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Hugh had been nodding his head from time to time as he listened, and now he reached out and gripped St. Omer by the wrist. “I learned the same things, just as quickly as you did, but by then you had gone home to Picardy and I was stuck in Payens.”
“I had to go, as soon as I got home. I had no choice, as you know. Louise was sick and I had … I had been away from her too long … She died eight years ago, in ’08. Did you know that?”
“No, my friend, but I suspected it, for I have not heard from her since then, and she was a great writer of letters. I knew that only death or grave infirmity could stop her from writing to me. Where is she buried? Did you take her home to Champagne?”
St. Omer’s headshake was barely discernible. “No. She rests in the garden of our home in Picardy … She loved it there. Did you hear … Have you heard of your father?”
“No. What of him? Is he dead, too?”
“Aye … soon after you set sail to return here. He had … he had no will to live without your mother …”
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