“Wait a minute,” said Reynold. “Jack may be related to the man who died. Did he have any children?”
“No,” said the gray-bearded man.
“Are you sure?”
“He never married.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
One or two people snickered. The priest glared at them.
The gray-bearded man said: “But he died twenty-four years ago, andthisJack says he’s only twenty.”
“How did he die?” Reynold asked.
“Drowned.”
“Did you see the body?”
There was a silence. Finally the gray-bearded man said: “No, I never saw his body.”
“Didanyonesee it?” Reynold said, his voice rising as he scented victory.
Nobody spoke.
Reynold turned to Jack. “Is your father alive?”
“He died before I was born.”
“What was he?”
“A jongleur.”
A gasp went up from the crowd, and the white-haired woman said: “My Jack was a jongleur.”
“ButthisJack is a stonemason,” Reynold said. “I’ve seen his work. However, he could be thesonof Jack the jongleur.” He turned to Jack. “What was your father called? Jack Jongleur, I suppose?”
“No. They called him Jack Shareburg.”
The priest repeated the name, pronouncing it slightly differently. “Jacques Cherbourg?”
Jack was stunned. He had never understood his father’s name, but now it was clear. Like many traveling men, he was called by the name of the town he came from. “Yes,” Jack said wonderingly. “Of course. Jacques Cherbourg.” He had found traces of his father at last, long after he had given up looking. He had gone all the way to Spain, but what he wanted had been here, on the coast of Normandy. He had fulfilled his quest. He felt wearily satisfied, as if he had put down a heavy burden after carrying it a long way.
“Then everything is clear,” Reynold said, looking around triumphantly at the crowd. “Jacques Cherbourg did not drown, he survived. He went to England, lived there a while, made a girl pregnant, and died. The girl gave birth to a boy and named him after the father. Jack here is now twenty, and looks exactly like his father did twenty-four years ago.” Reynold looked at the priest. “No need for exorcism here, father. It’s just a family reunion.”
Aliena put her arm through Jack’s and squeezed his hand. He felt stupefied. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask and he did not know where to start. He blurted one out at random. “Why were you so sure he died?”
“Everyone on the White Ship died,” said the gray-bearded man.
“The White Ship?”
“I remember the White Ship,” said Edward. “That was a famous disaster. The heir to the throne was drowned. Then Maud became the heir, and that’s why we’ve got Stephen.”
Jack said: “But why was he on such a ship?”
The old woman who had spoken earlier answered. “He was to entertain the nobles on the voyage.” She looked at Jack. “You must be his boy, then. My grandson. I’m sorry I thought you were a ghost. You look so like him.”
“Your father was my brother,” said the gray-bearded man. “I’m your Uncle Guillaume.”
Jack realized with a glow of pleasure that this was the family he had longed for, his father’s relations. He was no longer alone in the world. He had found his roots at last.
“Well, this is my son, Tommy,” he said. “Look at his red hair.”
The white-haired woman looked fondly at the baby, then said in a shocked voice: “Oh, my soul, I’m a great-grandmother!”
Everyone laughed.
Jack said: “I wonder how my father got to England?”