The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  The shouts and jeers of the crowd were deafening. Celeste stood on tiptoe, craning her neck to see the woman kneeling on the ground.

  When they began throwing stones, the woman bowed her head to avoid them. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face. It was impossible to tell whether she was beautiful or not.

  A large stone hit the side of her head. Celeste was close enough to see her shudder with the impact.

  She looked away. Life was not like the jongleur’s songs. What did it matter now if the woman was beautiful, or whether she had been happy? And what did it matter that she would die for it? The woman was guilty. Even the innocent were not spared; why should the guilty be?

  A child ran out of the crowd to her right, crying for her mama. The woman looked up. She was disappointingly plain, and when she started to scream she seemed very ordinary. Celeste had at least admired her silent fortitude.

  A man ran into the center of the square. His back was to Celeste as he bent down, lifting the child, who had fallen.

  The adulteress pulled against her bindings toward him. Her mouth opened, but Celeste could not hear what she cried out. Her eyes were wide, desperate. Not even the smallest residue of happiness or passion showed on her face as she looked at the man. Was happiness so fleeting, then? Well, what had she expected?

  The man turned away from the adulteress, carrying the child, but the crowd would not let him in. He stepped forward, giving her a clear look at his profile—

  “You!” she cried, staring at the peddler.

  “You know this man?”

  “He cheated me!”

  “I offered to buy his dinner, and now I learn he is a friend to sinners and a dishonest man. Here.” The man pressed several stones into her hand.

  Without thinking, she threw one at the peddler. It glanced off his shirt. She imagined his face leering over her, felt the pain as he ripped her ring from her finger. Raising her hand she flung the two remaining stones as hard as she could.

  “My Lady, no!” Marie’s frantic voice cried behind her.

  Her stone hit the child’s cheek, drawing blood. The child screamed, and lay still.

  She had killed a babe. She killed him!

  “No!” she screamed. “No! I never meant to hurt him!”

  The peddler looked in Celeste’s direction. His face was filled with sorrow, an agony of grief…

  A wave of dizziness hit her. Her knees buckled.

  “You will have to put her aside.” Eleanor reached over the table to cut a leg from the guinea fowl with her knife. The juices ran down her chin when she bit into it.

  As though Celeste were a morsel of meat to be tossed aside when he had had his fill. Lord Bernard said nothing, not trusting his voice against the anger that burned in his chest. His sister had never shown any fondness for his wife. Not that he had expected a friendship between them. Celeste was the same age as Eleanor’s third child—the son who had married off his sisters and evicted his mother from their Anjou castle within a year of his father’s death. Neither of the daughters had invited their mother to live with them, forcing her to rely on her brother’s charity. Eleanor was no longer favourably disposed toward the young.

  “You have no just cause to do so.”

  Bernard glanced at his cousin: Raimond, always the courtier, honor-bound to defend his Lady Mistress. Celeste had a ready friend in him.

  “She is as beautiful and as useless as when you married her,” Eleanor said. “And no fit wife for you.”

  Was that sarcasm in her voice, or bitterness? She was a plain woman, and would not have married at all without her title and handsome dowry; nor would her daughters be married if their father had not settled their dowries before his death, so that their brother could not get at the lands and monies meant for their prospective husbands. Even so, they had not married well. Bitterness, then, Bernard decided.

  “Lady Celeste has borne a healthy son,” Raimond said gallantly.

  “Who has died.”

  “Not from any neglect on her part.”

  There was no denying that. Celeste had been a devoted mother. Too much so. It was unnatural, the way she had doted on the child. He caught Eleanor watching him.

  She would not speak this way if Celeste were gentry-born. Nevertheless, she only voiced what others were already saying. Three months had passed since Etienne’s death.

  “She will never give you an heir now. She cannot even manage your household.”

  “You did not want me to wed her from the beginning,” Bernard said, breaking his silence. Immediately he regretted it. Now he had joined this conversation, he could no longer ignore it.

