“Lord Bernard de La Roche,” she murmured to herself. She felt no response, neither attraction nor repulsion, only a kind of dizziness, like a moth beating against the numbing silence that bound her. What was wrong with her, that she should have no feeling for her Lord husband?
“What does he look like?” she whispered.
“My Lady!” Marie wailed.
Was there a reason she could not remember, something about him that caused this emptiness inside her? Celeste swallowed, her mouth dry. The mattress dropped from her hands.
Marie’s face loomed before her, pale and twisted with fear.
Celeste backed away from her. “He could not have meant…” Her legs trembled. Why could she not recall his image? She looked around and saw the black cloak hanging on the wall. Last winter, or next?
If you tell him, he will put you aside. Someone had said that to her, a man’s voice. Whose? Was it real, or only a fevered dream? She put her hand to her throat. She was going to be ill. She felt the stool behind her and dropped onto it.
“And with the heir you gave him now dead, and you so wild with grief he had to send you away,” Marie’s voice rose to a frightened shriek, “and now the ring gone missing!”
“Quiet,” Celeste whispered. “Be quiet.” She could barely force the words past the tightness in her throat.
“It must be here!” Marie ran back to the mattress. Grabbing the linen on either side of the stitching she ripped it open, scattering feathers everywhere. She hoisted the other end high above her and shook it fiercely. Feathers flew wildly around the room.
“Stop,” Celeste whispered.
Marie shook the mattress again, and then again.
“Stop. It is not there.”
Marie shook the mattress once more. Celeste heard her sobbing from inside a cloud of feathers.
“Tell no-one,” Celeste said. She wrapped her ringless finger into the folds of her kirtle.
The empty linen casing fell slowly to the floor, feathers rising and dipping in the air around it. Marie stepped through them and fell at Celeste’s feet.
“We will say I had a—a fevered nightmare, and that I did this.” She did not look at the mattress casing or at Marie. She stared up at the narrow little window. A thin shaft of sunlight came through it. It did not reach Celeste, but shimmered in the air above her.
Marie lay on the floor before her, weeping.
Celeste did not move.
“I will think of something,” she whispered, staring at the beam of sunlight high above her.
What had he done? Had he bartered with a demon?
Jean stared into the girl’s black eyes until the nun pulled her around again, toward the abbey. He watched, sweating, as the young woman, half-carried between the nun and the child, passed directly under the tall, black cross in the center of the iron arch above the abbey gate.
No demon could pass under a priest-blessed cross set to guard an abbey.
Jean wiped his damp forehead. He gripped the pouch, feeling the shape of the ring through the leather: a fat band of gold with a large ruby winking from its center. A beautiful stone, well-cut to enhance its natural brilliance. Of course he would not give it back. But he would break it down and sell it as soon as possible.
Jean grinned. It would be worth a small fortune. He pulled the donkey’s head up by its worn halter and began walking. It was still early enough to reach Cluny before nightfall. He walked briskly without looking back. The gates to the abbey clanged shut behind him. The bell in the tower began to ring the end of Sext.
He was already well into his route, trading and selling in the towns and villages from Saint-Gilles to Marseilles, where he picked up his spices, then north to Cluny in time for the Festival of the Assumption. After Cluny, he would retrace his journey back down to Lyon and then home to Saint-Gilles for Yuletide. He had little to show for his trek so far but sore feet and enough deniers to eat for the next few days. The ring was an unexpected kiss of fortune.
Far ahead, the distant bells of Cluny chimed their summons to mid-day mass. The bells of Lyon peeled behind him. Birds on either side of the road joined in the medley, the leaves of the trees rustling softly with their movements.
“Buy my sorrow,” the birds sang.
“Sorrow, sorrow,” the leaves whispered in response.
Jean blinked. The whispering stopped. No, there was never any whispering; he was becoming as foolish as an old woman. He clucked to the donkey and picked up his pace. But the face of the girl lying in the dirt and the soulless, desperate look in her eyes filled his mind, no matter how he sought to dispel her image.
