Archbishop Theobald, having claimed the Weeping Madonna for England, was not willing to let Jack simply walk away with it. He had sent two priests from his entourage, Reynold and Edward, to accompany Jack and Aliena on their journey. Jack had been displeased about this at first, but he quickly got to like them. Reynold was a fresh-faced, argumentative young man with an incisive mind, and he was very interested in the mathematics Jack had learned in Toledo. Edward was a mild-mannered older man who was something of a glutton. Their principal function was to make sure none of the donations went into Jack’s purse, of course. In fact, the priests spent freely out of the donations to pay their traveling expenses, whereas Jack and Aliena paid their own, so the archbishop would have done better to trust Jack.

They went to Cherbourg on their way to Barfleur, where they would take a ship for Wareham. Jack knew something was wrong long before they reached the heart of the little seaside town. People were not staring at the Madonna.

They were staring at Jack.

The priests noticed it after a while. They were carrying the statue on a wooden trestle, as they always did when entering a town. As the crowd began to follow them, Reynold hissed at Jack: “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“They’re more interested in you than the statue! Have you been here before?”

“Never.”

Aliena said: “It’s the older ones who look at Jack. The youngsters look at the statue.”

She was right. The children and young people were reacting to the statue with normal curiosity. It was the middle-aged who stared at him. He tried staring back, and found that they got scared. One made the Sign of the Cross at him. “What have they got against me?” he wondered aloud.

Their procession attracted followers just as rapidly as always, however, and they reached the marketplace with a large crowd in tow. They put the Madonna down in front of the church. The air smelled of salt water and fresh fish. Several townspeople went into the church. What normally happened next was that the local clergy would come out and talk to Reynold and Edward. There would be a discussion and explanations, and then the statue would be carried inside, where it would weep. The Madonna had only failed once: on a cold day, when Reynold insisted on going through with the procedure despite Jack’s warning that it might not work. Now they respected his advice.

The weather was right today, but something else was wrong. There was superstitious fear on the wind-whipped faces of the sailors and fishermen all around. The young sensed the disquiet of their elders, and the whole crowd was suspicious and vaguely hostile. No one approached the little group to ask questions about the statue. They stood at a distance, talking in low voices, waiting for something to happen.

At last the priest emerged. In other towns the priest had approached in a mood of wary curiosity, but this one came out like an exorcist, holding a cross in front of him like a shield and carrying a chalice of holy water in his other hand. Reynold said: “What does he think he’s going to do-cast out demons?” The priest walked over, chanting something in Latin, and approached Jack. He said in French: “I command, thee, evil spirit, to return to the Place of Ghosts! In the name-”

“I’m not a ghost, you damn fool!” Jack burst out. He felt unnerved.

The priest went on: “Father, Son and Holy Spirit-”

“We’re on a mission for the archbishop of Canterbury,” Reynold protested. “We’ve been blessed by him.”

Aliena said: “He’s not a ghost; I’ve known him since he was twelve years old!”

The priest began to look uncertain. “You are the ghost of a man of this town who died twenty-four years ago,” he said. Several people in the crowd voiced their agreement, and the priest recommenced his incantation.

“I’m only twenty years old,” Jack said. “Perhaps I just resemble the man who died.”

Someone stepped out from the crowd. “You don’t just resemble him,” he said. “You are him-no different from the day you died.”

The crowd murmured with superstitious dread. Jack, feeling unnerved, looked at the speaker. He was a gray-bearded man of forty or so years, wearing the clothes of a successful craftsman or small merchant. He was not the hysterical type. Jack addressed him with a voice that faltered somewhat. “My companions know me,” he said. “Two of them are priests. The woman is my wife. The baby is my son. Are they ghosts, too?”

The man looked uncertain.

A white-haired woman standing beside him spoke up. “Don’t you know me, Jack?”

Jack jumped as if he had been stung. Now he was scared. “How did you know my name?” he said.

“Because I’m your mother,” she said.

“You’re not!” Aliena said, and Jack heard a note of panic in her voice. “I know his mother, and she’s not you! What’s happening here?”

“Evil magic!” said the priest.

“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, and this Jack 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.”

“Did anyone see 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.”

“But this Jack is a stonemason,” Reynold said. “I’ve seen his work. However, he could be the son of 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.”