Aliena began to cry silently. She had lost Jack’s trail, and her baby was going to die here, at a house full of strangers in a city far from home. There would never be another Jack and she would never have another baby. Perhaps she would die too. That might be for the best.
At daybreak she blew out the candle and fell into an exhausted sleep.
A loud noise from downstairs woke her abruptly. The sun was up and the riverside below the window was loudly busy. The baby was dead still, his face peaceful at last. Cold fear gripped her heart. She touched his chest: he was neither hot nor cold. She gasped with fright. Then he gave a deep, shuddering sigh and opened his eyes. Aliena almost fainted with relief.
She snatched him up and hugged him, and he began to cry lustily. He was well again, she realized: his temperature was normal and he was in no distress. She put him to her breast and he sucked hungrily. Instead of turning away after a few mouthfuls he carried on, and when one breast was dry he drained the other. Then he fell into a deep, contented sleep.
Aliena realized that her symptoms had gone, too, although she felt wrung out. She slept beside the baby until midday, then fed him again; then she went down to the public room of the tavern and ate a dinner of goat’s cheese and fresh bread with a little bacon.
Perhaps it was the holy water of Saint Martin that had made the baby well. That afternoon she went back to Saint Martin’s tomb to give thanks to the saint.
While she was in the great abbey church, she watched the builders at work, thinking about Jack, who might yet see his baby after all. She wondered whether he had got diverted from his intended route. Perhaps he was working in Paris, carving stones for a new cathedral there. While she was thinking about him, her eye lit on a new corbel being installed by the builders. It was carved with a figure of a man who appeared to be holding the weight of the pillar above on his back. She gasped aloud. She knew instantly, without a shadow of doubt, that the twisted, agonized figure had been carved by Jack. So he had been here!
With her heart beating excitedly, she approached the men who were doing the work. “That corbel,” she said breathlessly. “The man who carved it was English, wasn’t he?”
An old laborer with a broken nose answered her. “That’s right—Jack Fitzjack did it. Never seen anything like it in my life.”
“When was he here?” Aliena said. She held her breath while the old man scratched his graying head through a greasy cap.
“Must be nearly a year ago, now. He didn’t stay long, mind. Master didn’t like him.” He lowered his voice. “Jack was too good, if you want to know the truth. He showed the master up. So he had to go.” He laid a finger alongside his nose in a gesture of confidentiality.
Aliena said excitedly: “Did he say where he was going?”
The old man looked at the baby, “That child is his, if the hair is anything to go by.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Will Jack be pleased to see you, do you think?”
Aliena realized the laborer thought Jack might have been running away from her. She laughed. “Oh, yes!” she said. “He’ll be pleased to see me.”
He shrugged. “He said he was going to Compostela, for what it’s worth.”
“Thank you!” Aliena said happily, and to the old man’s astonishment and delight she kissed him.
The pilgrim trails across France converged at Ostabat, in the foothills of the Pyrenees. There the group of twenty or so pilgrims with whom Aliena was traveling swelled to about seventy. They were a footsore but merry bunch: some prosperous citizens, some probably on the run from justice, a few drunks, and several monks and clergymen. The men of God were there for reasons of piety but most of the others seemed bent on having a good time. Several languages were spoken, including Flemish, a German tongue, and a southern French language called Oc. Nevertheless there was no lack of communication among them, and as they crossed the Pyrenees together they sang, played games, told stories, and—in several cases—had love affairs.
After Tours, unfortunately, Aliena did not find any more people who remembered Jack. However, there were not as many jongleurs along her route through France as she had imagined. One of the Flemish pilgrims, a man who had made the journey before, said there would be more of them on the Spanish side of the mountains.
He was right. At Pamplona, Aliena was thrilled to find a jongleur who recalled speaking to a young Englishman with red hair who had been asking about his father.
As the weary pilgrims moved slowly through northern Spain toward the coast, she met several more jongleurs, and most of them remembered Jack. She realized, with mounting excitement, that all of them said he had been goingtoCompostela: no one had encountered him coming back.
Which meant he was still there.
As her body became more sore her spirits lifted higher. She could hardly contain her optimism during the last few days of the journey. It was midwinter, but the weather was mild and sunny. The baby, now six months old, was fit and happy. She felt sure of finding Jack at Compostela.
They arrived there on Christmas Day.
They went straight to the cathedral and attended mass. The church was packed, naturally. Aliena walked round and round the congregation, staring at faces, but Jack was not there. Of course, he was not very devout; in fact he never went to churches except to work. By the time she had found accommodation it was dark. She went to bed, but she could hardly sleep for excitement, knowing that Jack was probably within a few steps of where she lay, and tomorrow she would see him, and kiss him, and show him his baby.
She was up at first light. The baby sensed her impatience and nursed irritably, biting her nipples with his gums. She washed him hastily, then went out, carrying him in her arms.
As she walked the dusty streets she expected to see Jack around every corner. How astonished he would be when he caught sight of her! And how pleased! However, she did not see him on the streets, so she began calling at lodging houses. As soon as people started work she went to building sites and spoke to masons. She knew the words formasonandredheadin the Castilian dialect, and the inhabitants of Compostela were used to foreigners, so she succeeded in communicating; but she found no trace of Jack. She began to be worried. Surely people should know him. He was not the kind of person you could easily overlook, and he must have been living here for several months. She also kept an eye open for his characteristic carvings, but she saw none.
Around midmorning she met a blowsy, middle-aged woman tavern-keeper who spoke French and remembered Jack.
“A handsome lad—is he yours? None of the local girls made any progress with him, anyway. He was here at midsummer, but he didn’t stay long, more’s the pity. He wouldn’t say where he was going, either. I liked him. If you find him, give him a big kiss from me.”