  “No, I did not! A Lady would have more steel in her than that little wisp of a girl will ever have. But you would not listen to me, and look what it has led to. You have no wife, no heir, not even a pretty bed-mate.”

  No steel? Celeste was full of courage. He had known it the first time he saw her, a child of twelve, racing a horse much too big for her across the field toward her father’s manor, well ahead of the man who had been sent to fetch her home by her embarrassed parents. He had seen it in her eyes, curious and unafraid, when she knelt with her family to pay him homage. He had wanted her then, had made himself wait two years for her to grow to womanhood. And if he had not known her dauntless spirit already, he knew it when he brought her to his castle, five times the size of her father’s manor, and saw her lift her chin and hold her gaze steady, despite the tremble in her leg, pressed against his in the carriage. Eleanor thought her weak because she allowed Eleanor to continue to manage his household. When he asked her about it, she had looked surprised. ‘It makes her happy,’ she said. ‘She is your older sister, I thought you would want me to please her.’ He was ashamed to admit that making Eleanor happy had not occurred to him.

  “If you set her aside you will ruin her,” Raimond said.

  “She can enter a nunnery,” Eleanor countered coolly. “She already has. Free her to follow the life she chose when she left your castle.”

  “Enough!” Barnard slammed his fist into the table. “I have not decided to put her aside.” Were they so obtuse as to think he wanted this? That he would ever find another woman who stirred in him the feelings Celeste had? If she showed any signs of improving, of forsaking her grief and her anger… He stabbed his knife into the venison, slicing off a chunk, and bit into it, scowling. Eleanor was right: He must have an heir.

  He left the table more conflicted than he let them see. Eleanor could manage his household, but she could not give him a son, and he must have one soon if he wished to secure his holdings. Eleanor’s son was sufficiently engaged in mismanaging his father’s estate, without inheriting Bernard’s as well. He could leave his title and lands to his cousin, Raimond, but Raimond had no sons and Eleanor’s boy would surely dispute it; that would be all King Louis needed, to step in. Without a direct descendant, the King would confiscate his castle and holdings to pay for the war with Britain’s King Henry, which was sure to come sooner or later; that or another crusade. And that would be the end of their family title.

  He must set her aside.

  Was he behaving as callously as Raimond implied? Had he ruined Celeste’s life? What a beautiful child she was, with her dark hair and fair skin, and those huge, dark eyes, so full of candour and trust. When he had returned two years later and seen her as a woman, he had wanted nothing so much as to stare into those wide, deep eyes, to unbraid that rich abundance of hair and run his hands through it, to fan it out across his pillow and bury his face in its softness. He had not been able to resist her; would not be able to now, were she before him.

  That was the truth of it, and Eleanor saw it, and scorned him for it. Nor was she alone; how many others laughed behind their hands at his foolishness? Celeste was no fit wife for him; a fault of her birth, not her character. He needed a wife at court with him, to help him advance in Louis’ favour, and that Celeste could never do. Perhaps this was his opportunity to make a wiser choice.


  He passed the yard where the two boys he was fostering were practicing their swordplay with his men. On seeing him they stopped and bowed. He waved them back to their lesson.

  A stable boy appeared before him as soon as he entered the stables. “Saddle my horse,” he said, more sharply than necessary. The boy bowed and ran off to obey.

  Bernard did not follow him. Alone at last, he leaned against the stable wall. Raimond’s words cut into him, as painful as a battle wound. Had he ruined Celeste? Had he asked too much of her? Wed her too young? Failed her in some irreparable way without even realizing he was doing so? That beautiful, tender girl. He groaned under his breath.

  The night before she left for the convent, he had come to her room for one last attempt to talk her out of leaving. She lay across her bed, moaning to herself. She was wearing a plain black kirtle that covered her like a shroud and her hair was tangled and dirty despite her child-maid’s attempts to clean and comb it. Her eyes were open, so wild and filled with grief he could not bear to look at her; he backed out of the room without speaking.

