The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  Marie shook her head. “The nuns say so.” Her voice quavered.

  Celeste coughed out the bread. The Abbess had warned her, had said she did not believe it. Had she changed her mind? What if she declared Celeste possessed? “Aieii,” she moaned, hugging herself.

  Marie backed away from her, poised to flee.

  “It is not true.” How could Marie believe it? Marie knew the fit was an invention to cover their search for the missing ring. She knew about selling the nail and—

  Not both, she did not know Celeste had sold the ring, too—

  —and through it all she had not been afraid of her mistress.

  —sold her marriage ring for a single denier. That was the act of a crazy woman, one possessed with the urge to destroy herself—

  Could it be true? Was she possessed?

  She had wanted to strike the Abbess: that was the desire of a demon. She still wanted to, when she thought of the woman’s presumption. She bit her lip against such unholy thoughts. Did anyone ever know if they were possessed?

  Celeste stared around the room. Shadows and stone surrounded her. She felt a scream rising in her throat, and stifled it with difficulty.

  She must be calm, must reassure Marie. Marie was her only ally here. The nuns—

  “The nuns are under a vow of silence,” she said.

  “The novices,” Marie said. “The novices said it.”

  “The novices? But they are only children. And you believed them?”

  Marie flushed. “You are not yourself.” Her lower lip protruded stubbornly.

  Ah, the slap. Celeste was tempted to slap her again. To believe servants and children over her mistress! But what if the rumour spread? How would she defend herself? Everywhere she looked, the room closed in on her.

  “I have to get out of here,” she cried.

  “Where would you go, My Lady?” Marie asked. Her voice was thin and nervous, as though she had been ill, not Celeste. As though she had been confined in this room day and night for weeks. Ah, no, Marie had gone on any number of errands, to the kitchen, the gardens, the hen house. Even the hen house sounded like an excursion! Celeste laughed shakily. No wonder she seemed mad.

  Marie clutched her hands together, twisting them into the folds of her kirtle. What a child she was. A silly, ignorant child, no help at all. “To the courtyard!” Celeste snapped, leaping to her feet. “To walk among the flowers and shrubbery. To the guesthouse to eat with others for a change. To hear the travelers’ stories and drink a mug of ale with them—”

  Marie leapt backward, arms wide open, as though to prevent her from striding through the door. “What will we say? How will we explain?”

  “Say I am better!”

  “And then Lord Bernard will come for you, or send his men to escort you home.” Marie looked pointedly at Celeste’s left hand.

  “I will return to him when I am ready. Why should he come for me?” Her heart pounded at the thought of returning to him, a strange, quick stutter in her chest.

  “My Lady!” Marie gasped. “We could not travel without an escort!”

  Celeste frowned. “No, of course not.” Even outside this room she was fettered. Had she been so well-tamed she had never noticed it, or had she been so indulged she had never had to?

  She put her hand to her head. She could not continue to let others care for her. She had succumbed to their influence long enough—Lord Bernard, the nuns, Marie, the peddler—and this was what it had brought her to. Had she ever thought for herself? No matter, she would learn to now.

  “How far is my husband’s castle?” She had to remember at least the most basic things.

  “Near Le Puy,” Marie stammered.

  The name meant nothing. She shook her head, frustrated.

  “Two days’ ride from here. Can you not remember?” Marie took another step backward.

  Celeste ignored her. At least Lord Bernard was a good distance away. She could be able to think of something before he came to fetch her. But first she must get out of this cramped, dark room. She was so weary of it she could not think.

  She pushed aside the half-eaten platter of food. When Marie did not retrieve it, she looked at her sharply. The child stood at a distance, refusing to meet her eyes. Did she fear her mistress’ glance would ensorcel her?

  “Tomorrow I will go to Mass.” That should dispel this rumour of a demon.

  “Yes, Lady.” Marie’s lips trembled. She blinked rapidly against the tears brimming in her eyes.

  “Marie, look at me.”

