The Winter Mantle (55 page)

A glint of recognition lit in the eyes and De Gael snapped his fingers. They were elegantly manicured and adorned with fine gold rings. 'Ah, the lad who broke his leg - I remember now!'

'The lad whom Waltheof of Northumberland saved from having his ribs smashed into his lungs by a bolting horse,' Simon said, hunting De Gael's face for a response. The smile that had been about to break vanished. De Gael's right hand closed around his sword belt in a defensive gesture.

'I remember that too,' the Breton murmured. 'It was the most brave and foolhardy act I have ever witnessed.' He fiddled with the tongue of leather folded over the belt buckle. 'I was glad that I had not attempted it myself, but I felt diminished that I had not done so.'

Simon eyed him wanly. Part of De Gael's ability to charm lay in his self-deprecating manner. He was ever the first to trample on his own pride and men… and women were disarmed by the trait.

'And how did you feel when Waltheof died?' Simon asked softly, unwilling to be taken in. 'Did you feel diminished then, my lord?'

The dark eyes blazed and dull colour suffused the fine, knife-blade cheekbones. 'By what right do you question me?' he demanded.

'By the right of blood,' Simon answered. 'I am wedded to Waltheof's eldest daughter, and my son is his grandson and namesake. Waltheof did not live to see his daughter grow up and wed nor his grandchildren born because he was foolish enough to trust a man who was supposed to be his friend.'

De Gael stared. His jaw was rigid. 'You have no right to judge me,' he said hoarsely. 'Only God can do that.'

'And I am sure that God will,' Simon said coldly. He made to walk away, but De Gael grasped his sleeve.

'You do not understand. Waltheof was indeed my friend and not a day goes by that I have not regretted what happened. If I could return to my youth and undo that moment, I would.'

'Likely so,' Simon retorted, and steeled himself against the pleading in the other man's tone. 'Since you would still hold the title of Earl of Norfolk too.' He shook himself free. 'My wife carries the memory of her father like a shackle, and there is nothing I can do to free her. Do you know what destruction you wrought with your scheming?'

'Far less destruction than the tyrant who sat on the throne and persecuted from on high,' De Gael snapped. 'It was an ill-conceived and ill-timed idea, but it was born of genuine grievance.'

Simon made a disparaging sound. 'And it died in disaster.'

'I know that. I count myself at fault and, although you will not believe this because I can see that you think the worst of me, I took a crusader's vow to atone for my past. In Jerusalem I will pray for Waltheof's soul and make my peace. If I die on the road, my bones will testify my sincerity.'

Simon strove to maintain his contempt for De Gael, but against his efforts found himself warming to the man's candour. It might be false - De Gael had a slick way with words - but there seemed to be a genuine chord of sadness in the older man's voice.

'I am sorry for Waltheof's daughter. She was a pretty little thing,' De Gael continued. 'I know that he doted on her and she adored him.' He gave a wry grimace. 'I am afraid that she disliked me. Even then she knew that I was responsible for taking her father away from her.'

Simon thought of Matilda's strength and the counterbalance of her terrible vulnerability, most of it brought about by this man. De Gael was not entirely to blame, though. Others had played their part. 'I do not think that time has wrought any change of opinion, my lord,' he said. 'Ask your forgiveness of God, and be content with that. I do not think that we have anything more to say to each other that will be of profit…"

De Gael sighed heavily. 'I…'

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by a loud expletive from Stephen of Aumale, who had been doing his best not to listen to the exchange between Simon and the former Earl of Norfolk.

'God's Holy Bones, the poor bastards!'

Following Stephen's pointing finger, Simon saw that one of the transport ships heavily laden with soldiers had capsized midway between the shelter of the harbour and the open sea. Small figures bobbed briefly in the water before vanishing in the swell. A few fortunate ones had managed to gain a grip on the mast, but, unable to swim and dragged down by the weight of their garments, the majority were drowning. Other vessels coming hard about were rowing frantically towards the stricken ship to pick up those who were clinging on.

'God have mercy on their souls,' muttered De Gael, signing his breast and shaking his head. Among the horrified watchers on shore there were mutters of foreboding, and declarations that it was an ill omen.

