The Girl Who Would Be Queen

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  Jean would not tempt such a death. He survived by his wits, never forgetting that Death, with his sickle sharpened, followed impatiently in a man’s shadow, waiting for a momentary slip. He did not want to die on the road. It was Mathilde’s secret fear, he knew: that she would never know what had happened to him. And what if he did not die? What if he carried the fever home with him...?

  He pulled roughly on the halter of his donkey, as though the creature were to blame for his turn of mind. The animal accommodated its owner’s mood sullenly, ears angled backward, rolling its eyes at each jerk of the halter.

  Two heavy wooden barrels hung behind the bulging woven panniers strapped across its back. Several large, rough wadmal bags were tied in front of them. Despite being tightly sealed, the barrels emitted tantalizing scents. The pleasant aromas did not mollify Jean. If his donkey’s load were lighter and the money pouch at his waist heavier, he would be in better humor now. He quickened his step, leading the donkey as far from the dead woman as the narrow dirt track allowed.

  He was nearly past her when she looked up.

  The donkey snorted and stopped. Jean gaped at the woman, too startled to urge the animal forward.

  She stared straight ahead as though unaware of his presence and his stunned regard. She was barely out of girlhood, with raven hair and high cheekbones in a delicate, oval-shaped face which showed no sign of rash or fever. Not ill, then, but yet too pale, too thin. The way she lay, the way she held herself, revealed a vulnerability that repelled him. Nevertheless, he moved closer, taking in her beauty and her youth and the intensity of her need. How might he turn that need to his advantage?

  She turned her face toward him. He looked into her eyes and sucked in his breath sharply. They were so black Jean could not tell the iris from the pupil, so raw with suffering he felt the ache of it himself.

  “Solange!” he whispered, crossing himself. Sorrow. She was not merely grieving; she was grief itself.

  She raised one arm several inches, holding it out before her. Her hand was small, her fingers long and slender and tightly closed around some object. She cried out a single word. The hair on the back of Jean’s neck rose, as though she had heard the name he had given her: “Sorrow!”

  He shivered and stepped backward. Was she possessed?

  “Buy my sorrow!” she cried, with a shrill, unearthly keening that did not seem to be directed at him.

  She held out her closed left hand. “Buy it! For the love of God, buy my sorrow before I go insane!” Slowly she opened her fingers. A long black nail, slightly bent near the flattened head, lay across her small white palm.

  “Damnation!” The word burst from him.

  Another woman had tried this on him a year ago. She was so poor she had not gone to market, just run out from her tiny mud hovel while he was passing by. She was dirty and scrawny with an ugly, puckered scar across her left cheek that stretched up to her eyebrow and she was missing several teeth. The nail that woman offered him was old and rusted, thin to the point of breaking. It had been pounded back into shape many times and she had not risked trying to do so again.

  “Buy my sorrow,” she had cried, just like this girl lying beside the road, and she had held out her worthless little nail. As if he ought to give a flea’s cuss about their suffering. Everyone suffered. Only a fool would take on someone else’s as well as his own. And only a fool would believe she could escape her grief by selling a nail from her child’s coffin to a peddler!

  The world was full of fools and he had run into more than his share, peddling his wares from Saint-Gilles to Cluny and back again, year after year.

  “Take my sorrow from me!” the girl cried again.

  Did she think his hesitation showed weakness? In two strides he could step full weight on her hand, maybe break the wrist and a couple of fingers. Show her who was weak.

  But this nail was well-made and new, though bent a little at the end from the extraction. He could straighten it and it would be worth something... He caught the glint of gold on her finger and leaned forward to look more closely at her hand. The palm and pads of her fingers were soft, well-cared for: evidence of an easy life.

  “Turn your hand over.”

  He had to hold his breath when she did, to keep from shouting. A ruby nearly the size of his fingernail glittered blood-red against the white skin of her fingers.