  Marie’s glanced up, her eyes quick and frightened as a rabbit’s. She looked down again before Celeste could speak.

  Celeste sighed. “Take my platter away.”

  If she could not convince Marie, how would she prove her innocence to anyone else?

  Jean woke to the patter of rain against stone walls. The patch of sky visible through the window shutters was iron-grey, until a bolt of lightning briefly illuminated it. The other two merchants sharing this small room at the end of the Cluny guesthouse were already gone.

  Loud scraping noises came from the outer hall as tables and benches were pulled into place for the guests’ meal. Jean dressed and washed his hands and face in the basin of water provided. After breaking his fast with porridge, fruit, and ale, he asked a novice where the kitchener could be found.

  “In the undercroft of the grainery, meeting with the cellarer,” the novice replied, barely looking at him as he supervised the peasants hired by the monks to serve their guests.

  Jean remembered the cellarer: a suspicious man who kept a tight hand on the monastery’s expenses. He would do better if he saw the kitchener alone. However, he must meet with him today, while the roads were thick with visitors pouring through the gates, seeking food and accommodation. Those with money would follow their noses to lodgings that promised to feed them well. The kitchener understood this, but the cellarer… He had a bulbous, red nose that wept constantly and could not tell him the difference between an onion and a rose petal.

  “I will need your help later to carry a barrel of spices over for the kitchener’s inspection,” Jean told the novice.

  He waited, sipping the last of his mug of ale. A number of the wealthier merchants would want to see him before he offered his wares at the general market, which opened tomorrow. But he could not sell to them ahead of the monastery. He tapped his fingers against the table, drank the last of his ale. Surely the kitchener was free now. Had the novice forgotten?

  At length the fellow returned and together they carried one of the large, sealed barrels through the gardens and across to the grainery. The kitchen was separate from the other buildings, being prone to fires despite all the kitchener’s precautions. The spacious undercroft below it had a good flagstone floor and a curved vault ceiling supported by thick stone pillars, all designed to resist fire. They stood the barrel just inside the door, and the novice hurried off.

  Jean breathed in the aroma of stored food—salted fish and smoked meats, apples and pears and onions and garlic cloves. The expensive foreign spices were in a locked room at the back, but he could smell them faintly nonetheless.

  Two monks were talking together in the center of the room. Jean was annoyed to recognize the cellarer as one of them. What was he doing lingering here after his meeting with the kitchener? The kitchener himself was nowhere to be seen. He was quite old, Jean remembered, possibly entering his sixth decade. Had he gone to rest before preparing the mid-day dinner, leaving the cellarer to meet with Jean? Jean nearly groaned aloud at the thought.

  The young monk talking with the cellarer glanced up and saw Jean standing by the door. Jean nodded with an affable smile. The monk signalled to a novice barely out of boyhood, who approached Jean and asked his business.

  “I will inform the kitchener,” the novice said, handing him a cloth to wipe the rainwater from the barrel before it was opened. He crossed the room and whispered to the young monk.

  Jean bent to wipe the barrel dr
y. A new, young kitchener and a stingy cellarer. With any luck the cellarer would leave, but Jean did not feel lucky. Would this new kitchener want to impress the cellarer with his thrift, or the prior and the monastery guests with the flavour of the food that came from his kitchen?

  He wiped his hands on the cloth. Cluny was his biggest purchaser. His heart thumped loudly in concert with the monks’ murmured conversation. Where would he sell his excess spices if this new kitchener did not buy?

  He leaned against the stone wall, feeling its cold firmness at his back, and forced himself to breathe slowly. Cluny would buy. They had guests to feed, and they must feed them well in order to guarantee their return year after year. Surely they could afford to, with money pouring into the monastery from visitors and pilgrims come to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption.

  He scrutinized the cellarer. Was the fellow’s face more dour than usual? One never knew if a prosperous-looking establishment had just suffered a set-back. He would not find that out here—the monks were a close-mouthed lot, even those not under a vow of silence.

