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 sounds 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 just 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 then 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.