  “I can end your suffering,” he said softly, bending nearer to her. “I will buy your sorrow.” He looked around. There was no one on the road. The shrubs and brush on either side might conceal any number of observers, but the carefree twitter of birds among the branches reassured him. He squinted against the noonday sun, looking back the way he had come.

  The Abbey of Sainte Blandine was several hundred yards behind them, enclosed in a high stone wall with an iron arch reaching over the wooden front gates. One of the gates hung half open.

  He was about to turn back to the girl when a nun hurried through the open gate toward them, the folds of her habit flapping around her portly frame. Jean gritted his teeth against the expletive that rose in his throat. He looked back down at the girl.

  She had raised herself to a sitting position. A streak of dirt across her wet cheek enhanced its youthful curve. A light flush had brightened her face and her wide, dark eyes focused on him. The firm swell of her breasts was visible beneath her black kirtle. By god, she was beautiful! If only the nun were not coming. A little time with her and his day would be perfect.

  He held out a coin in his left hand, stretching the other toward her, too, palm up. “I want the ring as well.”

  She stared at him.

  “The ring.” Jean gave a small jerk of his head. “Hurry, someone is coming!”

  She twisted around to look at the abbey. When she turned back she looked frightened. So the nun was indeed coming for her, as Jean had feared.

  He stepped closer and crouched down in front of her. “We can do this,” he whispered, “if we do it quickly. She will never know.” A thought struck him. “And if she does, she is under a vow of silence, heh?”

  Her expression told him he was right again. He extended his left hand toward her until the coin almost touched her empty hand. “Give me your sorrow.”

  With a groan she thrust the nail into his hand. He watched her twist the ring, trying not to smile in anticipation. It stuck at her knuckle. She twisted it harder, her face tense with the effort.

  Jean glanced up. The scarlet-faced nun was running now, holding the skirts of her habit up to her ankles. Jean grabbed the girl’s wrist, pushed her other hand aside, and ripped the ring from her finger.

  She gasped and held the bruised finger to her lips, like a child.

  Jean dropped the nail and the ring into the pouch on his belt.

  “Guard this coin.” He pressed it into her hand. “It has bought your sorrow.” As though he believed such nonsense. But lucky for him that she did.

  “Let me help you to your feet,” he said, more loudly than necessary. He cupped his left hand under her elbow. The other he closed over the little hand that clutched his coin. “Are you feeling better now?” He raised her to her feet just as the good sister panted to a stop before them.

  The nun placed her arm firmly around the grieving young woman. She slumped against the nun, shrinking away from him, but her fist stayed closed around his coin.

  “Can I help you with her, Sister?” Jean asked. It made him appear weak to help a woman with her tasks, even a bride of God; but considering the fortune that had come his way, some show of humility was called for. Perhaps it would appease Sainte Blandine, if she were watching over her abbey.

  The nun shook her head and started back toward the abbey. Jean watched them go, grinning to himself.

  A girl burst through the open gate and raced toward the others, holding her black shift halfway up to her knees. Her face was plump and rounded with youth, her figure small and wiry. The dress she held so high was a simpler cut, less wasteful of material than either
of the others. She was clearly a servant but very young, not yet out of childhood.

  She did not notice Jean. Her frightened gaze was on the nun and her charge. As soon as she reached them, she slipped her arm around the young woman’s waist and assisted the silent nun in drawing her back inside the walls of the abbey.

  When they were almost at the gate, the young woman looked back over her shoulder: a searing, inhuman gaze. Her lips parted.

  Jean was seized by a sudden urge to return the ring. He took a step toward her. His left hand hovered uneasily over his money pouch. Why had she given it up so easily?

  Demons bribe men with gifts!

  Jean shivered. He took another step toward her.

  The nun’s arm tightened around the young woman’s shoulders, pulling her forward again.

  And what would he have said, anyway? He had already accepted the ring; it was too late to alter his destiny now.

  END OF CHAPTER ONE

  Buy The Sorrow Stone to begin your fascinating journey through 12th Century France. On sale in ebook or print format here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07459C598