  He sighed. It served no purpose to relive the past. How could he have known she would crumple under adversity? In every other way she seemed so stalwart. A sickly son makes a poor heir; she should have understood that, and consoled herself with thoughts of another child.

  And yet, Etienne had not seemed sickly. He had been a robust infant until that fever. Even then he had fought it bravely, had seemed to overcome it. The day his fever broke, ah, their joy that day! That night he had taken Celeste to his bed and loved her with the same sweet tenderness they had shared the first night of their marriage. But she had insisted on returning to her own room, where she had had Etienne’s cradle placed while he was ill. And the next morning he was dead.

  The clip of horse hooves broke through his thoughts. He raised his head.

  “Your horse is ready, My Lord,” the boy mumbled.

  “Bring him.” Bernard strode out of the stable, followed by the boy leading his large hunter.

  He swung into the saddle. A good, hard ride would clear his head. He urged his horse into a trot across the stable yard, and then into a gallop when he reached the meadow. The past could not be altered. As for the future—well, Eleanor was right: he must find a wife of his own station. It must be done. In truth, a part of him welcomed it. Not yet, though. Another month or so would make no difference. Meanwhile, he would return to Louis’ court; he had been away too long. After his ride, he would order preparations begun for the journey to Paris.

  ***

  Bernard saw the horse as soon as he rode into the yard. It had been ridden hard and was still damp with sweat. The stable-boy had removed its saddle and was walking it in wide circles in front of the stables to cool it down.

  He pulled his stallion to a halt and tossed the reins to a waiting groom. “Where is the messenger?” he demanded, annoyed that one of his animals had been used so ill, and anxious in case it had been necessary. He swung down from the saddle and strode toward the kitchen where the groom pointed.

  The boy leaped up from the bench as soon as he saw Bernard.

  “My Lord,” he choked out, around a mouthful of chicken he was trying desperately to swallow.

  “What is your news?”

  “Your Lady wife is recovering,” the boy said, bowing to cover a coughing fit.

  “Recovering?” Bernard glared at the boy. Was she better or not? The boy could not speak for coughing. “Bring ale!” he roared.

  “She sits in the garden and attends Mass,” the boy gasped after drinking deeply from the proffered cup.

  “Is she completely well?” He would overlook the treatment of the horse and reward the boy handsomely. “She is well?” he repeated, grinning despite himself. To hell with a suitable wife!

  “I… I do not know, My Lord.”

  “You do not know? Did you speak with her? Did she give you a message for me?” Had she sent for him to come for her? He would go tonight, by God.

  “N… no.” The boy looked frightened. “My mother bade me come.”

  “She sat in the garden and attended Mass? That is all you can tell me?”

  The boy nodded miserably.

  “You did not see her yourself?”

  The boy shook his head. “My Mo—“

  Bernard left the kitchen. Curse the boy and curse his mother! He had told the wench to send her boy with a message from his wife when she recovered. Was she so eager for the money he had promised that she had forgotten, or was Celeste unable to write? Or unwilling? Was she well or not?

  He would look an anxious fool, riding into the abbey to greet his wife if she were not healed. Worse, if she were well and refused to see him. He cursed out loud. Nevertheless, fool or not, he would go. He was planning to ride to Paris at any rate, and the Abbey of Sainte-Blandine-de-Lugdunum was on the route.

  Eleanor met him in the great hall while he was ordering the servants to pack his things.

  “What word did the messenger bring?” she asked, aware as always of everything that occurred at the castle.

  “Very sparse. He claims My Lady wife is recovering but offers no proof. I will stop in on my way to court, and see for myself.”

  “And if she has not recovered?”

  “Then I will stay in Paris until Yuletide is over.” He smiled wryly, knowing he had not answered her question.

  “What then, if she has recovered?” A not too subtle prod: he did not need reminding that Celeste could not accompany him to court.

