The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  The cellarer shifted his hefty weight from one leg to the other.

  When the kitchener began to tally the increase in monks and novices over the winter and the number of visitors in their guesthouse during the past year, the cellarer frowned and cleared his throat.

  “I leave you to your calculations,” he said. “I do not have time to watch you weigh and tally everything. Buy only what we need.”

  As soon as the cellarer left, the kitchener closed the books and signalled to the novice to return them to their shelf. He weighed the rest of the spices carefully but without undue deliberation.

  Jean watched, not daring to comment. The monastery scales appeared accurate, but there had been no mention of price.

  “I am sorry you have promised this to Monsieur Robert,” the kitchener said, when there was nothing left but the saffron.

  Jean hesitated. Was he hinting for a gift? “Saffron is an expensive spice,” he said, trying to steady the nervousness in his voice.

  “The cellarer has left us.”

  Jean looked up. The young kitchener smiled at him. “Does Monsieur Robert want it all?”

  “One sprig should be enough to flavour his meat,” Jean replied, smiling back.

  The kitchener’s smile widened.

  He bought the entire barrelful of spices, settling on a fair price with little haggling. Jean left the kitchen undercroft, rolling the empty barrel ahead of him and carrying the box with a single sprig of saffron under his arm. His step was as light as his barrel.

  ***

  Jean was content on the last day of the market as he wrapped up his herbs and whole spices and placed them in the open barrel. During the four-day-long market, he had sold nearly a third of his second barrel of spices to innkeepers and wealthy merchants, as well as twelve pair of woolen hose, most of his squares of shoe leather, several pieces of heavy felt for poor man’s shoes, four of Mathilde’s linen handkerchiefs and three of her fine silk ones: he reviewed his sales, smiling to himself as he packed up his wares.

  Most visitors had gone off to their dinner. The town merchants had left with them; only a few peddlers like Jean, too poor to buy proper stalls and therefore stationed off to the edge of the fairgrounds, were still packing up. The sharp scent of sweat, both human and animal, and the earthy smells of trampled dirt and spoiled farm produce lingered in the field. After four days of raucous noise—the rough voices of traders haggling over prices, the cooing of doves and pigeons, the scuffling of caged rabbits and squealing of pigs and crowing of roosters, the constant noise of people calling and chattering to one another—the sudden quiet made Jean’s ears ring.

  He packed his scales into one of the panniers and began strapping them onto the donkey. Tomorrow, after the Feast of Holy Mary’s Assumption, he had arranged to see the Abbot of Cluny, in order to sell him the nail. He had thought up a fine story to sell it, along with a pilgrim’s badge which he carried in his pouch.

  He would tell the Abbot he came across an ailing pilgrim just off a ship from the holy land when he was in Marseilles buying his spices. He brought the pilgrim to the inn where he was staying and paid the pilgrim’s board, and nursed him. But his care was in vain; the poor man was mortally ill. Just before he died, the grateful pilgrim embraced Jean, called him his Good Samaritan, and pressed his pilgrim’s badge into Jean’s hands. Then he asked Jean to lift the hem of his robe, his holy pilgrim’s robe, the hem of which had brushed the ground Christ walked on. He instructed Jean to tear the hem, and when Jean did, he beheld a nail.

  “From the Cross of Christ,” the pilgrim whispered.

  The nail shone as bright as the halo around our blessed Lord’s head, miraculously preserved through the centuries. Jean dared not touch it, but the pilgrim urged him to take it, and his pilgrim’s badge as well, and sell them and keep the money in return for the care Jean had given him. Only he must sell them to a monastery, where pilgrims would be drawn to see them, and pray before them, and have their faith strengthened, to the eternal glory of God.

  It was an excellent story. Jean would enjoy telling it, and the Abbot would want to believe him, in order to entice even more pilgrims to visit Cluny and fill its coffers. He would pay well for a nail from Christ’s cross. To think Jean had almost thrown it away!

  The Abbot had agreed to spare him a few minutes just before Vespers the next day, when most of the monastery guests would be gone. Jean assured him that it would be worth his time. He must remember to clean the badge and polish the nail well before he went.