  The young kitchener beckoned him over. Apparently the cellarer was staying.

  “What spices have you?” the kitchener asked.

  “Let me show them to you,” Jean said, “so you may judge their quality as well.” He gestured back at his barrel. Let the spices talk to him with their rich, sensual aromas. Let him smell them here in his own storeroom and he would have to buy.

  The kitchener glanced at the cellarer.

  He wanted to buy; Jean could see it in his face. But would the cellarer let him? The cellarer was his senior in years and until recently had been his senior in position, also.

  Jean bowed his head briefly to the cellarer. The cellarer smiled: a tight clenching of the lips that did not reach his eyes. He could not eat spiced foods, Jean remembered, because of a sensitive stomach. He was not willing to let others enjoy what he could not.

  With the help of the novice, Jean carried his barrel over to the long table beside the two monks. He could have hefted it onto his shoulder himself; he was accustomed to carrying heavy loads and the spices were packed carefully. But he lifted it upright here, letting his care emphasize the value of the contents.

  He should have introduced himself to the kitchener the night before. He would have, had he known there was a new one. Now he must bargain with a man he knew nothing about, in front of the resentful cellarer. He could not chatter as he did at fairs, or smile familiarly or pay overripe compliments such as the merchants’ wives loved. He must appear relaxed and confident, but not overly so, and watch them carefully, letting their eyes and gestures guide him. If he undersold his goods he would set a standard that he would have to live with for many years, but if he demanded too much, he could lose Cluny. He and Mathilde and the children would be hungry this winter. And if he did not sell well at Lyon, either, they would be ruined.

  No. Never think of home when he was peddling his wares. He could not barter shrewdly while thinking of them. What had made him do so now? He wiped his hands again.

  Removing his knife from its sheath at his waist, he pried open the barrel lid, taking slightly longer than was necessary to impress the two monks with its tight seal. “This barrel has not been opened since I left Marseilles,” he said, glancing at the kitchener.

  The kitchener nodded.

  A tantalizing mixture of fragrances greeted them when Jean lifted off the lid. He reached in and began to place his goods on the long wooden table. The fragile loafs of sugar were on top, wrapped tightly in waxed cloth. He placed all seven on the table, carefully unwrapping one to show the dark-brown, cone-shaped loaf. The cellarer blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief which had already seen too many uses. He was fond of sweets, Jean remembered. He broke off two small pieces and handed them to the monks, who popped them into their mouths and sucked on them like noblemen’s children.

  While they were enjoying the sugar he took a large, tightly-woven linen bag from the open barrel. He unfastened the drawstring ties and poured a small pile of dark yellow mustard seeds onto the table. The cellarer frowned, but the kitchener took a pinch of the seeds and lifted them to his nose, as though their sharp scent had not filled his nostrils as soon as the bag was opened.

  The cellarer swallowed the last of his sugar and cleared his throat noisily.

  The kitchener dropped the mustard seeds into their bag.

  Jean placed a half-dozen smaller bags on the table. He opened one and pulled back the neck to display a small bundle of cinnamon sticks, still encased in their smooth, yellow-brown outer bark.

  The cellarer leaned over to take in their aroma. His nose dripped threateningly. Just in time he pulled his grubby handkerchief out and blew into it.

  “Cinnamon is referred to in the Holy Book. In Proverbs, I am told,” Jean murmured, looking down at the open bag with a feigned reverence.

  The cellarer, his nostrils temporarily clear, breathed in and licked his lips.

  To complement the cinnamon Jean opened a bag of cloves, pouring a few into his hand and holding them up for the kitchener to inspect.

  The kitchener’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, at being deferred to in this way. The cellarer frowned.

  Jean tipped the cloves back into the bag and pushed everything further down. He lifted three clay vessels out of the barrel and placed them on the table. Their tops were sealed with wax.

  “Yes, we need salt,” the kitchener said, glancing at a similar container standing beside the door to his spice room, which Jean had brought the year before. Salt was a prudent purchase which showed thrift as well as culinary skill: it not only enhanced food but also preserved it. Jean let his breath out gently. The kitchener had committed to buying from him. Now it was only a matter of quantity and price.