“No looking back,” he muttered to himself. He had made a life out of not turning back and he would not change now. Why should he? Every day on his trade route he passed people as broken and even more destitute than she. What could he do for them? Nothing good came of charity; he had learned that as a child. Only tears, salty tears. That was what happened to Lot’s wife. She looked back and became a pillar of salt tears. Served her right.
Still, the girl’s wretched face haunted him. The sun beat down, radiating heat like fire, so hot the air shimmered with it. He could almost hear the crackle of hungry flames, and the smell—
Jean shivered, pushing away his thoughts. Not real. None of that was real. It was only a mirage caused by the heat and the image of the girl. It had nothing to do with that other fire, the one he used to dream of…
“Enough,” he said out loud, shaking his head clear of such thoughts. The donkey snorted and shook its head as well.
At least his pouch had some weight to it, now. He reached between the folds of cloth and grasped the pouch tied to his belt, feeling again the hard shape of the ring with its blood-red ruby.
Why did she wear a ruby? Rubies were the symbol of martyrs, who shed their blood for God while sending up ardent prayers for the souls of their tormentors. Had he taken the ring of a martyr? Had he taken the sorrow stone of one of God’s chosen?
Was that why he remembered the fire? Martyrs often died by fire.
No, the fire was not a memory, only a nightmare from his childhood. He had not actually seen that fire, and he had stopped dreaming of it years ago.
Besides, he had bought the ring, not taken it. Bought it from a madwoman, not a martyr. Why should a madwoman wear such wealth on her finger while others went hungry? She did not appreciate what she had, or she would never have parted with it. At the least she should have bargained for a higher price. Well, what you do not treasure, you deserve to lose. That was the truth he lived by, and he was content to pass that lesson on to her.
He squeezed the pouch. The gem was larger than any he had seen. He was tempted to take it out and look at it again, to see the sun sparkle against its hard crimson brilliance. His fingers played with the drawstring of his pouch…
“Way!” A rider cantered up, brushing against him on the narrow track. He dropped the pouch back into the folds of his tunic and leapt aside, cursing himself for a fool. His hand shook as he grabbed the donkey’s halter, resting the other hand on the hilt of his knife. How had he failed to hear the thud of horse’s hooves approaching?
A momentary slip, Death whispered, grinning.
The rider sped past him. Jean let his breath out slowly. No more woolgathering! He had been doing too much of that today.
The narrow track that wound past the abbey soon met with the main road. He was farther south than he had expected. Even at a brisk pace, he would be lucky to reach Cluny before dusk. At least there were others on this road, also heading for Cluny to celebrate the Festival of the Assumption.
Jean walked without stopping. When he was thirsty he drank from the wineskin at his waist and when he had to relieve himself he paused at the side of the road. Only a fool would leave a full-laden donkey to go into the bushes. He was content with the firm Roman road under his boots, the warm summer sun listing toward the trees to his right and the knowledge that his donkey carried full packs of profitable goods that
would soon become coins in his purse.
With luck, half of his spices would go to Cluny, another half when he reached Lyon, and the rest at Vienne on the way home. The wine merchants at Lyon were rich, but Cluny Monastery was richer and they would want to put on a fine feast for the Assumption. He could make them pay a good price and they would buy large quantities. But they were shrewd, too. No tampering with his scales or dampening the dried stalks to add weight, as he did at the small town markets. Well, he would make a profit at Cluny without that.
Behind him he heard the excited chatter of a woman’s voice and the low murmur of her husband’s responses. He nodded to them as they overtook him.
“God be with you, peddler.”
“And with you,” Jean addressed the man who had spoken. He was an ordinary-looking fellow, shoulder-length brown hair, large, rough hands and a friendly smile. He wore a thigh-length tunic over well-worn breeches, both made of coarsely-woven russet, but his boots were made of leather, not felt. He was not as tall as Jean, few people were, and he looked older, entering his fourth decade, Jean guessed. He was breathing deeply with the exertion of walking so quickly.