  Jean folded the last sprigs of dried rosemary into their parchment wrapping and placed them in the barrel. No one would ever find out, this far from Marseilles, that the pilgrim died before the ship docked, that Jean had paid two deniers to claim the body as kin (for two deniers he could be kin to any pilgrim who died shipboard) and one more denier to have him dumped into a mass grave. He thought he had wasted his money when he saw that someone had already stolen the pilgrim’s scrip, but the gamble paid off when he found the pilgrim’s badge from Jerusalem sewn into the hem of his long gray tunic. Jean sold the pilgrim’s cloak and tunic, which only just covered his costs, but he held on to the badge: a fine silver token, stamped with the sign of the cross and a fish, symbol of the early Christians. A stroke of luck that he kept it—it would give authenticity to his story of the nail. Too bad he had sold the tunic, but he could say he had given it to a poor pilgrim bound for Jerusalem, who had promised to bring it back to Jean, twice blessed, when he returned. It would be easy enough to secure another gray pilgrim’s tunic, dusty with wear, and bring it to Cluny next year.

  Jean placed the lid on the barrel and pounded it down with a stone. Yes, this trip was turning out exceedingly profitable. He might even be able to set aside some money, above the amount he needed to buy next year’s spices and feed Matilde and the children. A little extra to guard them against the dangers and misfortunes that kept him awake worrying. That would be fine, indeed.

  He looked up to see Liselle and Guillaume standing before him. Guillaume held a squawking, struggling rooster under his arm. A narrow string was tied to the rooster’s leg and the other end to Guillaume’s wrist in case the rooster gained the upper hand, which it looked imminently about to do. Jean greeted them with a smile. He had not yet packed away the handkerchiefs. Liselle fingered a pretty yellow silk one.

  “How much?” she asked wistfully.

  “It has been blessed at the tomb of the Apostle James in Santiago de Compostella.” He didn’t need to tell her it was fine, imported silk, or that she could never afford it. She knew.

  “Seven deniers,” he said, watching Guillaume.

  Liselle touched it reverently. She glanced across at her husband.

  Guillaume shook his head. “I told you, Liselle,” he said softly. “I knew they would be too much.” He looked at the handkerchief regretfully.

  “These linen ones have also been blessed at the Apostle’s tomb,” Jean said. He held up the top one, a pretty light blue. “The same blessing, for only four deniers.”

  Liselle’s eyes brightened, but Guillaume shook his head again. “Four deniers is all we have left.” The rooster squawked and struggled. He tucked it further under his arm. “Come, Liselle.”

  Jean shrugged. He began folding the pretty cloths to pack into his sack, but he did not hurry about it.

  Liselle stood watching him, even when Guillaume touched her arm, and took a couple of steps, and paused, waiting for her to follow.

  Jean looked up and caught the sadness in her eyes. He looked away, frowning.

  Liselle blinked, still gazing at the handkerchiefs.

  Was that a tear on her cheek?

  What did he care if it was? Let her husband mind her tears, he thought fiercely.

  But he did mind them. He could not help himself. He stopped folding the linen squares and reached into his sack to pull out a bundle of ribbons.

  “One denier each,” he said, noting with irritation that the scarlet one was among them
. He could easily get two deniers for it, if he offered it to a wealthier woman.

  Liselle shook her head. “I wanted something blessed,” she whispered. “I never owned a blessing.” She bent her head.

  Jean felt it in his gut. He pushed the feeling aside. It was bad for business, going soft like this. Guillaume had four deniers; he had admitted it. He could please his wife if he wished. It was not up to Jean to care about her. He had his own wife to feed.

  Liselle straightened her shoulders and looked over at her husband. “I never thought I would, neither,” she said, smiling at Guillaume through her tears.

  Mathilde would say something like that. Why did they always give in? The look on Guillaume’s face made Jean’s stomach turn. It was like that, between men and women. Their quiet endurance unmanned you.

  He was ready to tell Liselle the ribbons were blessed, too, but she would be sure to talk that around, and someone would wonder why he had not said so before. Then they would begin to wonder about the handkerchiefs.