  Beside the vessels of salt Jean placed a large bag of dried black peppercorns, their sharp scent temporarily gaining ascendancy as he opened the bag and sifted his fingers slowly through them before half-closing it again.

  “We do not need pepper,” the cellarer said, watching his movements suspiciously. “Pepper is not easy on the digestion.”

  “Important people are coming to celebrate Saint Mary’s Assumption,” the kitchener murmured, staring like a greedy child at the spices laid out upon his table.

  Jean leaned back, giving him time. The longer he stood intoxicated by the rich scents, the more he would want to buy.

  “Piety is the spice that honors the Virgin’s Assumption,” the cellarer sniffed.

  “Of course,” the kitchener agreed, folding his hands together obediently.

  “And good wine,” Jean said, hoping to flatter the cellarer.

  “Which we can make without expensive spices. We do not need to see the rest of your wares.”

  Jean waited. The kitchener said nothing.

  “No matter,” Jean said, as though his heart were not pounding in his ears so that he could barely hear himself. “Your guests will be grateful for lodging even without the well-seasoned food they have been served in past years.”

  The kitchen was silent. Had he overstepped? Jean dared not look at either of the monks.

  “I will look at the rest of your spices,” the kitchener said.

  Jean bent into the half-empty barrel. He was not ruined. Not yet. Should he set a lower price? He would have to if the cellarer stayed. But he must live through the winter, and have enough money for next year’s spices, as well.

  He placed a long, flat wooden box on the table and lifted the top off. A pungent aroma floated up from it. The wood was thin—just enough to protect the fragile threads of saffron, tied into bundles with string, inside it. The kitchener’s eyes gleamed, but the cellarer, well aware of the price of saffron, scowled down at it.

  “You might as well put that back at once,” he said.

  The kitchener sighed.

  “No, no. The saffron is already spoken for,” Jean said. “I have just taken it out to reach the goods underneath. Monsieur Robert is ent
ertaining Lord Imbert de Lyon and wants to make sure his guest is satisfied. Lord Imbert is a generous friend, although I understand he can be fickle. I hear Monsieur Robert seduced him with a meal no man could resist.”

  While he was talking, Jean drew out more spices, as though he did not know Lord Imbert used to stay at the monastery. He reached the root spices, and placed them on the table: the thick, fleshy white gingerroots first and then, after the kitchener had examined one and returned it to the pile, the narrow, twisted yellow tumeric roots. Finally he placed the last bag on the table and opened it to show large, light beige cardomon pods. By now the rich aromas of the fresh spices so permeated the room that even the novice had stopped his work to stare at the laden table, breathing in deeply. The cellarer, looking more dour than ever, shifted his weight and blew his nose loudly into his sodden cloth.

  “Shall we use your scales?” Jean asked, as though the kitchener had already agreed to buy. As though it were only a matter of weight and price. He held his breath.

  The kitchener nodded to the novice, who promptly brought a set of scales over to the table. He handed the novice the key to the spice room and bade him take stock of what they needed.

  As though he does not already know, Jean thought. He would be a poor kitchener if that were the case. But he must show the scowling cellarer his prudence.

  The novice returned and murmured into the kitchener’s ear. He nodded solemnly.

  “Sugar cones,” he said. The novice placed the one Jean had opened on the scale. The kitchener weighed it carefully. He weighed each of the others in turn, although the variance between them was too slight to make much difference in price. He marked down their weights on the waxed cloths they were wrapped in.

  “Salt.”

  The cellarer nodded his approval.

  When the kitchener had weighed each of the vessels of salt, he directed the novice to retrieve the empty vessel lying outside his spice room, and marked down its weight as well. He sent the novice for last year’s books and leafed through them slowly, adding up the amount of pork and venison and fish the monastery had salt-dried, and calculating the amount of salt it had taken.