  “I will have Raimond and two of my men escort her back here, and follow as soon as King Louis gives me leave.”

  “Not Raimond.”

  He sent the servant scurrying with a final command before he turned to her. “Why not Raimond?” He asked. She had objected too quickly, and now she hesitated too long in answering. “My cousin would be disappointed to miss King Louis’ court, but he will do as I bid.”

  Still she did not reply.

  “What is it, Eleanor?” He spoke quietly, watching her.

  “I know nothing.” She spread her hands dismissively.

  “What do you suspect?” It would not be nothing. She was as watchful as a hawk over her domain.

  She glanced at him, her expression inscrutable. “There is something between Raimond and Celeste.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Do not believe me, then. Go your merry way like a fool—”

  “What have you seen, Eleanor?”

  “Nothing. Nothing to put words to. Only the way he looks at her, talks to her. They have a secret.”

  “Lady Celeste! Lady Celeste!”

  “…my fault,” Celeste moaned, dazed by horror and unable to recall its source.

  “No, My Lady,” Marie sobbed beside her. “You did not mean to hit the little girl.”

  “I should not have pressed the stones on her,” a man’s voice muttered nearby. “I did not know she was a Lady.”

  Stones? Little girl? What were they talking about? She opened her eyes.

  A half dozen faces stared anxiously down at her.

  “Pierre.” She smiled, recognizing one of the faces. He had found her in the crowded market, as she knew he would. She reached up to embrace him. He looked startled and pulled back.

  “It is not Pierre, Lady Celeste,” Marie said, her eyes wide. “She thinks you are her brother,” she whispered aside.

  Celeste flushed. Of course it was not Pierre. Pierre was—

  She had had his image so clearly in her mind, and now it slipped away. She looked around, disoriented.

  “Where am I?” she asked, blushing at her confusion.

  “We are at Cluny, My Lady,” the young man who was not Pierre said.

  “You fainted,” Marie added, wringing her hands.

  Celeste propped herself up on her elbows. She was lying on the stone bench where she had sat earlier, at the side of the crowded square. She had… pushed through the crowd, to see… the adulteress. Yes, she remembered the adu
lteress.

  “We should return to the inn. You can rest there, out of the sun, My Lady.”

  Something else had happened in the square. She had been watching the woman being stoned, and then—

  “My Lady—”

  “Be quiet, Marie. Let me think.”

  She closed her eyes. An image came to her: a face, sharp and suspicious, peering down at her.

  The peddler! Her eyes flew open.

  “Are you well, Lady?” Marie asked.

  He was here! Did he still have her ring? She would find him, and order him to return it. Lord Bernard could not deny their marriage then. She would take the nail as well if she must. She sat up, swaying a little as she fought down a surge of dizziness and nausea, and reached out for support.

  Marie grasped her arm. “My Lady?” her voice rose anxiously.

  His face leered over hers. “I can end your suffering.”

  Oh God, what if it were true? What if he gave them back, the ring and the nail, and she fell ill again? A sense of it came back to her, the overwhelming despair, the constant weariness, the grief so deep and sharp within her it hurt to move, the burning eyes of demons beckoning her…

  She shrank back against the wall. Not that, she did not want that back. She closed her eyes, replacing the face she remembered with the one she had seen today, confused and frightened, tormented by sorrow, overwhelming sorrow—her sorrow!

  “Please, My Lady,” Marie insisted.

  She must have her ring back. She would not be set aside, forced to live in wretched poverty and silence at the abbey, laughed at by everyone for daring to reach too high. But only the ring.

  She stood up shakily, looking around. The woman was no longer screaming. How much time had passed? Was the peddler gone? Had he been stoned? If he was dead, she would never get her ring back. (If he was dead, was her sorrow dead with him?)

  “Will she be all right?” a man’s voice asked.

  She turned to look at the speaker: the man in the crowd, behind her. He had known the peddler. He had given her the stones to throw. A wave of dizziness weakened her.