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I noticed a glint of approval light up Emilie’s eyes. “It is good work, Hugh.”
“It’s no castle, I know. But you’ll be warm and comfortable. It’s got a good roof and a hearth.”
“I am honored. Don’t you think, Elena? I have heard the fare in such country places is quite good. And they say the i
I smiled. “Then welcome, ladies. To the Château De Luc. You will be my first guests!”
Chapter 87
THERE WAS A BIG CELEBRATION in town that night.
We ate at Odo’s table, which filled most of his hut. His wife, Lisette, cooked, helped by Marie, the miller’s wife. There were Odo and Georges, my closest friends, and Father Leo. And, of course, Emilie.
A special meal was prepared, a goose roasted in the hearth. With carrots and turnips and peas, a soup of vegetables in a garlicky broth, and fresh bread that we dipped in the soup. There was no wine, but the priest brought along a cask of Belgian ale he’d been saving for the bishop’s visit. By our standards, it was a rare feast.
Odo played the flute, and we all pitched in with chansons. The children danced as if it were Mid-summer’s Eve. And I performed a few tricks, a flip or two. Everyone laughed and danced, Emilie too. For a few hours, we forgot the past.
All the while I could not keep my gaze far from the brightness of Emilie’s eyes. They were as light as the moon, and just as genuine. She clapped and laughed as Odo’s kids tried to reproduce my flips, as if this were the most natural role in the world for her. She told them of life in the castle. It was a golden evening, free from all barriers and stations in life.
Afterward, I walked with her back to the i
We walked amid the noises of the night-owls hooting., other birds fluttering in the trees. A bright round moon peeked through the clouds. I asked her, “How is Norbert? His health?”
“He is fine again,” Emilie said, “except he is still unable to do that trick with the chains. But things have changed since Stephen’s return. The Tafurs are everywhere, and the duke is behind them.”
“Stephen and A
“A
“You mean the raids she directed in her husband’s absence, the slaughter and mayhem, these were not hers?”
“I only meant that she behaved from fear. I do not justify it. She said something to me, Hugh, that I did not understand. I pressed her on why she allowed these things to occur, and she said, ‘If I knew the person we sought all along was at Borée, your jester would be as dead as his wife.’ ”
I shook my head in confusion.
“She called you the i
“Why? Why in God’s name would they want me?”
“Because you hold ‘the greatest prize in Christendom.’ ” Emilie tilted her head to me. “And do not know. That is what A
“The greatest prize in Christendom…” I started to laugh. “Are they mad? Look around you. I have nothing. All that I had they’ve already taken.”
“I told her the same. But you were there, Hugh, in the Crusade. Perhaps they confuse you with someone else.”
We had arrived at the i
“I brought something for you, Hugh. I have it here.” We ducked inside the door. By the fiery hearth, Elena was already asleep on her mat. Emilie went over to her satchel.
She came back with a calfskin pouch cinched at the top, and from it removed a wooden box the size of my two palms. It was finely engraved, the mark of a craftsman, with an ornate letter C on its lid.
She placed the box in my hands and stepped back. “This belongs to you, Hugh. It’s why I came.”
I stood there examining the box a moment, then lifted the tiny latch and opened the lid.
Burning tears welled in my eyes. Immediately I knew what the box contained.
Ashes.
Sophie’s ashes …
“Her body was cremated the following day,” Emilie said softly. “I went and gathered these. The priests say her soul will not reach Heaven unless she is buried.”
A knot rose in my chest and throat. I took the deepest breath, as if sucking air into every fiber in my body. “You ca
“As I said, Hugh, it belongs to you.”
I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. I felt her heart beating against mine.
I whispered beneath my breath, so only I could hear. “I meant you.”
Chapter 88
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I rose before the sun. I took the calfskin pouch that was next to my bed and slipped out of the i
Next to the woodshed, I found a few scattered tools. I took a shovel. The cocks had not yet crowed.
A few other early risers fluttered about their chores. A carter was heading out with his mule. By the baker’s hut, the smell of fresh baking bread perfumed the air.
I headed for the knoll overlooking our village.
I had dreamed of this so many times since Sophie had died in my arms. Bringing her home. The thought that her soul was incomplete, with no rites or blessings, tormented me. Now her life would be complete. She would rest here forever.
By the ford in the stream I began to climb a steep hill. The morning was alive with birds chirping in the soft light. The sun tried to burn through the mist. I climbed for a few minutes; soon I was above the town. I looked back over the waking valley. The little huts had begun to show life. I saw the square and the i
On top of the hill, I went to a spot near a spreading elm where my son’s grave was.
I knelt and put the calfskin pouch down. Then I began to [266] dig. I made a space in the ground next to Phillipe. Tears gathered in my eyes as a heavy drum pounded inside my chest.
“At last you’re home, Sophie,” I whispered. “You and Phillipe.”
I opened the pouch and held the box with the C. Then I scattered her ashes into the dug-up earth and covered them up again. I stood there at her grave and looked back over the awakening town.
You are finally home, Sophie. Your soul can rest.
Chapter 89
STEPHEN OF BORÉE SAT STOLIDLY on the high-backed chair in his court. A crowd of toadying favor-seekers stood in line as his bailiff brought him up to date on a new tax. Behind him, the seneschal readied a report on the status of his demesne. His thoughts were a thousand miles away.
An incompleteness jabbed at Stephen. Since he had been back, the business of his estates, his holdings, things that had once meant everything to him, now seemed trivial, worthless. These functionaries droned on and on, but he could not fix. His mind was a brooding pit that focused on a single, far-off point of light.
The prize. The treasure.
It haunted him, invaded his dreams. This holy relic miraculously preserved for centuries in the tombs of the Holy Land. He longed for it with an avarice he had felt for no woman. Something that had touched Him. He woke in the night dreaming about it, his body covered in sweat. His lips grew dry just thinking of its touch.
With such a prize in hand, Borée would be among the most powerful duchies in Europe. What a cathedral he would build to house its glory. What was the worth of the meager bones of his own patron saint, resting in his reliquary? It was nothing compared to this prize. People would come from all over the [268] world to make pilgrimages to Borée. No cleric would be greater than him, or closer to God.