“Guillaume,” he introduced himself. “And this is Liselle.” He pointed to the woman beside him. The woman smiled and dipped her head politely. She wore a loose kirtle, also of russet, but she had embroidered yellow flowers at the neck of her shift, where they would show above the kirtle. Her hair was braided about her head with blue and yellow ribbons woven through it. The ribbons were dyed unevenly and frayed at the edges, but in her dark hair they looked festive. She had been good-looking in her youth, and the sense of it lingered, taunting her, most likely. Good soil for a peddler to till.
“Jean le Peddler.” He inclined his head toward her in a slight bow. “You must be going to Cluny for the Feast of the Assumption?”
“And the market an’ all,” she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, there it is!” she cried out, as they crested a small rise in the road. “I see it already.” The straight line of the road and the woods on either side dipped below the hill where they stood, giving them a clear view of Cluny, several miles ahead. Even in the distance its size was breathtaking, the largest church in the world.
Jean shaded his eyes. The town that sprang up around the monastery had grown in the past year. At least fifty or more new huts nestled against the high stone walls of the monastery. Behind its walls, the twin chapels of the church and the pointed arches and barrel vaulting over the nave rose one hundred feet into the sky; almost as high as the four soaring bell towers. Even from here it was an awe-inspiring sight. More important, the town looked well-kept and prosperous, a result of the increasing number of pilgrims who stopped at Cluny on their route to Santiago de Compostella, or to Saint-Gilles or Marseilles to board a ship for Jerusalem. The hub of every major pilgrimage route, Cluny was, and the church had enough holy relics to justify a pilgrimage itself. Good for everyone’s business, including his.
The woman, Liselle, turned excitedly and waved her handkerchief to those behind, to let them know Cluny was in sight. It was an old kerchief, and threadbare. She would be wanting a new one soon.
Jean’s wife, Mathilde, had sewed a dozen silk handkerchiefs and embroidered crosses on them. They could sell profitably in their own right, but Jean tripled their value by claiming that they had been blessed at the Saint’s shrine in Santiago. The wealthier merchants, too busy to go themselves, and ailing pilgrims who feared they might not reach the end of their pilgrimage, would buy them eagerly. Mathilde made a dozen linen ones, too, for those who could not afford the silk. People like Guillaume and Liselle. Jean glanced surreptitiously at the pouch hanging from Guillaume’s belt. Yes, it appeared to have a little weight to it.
“Perhaps I will see you at market. I have some wares that might interest you.” He smiled directly at Liselle. “Something pretty for a pretty woman. I see you like ribbons, and you wear them well.” He reached into one of the bags tied across his donkey’s back and pulled out a scarlet ribbon which he had placed there for just such an opportunity.
Liselle’s cheeks reddened with pleasure. She patted her hair.
“Or something holy, for a pious woman.” He showed her a linen handkerchief. “Blessed at the Apostle’s shrine in Santiago,” he murmured, as though awe-struck himself.
Liselle’s eyes widened.
“Now wait, Liselle—”
“Oh, I am not selling anything just now,” Jean interrupted the nervous husband before he could put his misgivings into words and make them that much stronger. “Come and see me at the market.” He smiled at Liselle.
“Oh, I will,” she said.
“What we need comes first,” Guillaume explained. “Our rooster died and the hens are off laying until we get a new.”
“A rooster and laying hens,” said Jean. “I can see you are a man of some substance.”
Guillaume straightened. “Better than some others, I suppose,” he said, smiling around the words as though they tasted good coming out of his mouth.
“D’you know about the stoning?” Liselle asked.
Jean raised his eyebrows politely.
“An adulteress,” Liselle nodded solemnly. “She goes to the square on Saturday, at noon, right after the morning’s market. They caught her undressed—”
“Liselle!” Guillaume objected.
