There was no need to make announcements about what had happened in London, for the story would spread on its own. Everyone would know that Jehanne had suffered for her sin, and been forgiven.
He still wished that had not occurred, but he knew it would make everything easier.
All was restored.
Wasn't it?
Something in his heart denied it.
He dismounted and, Jehanne at his side, entered his keep, where Jehanne took Donata away to be tended by the women. The dogs ran forward, and he greeted them, then took ale to rinse away the dust of the journey.
It could not rinse away a lingering bitter taste.
Jehanne returned to his side, once more the comfortable, efficient lady of her domain, the wife he had longed for through those arid years. Galeran looked around the hall, thinking that perhaps, in a way, everything was the better for their adventures, the more precious for almost having been lost.
And yet...
While she spoke to a servant about some minor problem, he wandered into the solar to look at the big new bed. This was what he'd fought for, wasn't it? His peaceful home, his beloved wife, his marriage bed. Idly he picked up an ornament, the ivory rose.
The petal fell off.
Then it hit him like the blow of an ax.
His son.
His son was dead.
Sharp pain made him look at his hand. More white petals were shattered, now touched with red. His blood. Jerusalem.
But the void that engulfed him was not Jerusalem. It was his lost child. His son was nothing. He had no memories—no picture in his mind of a smile, no memory of a babbling voice. No smell. No feel...
For him, Gallot did not exist.
No wonder he'd cut off all who'd tried to speak of the child. No wonder he'd wanted to kill Lowick. It was not so much for the adultery. It was for this. For knowing the son he did not.
He heard Jehanne calling him, but he slipped away, down to kneel in the graveyard by the small stone.
But there was nothing there except a name, nothing in his heart but an emptiness growing larger by the moment, threatening to swallow all the hard-won joy.
A whisper of cloth and a hint of perfume warned him of Jehanne, but he didn't want her here at this moment. She had what he had not.
She had a child in her mind to remember.
Sinking to her knees beside him, she held out a roll of parchment.
Courtesy made him take it, though he had no idea what it could be and even less interest. To take it, he had to put down the broken rose.
He heard her gasp at the sight of the broken, bloodstained petals, but at this moment he couldn't care that she'd be saddened.
He laid the pieces on the grave beside the bush that bore real roses. Jehanne had real roses. She had memories. He only had shattered ivory.
Because it would be cruel to reject whatever she was offering, he hid his bitterness, untied the ribbon, and uncurled the sheets. A number of sheets with a long knotted string in the middle.
He couldn't help thinking that she'd been extremely wasteful with parchment, but that he read the first words.
On Saint Stephen's Day, in the Blessed Year of Our Lord, 1099, was born at Heywood Castle in Northumbria, Galeran, son of Galeran and Jehanne, his wife, lord and lady of this demesne...
He looked at her, seeing tears glimmering in her anxious eyes. "I had the scribe write it. I knew you were missing so much, and I wanted it for you, even though I never suspected..."
Heart pounding, he read on.
His length on the day of his birth is to the first knot in the string. All the women say he is a good length and will be a tall man. He breathed quickly and well and moved his bowels on the first day, and though the substance was unpleasant, the wise women say it is good.
Galeran looked a question at her. "Brother Cyril thought it improper of me to record such things. But it is a strange matter they pass at first. Like something from the bottom of a pond, but sticky." Galeran counted the sheets. Five of them. "Is it all here?"
"Everything I could think to relate. The bad as well as the good. Like the three nights he kept us all up when he was teething. Like the way he would bounce in time to a drum..." Her eyes were still searching his anxiously. "I didn't give it to you sooner because I wasn't sure..."
"No. You were right. I wasn't ready. But now..." He had no words for what was in his heart. "Now... I thank you..." Suddenly unable to speak, he gathered her into his arms. "Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."
She held him tight, stroking him. "In a way," she whispered, "I, too, never mourned him properly. It all whirled out of control so fast. If you will, perhaps we can read through this together. And weep together."
He nodded his head against her shoulder, parchment crushed tight in his hand, and prayed that his son—now surely an angel in heaven—intercede for them.
Surely they deserved happiness, and the gift to be of benefit to the world.
And perhaps, if God was truly good, one day there would be another child, theirs to enjoy in peace and harmony.
Later that night, after tears and laughter, with a picture of his son filling his heart, Galeran made love to his wife.
Not as he had dreamed of on the way home from Jerusalem, in a healing blast of released need.
Not as they had done since, trying to cobble the tattered fragments of their love together as best they could.
But in wonder at each other, that what had been so good could become, through the crucible, a richer, deeper treasure.