'It is a test of our fortitude!' Robert of Normandy bellowed, striking a pose. 'Those of you who are faint-hearted can crawl home with your tails between your legs. Our compatriots are even now in heaven with the Saviour! A ship may be lost, but what is a single one among many?' He strode along the dock-side, exhorting and rallying. Watching him at work, Simon could well understand how men had been seduced into rebelling against William Rufus to try to make this man King of England. Robert of Normandy might be small and stout, with receding hair, but there was a certain glamour about him. His character was known to be lazy and indolent, but the crusade had fired his blood and he was proving a more adequate leader now than he had ever done at home.

The few survivors of the sudden, brutal shipwreck were brought ashore together with those bodies that the crews of the other vessels had been able to hook from the water. Robert's chaplain and Archbishop Adehmar came forward to attend the dead, stepping carefully around the drenching pools of sea-water that streamed from the corpses.

A woman, her clothes sodden, her black hair dripping around her face, knelt over one of the dead men and howled for him. The sound raised the hair on Simon's nape, and as he stared he was assailed by a chill of recognition. It was almost twenty years since last he had seen her, but still he knew the oval face and wide, grey-violet eyes: Sabina, the falconer's daughter with whom he had conducted that first affair of innocence and aching, unrequited lust.

Pushing through the crowd to her side he looked down at the dead man whose head she was cradling in her lap. Time had put a badger-stripe of grey in his beard and given him a paunch to droop over his belt, but Simon still recognised the serjeant who had taken his place in the soft darkness of the mews. Stitched to his tunic was the ubiquitous cross of red linen, its edges frayed and faded from wear and exposure to light. Seawater had made spiky clumps of his lashes, and beneath half-closed lids his eyes were glazed with death.

Someone leaned down to Sabina with a sympathetic word and was batted vigorously away. 'He is my husband!' she snarled like a she-wolf. Leaning over the dead man, she kissed his face and dug her hands into his streaming hair. 'Why didn't God take me as well?' She prostrated herself over his body, kissing and touching in a frenzy as if her desperation would restore him to life.

Clucking his tongue in pity, Ralf de Gael turned away.

Simon stooped to her. 'Sabina?'

The gaze she turned on him was unfocused and wild. Her lips curled back in a snarl. 'Let me be!' she spat.

'Sabina, look at me. It's Simon.' He touched her shoulder and, like the man before him, was flung off. 'Please, I can help you.'

The faintest glimmer of lucidity shone through her shock and grief. 'No one can help me,' she choked. 'Saer's dead. I should have died too. Go away.' She laid her hand upon her husband's cold throat as if she could conjure a heartbeat beneath her fingertips and rocked herself back and forth, tears mingling with the salt water streaming down her face. 'We were supposed to see Jerusalem together and pray for our children!'

Simon watched her for a moment. Like Ralf he could have turned away and pretended it was none of his business, but it would indeed be a pretence, and one his conscience would make him pay for later. Rising from his crouch, he beckoned to two Serjeants from his troop. 'Bring a stretcher,' he commanded, 'and bear this man to the nearest church.' Removing his cloak, he draped it around Sabina's shoulders. The blue fabric, the white bearskin, gave her complexion the same grey cast as the corpses laid on the wharf side.

The other survivors of the capsizing were being found dry garments and given hot wine to drink. The crusader fleet continued to load up supplies and put out to sea. Ship's horns bellowed out as the vessels communicated with each other.

Robert of Normandy embarked on a large drakkar with round shields overlapped along the side to increase the height of the freeboard. His chaplains and stewards organised prayers for the dead and the hasty digging of graves.

The first terrible wave of grief over, Sabina sat silently by her husband while she waited for him to be taken and buried. She had washed the salt from his hair and beard, had used her bone comb to ease out the tangles, and now she sat with her hands folded and her expression blank.