  Never change your story; that was the first rule. He wound one of the ribbons around the others, twisting the end inside.

  Never get greedy and push it too far; that was the second. No one would believe that everything he had to sell had been blessed.

  Never let the customer know he is a fool. That was third. Even Liselle, however much she might want to, would not really believe that he had forgotten to mention until now that the ribbons had been blessed. He tossed the bundle of unblessed ribbons into his sack.

  And never forget that the customer is only a fool with some money. That was the final rule. He folded the silk kerchiefs quickly and threw them in the sack. He would not look at Liselle. She was just another fool with a little money.

  She did not look at him, either, nor at Guillaume. She could not take her eyes from the linen squares. She reached out her finger slowly, as though unaware of doing so, to touch the pale blue one on top.

  Jean had to stop himself from snatching it away. Why was she torturing herself?

  And why should it bother him, her longing? It never had before. He gritted his teeth and let her linger over them. Let her husband see her wanting one so badly. He glanced over at Guillaume.

  Guillaume stood still, watching his wife.

  Jean found he was holding his breath. No, that was Liselle. She was holding her breath as he lifted the linen handkerchiefs. It was suffocating him, the way she held her breath and watched him fold away the blue linen square with its embroidered cross and its claim to a holy blessing, folding it inside the others, almost out of sight now.

  “All right!” Guillaume cried. “We will buy it, Liselle, if you want it so much.”

  Jean breathed in deeply.

  “I want it for us,” Liselle said, wiping at her eyes. “For our home. And for the boys when they come round with their families. To touch it, like. And be blessed.” She whispered the last words.

  Jean looked away, angry. It held no blessing for them. He did not want to sell it, after all. And he had been so desperate for her to have it earlier, as desperate as she was. But Guillaume already had his money out; there was nothing Jean could do but take the coins and hand over the false blue cloth.

  He watched them walk away together, Liselle holding the handkerchief to her breast, her face shining, and Guillaume grinning that he could so please his wife, and worrying a little over the money gone and struggling to hold on to the furious rooster, which scratched at his tunic and pecked his hand and left a ridiculous scattering of feathers behind them.

  The little window in her room was bright with sunshine when Celeste awoke. A moment later the door opened, dispelling the last of the shadows. Marie entered carrying a mug of small ale. She handed it to Celeste without meeting her eyes.

  Celeste drank slowly, watching Marie. She had made a great show of praying aloud the previous evening, hoping to disperse the girl’s doubts. Apparently in vain.

  “Dress me and braid up my hair for Mass,” she said, standing and placing the empty mug on the table. She felt Marie staring at her finger. “And find me some gloves. To prevent my hands from darkening in the sun.”

  “Yes, My Lady.”

  Marie’s anxious voice reminded her of the girl’s warning: Lord Bernard would come for her if he learned she was well. She would be glad to leave the abbey, but she was not ready to face him yet. Especially with the suspicion of possession lying over her. Why tempt him with a reason to set her aside if he had not already done so? Her cheeks burned at the thought of the shame such an action would incur. Better anything, better to die, than to be publicly humiliated by her husband’s rejection.

  “If anyone approaches us at Mass, you must speak for me, Marie. I have been ill and will be tired.” Let everyone think she was still recovering. People would speak more freely around her if she did not seem fully alert. She might learn something that would help her regain her ring.

  “What shall I say?” Marie’s hand, combing her hair, faltered.

  “Tell them you heard me praying last night. That attending Mass might help me shake off my melancholy.” She turned to smile at Marie over her shoulder. “That is true, is it not?”

  She had never been deceitful. The taste in her mouth as she made up these lies would have proven that to her, even without the look on Marie’s face. No wonder the novices’ talk had convinced Marie she was possessed. But what was she to do without any memory to advise her whom to trust? She must rely on her wits. She raised her chin. “Is it not true, Marie?”

  “Y-yes,” Marie stammered, looking away quickly.

  Ridiculous. The girl could not avoid looking at or speaking to her forever. She turned around sharply, ignoring the tug of the comb in her hair. “Marie, I am not possessed. At first I was ill and feverish. And then I was distracted while I thought what to do.”