Liselle blushed, but she could not resist telling the rest. “—Right after he left her. She confessed to everything, enticing the poor man against his will, bewitching him with her wanton ways.”
“That will add to the festivities,” Jean said dryly.
“It will, that.” Guillaume said, earning a nod of approval from his wife.
“I never saw a stoning. Will it last very long, d’you think?” She shivered in anticipation. “Will a demon come up and snatch her down to hell?”
“Probably not.” Jean struggled to keep his expression neutral. What had come over him, to evoke such disgust at the thought of a stoning? He had seen many punishments during festivals. Anyone caught wrong-doing for months before would be held in chains until the event. Their castigation added to the general attractions and served as a warning to anyone considering using the crowded festival as a cover for similar crimes. Thieves, especially, served the purpose well. Jean had never felt sympathy for those who were stupid enough to be caught, and shrugged away the useless sentiment now. Their deaths were completely avoidable. This adulteress should have been more careful if she valued her life. What you did not treasure, you deserved to lose.
Mathilde’s shrine-blessed handkerchiefs always sold well after a public execution. The thought did not cheer him as much as it should. He was over-heated and was tempted to feel his forehead to see if he was ill—a financially fatal gesture for a peddler to make in public.
“Fare well.” Liselle looked at him strangely before hurrying down the road. Guillaume nodded, hastening after her.
Jean cursed under his breath. If he had lost a sale, he had only himself to blame. He could ill afford such moody thoughts stilling his tongue when he should be sociable. And why was he suddenly so weary of witnessing just punishments? He looked around and quickly felt his forehead. Cool and healthy. Nevertheless, he slowed his pace. No need to push himself or the donkey now that the monastery was within sight. It would still be there when he reached it. The monks knew him; they would find a place to lodge him and his wares.
Should he have the ring broken down here? There would be metal smiths in the town who would pay well for gold and a jewel like this one.
No, Cluny was too close to the Abbey of Sainte Blandine. The girl might have kinfolk here. The metal smith himself might recognize the ring, might even have made it! Not here, certainly. And the same was true for Lyon. He would be safer selling it in Avignon on his way home to Saint-Gilles.
He need not keep the nail that long, though. In fact, he would be glad to be rid of it. He reached into his pouch and drew it out. How long it was, and thick. He had no
t remembered it being so large. But then, once he saw the ring he had stopped looking at the nail. He passed it from one hand to the other while he examined it.
Who would use such a nail to make a coffin? A coffin only had to hold together until it went into the ground. No coffin maker would use this much iron when half would do the job; no, less than half, for it would have been a child’s coffin. This was no nail from a child’s coffin.
What had he bought? He looked at the nail, passing it from hand to hand.
Why was he doing that? He felt sweat on his forehead.
The nail was cold in his moist hands. Suddenly, he wanted to be rid of it. It was a cursed thing! He closed his fingers around it and raised his hand to hurl it from him.
And stopped.
What was he thinking? It was only a nail. And he was a peddler, after all. Iron is iron. He laughed shakily under his breath and lowered his arm. He raised the other hand to his brow and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. Idiocy, sheer idiocy. He opened his pouch to return the nail.
But then he did not want it in his pouch or anywhere on his person. Instead, he reached back and loosened the top of one of the wadmal bags across the donkey’s back, and pushed the nail deep inside.
The donkey slewed sideways, braying and rolling its eyes. Startled, Jean yanked his hand away.
He was reluctant to touch the sack again and left it slightly loosened.
“Lady Celeste.” The Abbess glanced up from her writing table as Celeste was ushered in. She inclined her head slightly. “Please sit.”
Celeste sat stiffly on the high-backed wooden chair in front of the Abbess’ table, folding her hands in her lap, right over left, to hide her ring finger.
The Abbess finished writing and pushed her papers aside before looking up again. “I have been told you had a fit. That you tore apart your mattress and ripped your clothing.”
The Sorrow Stone Page 3