Simon gave her a cup of wine and she looked at it as if she did not know what it was. 'I did not want to come on this journey, but he thought it would make a difference,' she said, her voice husky from the strain of screaming. 'He thought if only we could petition God at his most holy altar and show how much we loved him that he would forgive us our sins and reward us…' She took a hesitant drink from the cup, her hand shaking so badly that she could scarcely hold the rim to her lips. 'Our sins must be greater than we had ever imagined, for look what God has wrought…'

'Hush,' Simon murmured. 'It was the work of man not God that tumbled your ship. It was laden with too many people and too low in the water.'

'Then why was I saved and my husband drowned? Why didn't I die with him?' Her voice rose and cracked. 'Do not tell me that God is merciful, for I will not believe you!' She swiped her sleeve across her eyes and sniffed.

'I will tell you nothing,' Simon said and touched her hand. 'There is a place for you in my household until you are recovered enough to decide what you want to do.'

'I do not need your pity.' She raised her head and looked at him proudly through a glitter of tears.

His heart turned over. For an instant she reminded him so much of Matilda that he found it difficult to speak. 'It is not out of pity that I am offering,' he replied, 'but out of old friendship. I have lodgings in the town. You are welcome to spend the night while you decide whether you want to go on or return home.'

She continued to look at him and colour burned up in Simon's face.

'It is an honourable offer,' he said. 'To take advantage is not my intention.'

'I know that.' She gave a cracked laugh. 'We always drew back from the edge, didn't we?' Even with his cloak around her shoulders, she was shivering violently.

The chaplain arrived to escort her husband's body to his grave. A low moan rose in Sabina's throat.

'Come,' Simon said gently, and drew her to her feet. 'Let us bury him with dignity.' He gave her hand a squeeze. 'And when it is done, I know an apothecary who will give you something to help you sleep.'

She leaned on him heavily. 'It will take more than an apothecary to help me,' she said grimly.

Sabina's fragile condition led Simon to decide to bring her with him. Despite the dangers waiting on the road to Jerusalem, the way home for a woman alone was probably more hazardous. Even taking a couple of stout Serjeants for escort was no guarantee of safety, and Sabina was so engulfed by her grief that she was not capable of looking out for herself.

On the crossing from Brindisi to Durazzo she curled up against the gunwale and hid her face from the sea. When Simon stooped to hand her a cup of wine and ask how she was faring, she shook her head.

'Not well,' she said, but took the cup with trembling hands and drank it to the lees. Simon sat down beside her, leaning his back against the ship's side and shifting his shoulder blades until he was comfortable. He said nothing, making it clear that he was content to sit and not make demands on her. Finally Sabina broke the silence.

'It was Saer's notion that we take the cross,' she said tremulously. 'He thought that if we showed our devotion to God he would bless us with more children.' She tightened her hand around the cup until her knuckles showed white. 'We had three you know - two boys and a girl.'

The 'had' was telling. Simon touched her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy and felt it quiver.

'One son and our infant daughter died of fever two summers ago. I did everything to try to save them, but it wasn't enough.' Her eyes were desolate. 'I consulted a herbwife. Saer brought an apothecary and a doctor, but they could do nothing. Other children in the village died too…' She swallowed hard. 'Our eldest son survived, only to cut himself on a scythe blade at harvest time and die of the stiffening sickness…

'I am sorry,' Simon said, knowing that the words were inadequate. It was a fact of life that many children did not survive the journey into adulthood. His mother had lost two sons between bearing Gamier and him, one stillborn, the other succumbing to a childhood illness. But common occurrence was no comfort to parental grief.

'You do not understand,' Sabina said, baring her teeth. 'We tried to salve our wounds and comfort our loss by conceiving another child, but Saer…' She bent her head so that all he saw was the top of her wimple and a few wind-whipped strands of black hair. 'The loss of his son unmanned him. That was one of the reasons he took a crusader's vow - in the hope of finding a cure. Instead all he found was his death.' She let the empty cup roll onto the deck and, bowing her face into her cupped hands, rocked back and forth with muffled cries of distress.

Simon gathered her in his arms. He said nothing, for words would have been trite and inadequate.

She clung to him and wept harshly against his breast until she was exhausted. Simon gently eased out from beneath her and, tucking his cloak around her body, left her to sleep out her grief.

'A regular champion of waifs and strays,' said Stephen of Aumale, who was one of the other passengers on their vessel. His gaze was speculative.