  Marie looked unconvinced.

  “You know I did not really have a fit—it was you who tore the mattress.”

  Marie bit her bottom lip. Her face was easier to read than a parchment.

  “Here.” Celeste pulled the chain at her neck, exposing the silver cross beneath her kirtle. She kissed it.

  Marie sighed with relief. “And you truly want to attend Mass?”

  “Of course I do,” Celeste said, pressing the little cross to her forehead, chest and shoulders. Demons lie, she thought. So do people, when need be, she answered herself.

  ***

  Celeste stepped through the door of her room and stood blinking in the daylight. How different the courtyard garden looked this morning! The arbour was a profusion of colors and scents: sunlight on rosemary bushes and neat, aromatic plots of herbs intermingled with lilies, iris, daffodils, roses and gourdon flowers, all carefully planned to glorify God and inspire meditation. A stone pathway, accented by a low wall of shrubbery on either side, wound in concentric circles toward an open central garden where a long wooden bench invited contemplation. So bright and welcoming now, how had she imagined it spellbound and sinister in the moonlight? Her dream, which had so alarmed her in the night, was similar to this garden; threatening then but harmless now. She was tempted to believe last night’s silvery vision had also been a dream.

  “Please, My Lady, it would not do to be late,” Marie whispered urgently beside her.

  Celeste allowed Marie to lead her along the cloister to a tall wooden door which opened directly into the church. She stepped through it into the transept parallel to the nave. Narrow arched windows cut into the exterior walls let in fresh air and sunlight, which fell across the nave in stipples of light and shadow created by the twin rows of stone columns between the side aisles and the centre of the nave. Celeste leaned against one of the pillars, playing the part of someone beginning to recover from illness.

  The priest climbed slowly into his pulpit to the side of the elaborately carved wooden altar. His solemn voice echoed in the nearly empty church.

  The church did not have a flagstone floor and the hard earth was dusty under C
eleste’s feet. The north and south transepts on either side of the altar were still unfinished, waiting for the sacristy and the vestry to be built into them. The spire directly over the nave and the chancel, where the sanctuary should be, were not finished, either, and had simply been thatched over to keep out the weather. Celeste stared at the unadorned walls and the thatching. Had her husband sent her to the poorest and meanest nunnery he could find? No wonder the Abbess was willing to put up with her behaviour.

  Celeste endured the Latin service. If she had once been pious, she was no longer. The thought was alarming. It was one thing not to care for people; quite another not to care for God. Whatever else had changed in her nature pertained to her heart and mind; this was in her soul. She thought of her dream, bodies lying in the dark castle as still as death. Where had such a dream come from? She shivered in the cool stone shadows.

  The nuns began to sing. Their pure, clear voices soared above the altar, carrying her with them. It will all come right, they seemed to be saying, and Celeste’s fear slowly subsided. She glanced at the priest, an old man leaning against the railing of the pulpit, then across the front where the nuns who were not in the choir stood, behind them a dozen or so visitors from the guest house and the village.

  At the end of the front row, as if feeling her gaze, the Abbess turned and looked straight at her. Too late to turn aside, Celeste was caught in the older woman’s piercing grey stare. Startled, she returned the unblinking stare, raising her head proudly, and was further surprised when the Abbess’ mouth twitched slightly upward before a movement among the young novices forced her to return her vigilance to her flock.

  After the service, Celeste bid Marie lead her along the circular path to the bench at the centre of the garden. Delighted by the morning breeze on her face and the spacious garden, Celeste ignored Marie’s presumption in sitting beside her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the heady fragrance of the flowers, the lilting song of birds among the shrubs. Opening her eyes, she was once again struck by the beauty of the garden, with its brilliant colors and wash of golden sunlight. Despite the neglected state of the exterior vegetable gardens, the nuns had maintained this colorful labyrinth cloistered against their church: a single respite of beauty in their silent, colorless lives. Yet how often did they get to enjoy it? Celeste glanced around: she and Marie were alone in the garden. The lives of these nuns were meaner than those of the poorest peasant, for they must work as hard in the daylight, and rise from what rest they might take in the night to pray.