The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  “Get me… get me away from here,” she clutched the man’s arm.

  “We are staying at the Red Cock Inn,” Marie said.

  “I know it. I can help you take her there.” The man took Celeste’s arm. “Can you walk?”

  “With your assistance,” she murmured, holding his arm.

  When they were far enough from the square not to be overheard, Celeste straightened. “That man and his child. In the square. Are they—”

  “The child is safe,” Marie said.

  “That child is no more his than mine,” the man said, scowling. “He is a travelling peddler, lodged at the monastery. I cannot think what devil-ridden impulse caused him to interfere with the monks’ justice, but he will regret it. You were right to stone them, Lady.”

  “You know him then?” Celeste frowned at Marie to quell her objection.

  “Not I! I only spoke to him briefly before we went to the square.”

  “Let us not speak of him at all!” Marie cried. She leaned behind Celeste’s back to hiss: “Can you not see it distresses her?”

  Celeste gritted her teeth until she tasted blood. She would have Marie whipped. She would choose another maid and send Marie away in the night without a penny!

  “Do not concern yourself, Lady,” the man said. “You will not see him again. He will leave for Lyon at first light, I have no doubt of it.”

  “Lyon? Are you certain?” She would keep Marie after all; her foolish chatter was useful.

  “Sir—” Marie began.

  Celeste stumbled, stepping hard against Marie’s ankle.

  The man tightened his clasp on her arm. “All the peddlers and vendors will go to Lyon for the market next week. I myself am a metal smith; I will be leaving in a few days. But after what he did today, he would be wise to go at once. You will not see him again.”

  “That is reassuring.” She withdrew her arm.

  ***

  The peddler was not in the town square when they crossed it on the way to the public feast, after their rest. The square was vacant, except for others like themselves, skirting the edges to get to the commons beside the monastery. The bailiff’s men had removed the body, leaving only a pile of blood-stained stones. Celeste surveyed the empty square regretfully. What had come over her when her stone hit the child? Regret, of course: she had intended to hurt the peddler. But it had been more than that. Panic. Her heart pounded at the memory. And that crowd of people, breathing all around her, just like her nightmare… She turned and hurried past.

  He was not at the commons. Saying she needed some air, she had walked all around the feast grounds, Marie trailing behind, wringing her hands. Admitting defeat at last, she returned to the inn. She would have to go to Lyon.

  ***

  The next morning Celeste looked for Mistress Blanche. She would know how to reach Father Jacques, who could help her find a group to travel with. Although it was still early, neither the old lady nor her maid were among those sleeping on the inn floor. Celeste walked around the room until she spotted the old woman’s manservant. He was deeply asleep and did not waken easily. When at last his eyes focused on her, his expression was instantly wary.

  “Where is your mistress?” she demanded.

  “Is she not in the room?”

  “See for yourself.” She gestured around at the rousing guests.

  “Not down here. The innkeeper’s room. She paid him for it, last night. He and his wife went to sleep in the stable.”

  “Has your mistress’ illness worsened?” She had been paler than usual last night at dinner.

  The manservant’s eyes moistened; he sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on a dirty sleeve, and pointed upstairs.

  Celeste was reluctant to go to a sick room, but she had to speak to Father Jacques. She climbed the stairs as she had in her dream, afraid of what she would find, and stopped before an open door, trembling. Father Jacques’ voice came through the doorway, low and calm, reciting the last rites. Celeste crept forward.

  She fixed her eyes on Father Jacques, ignoring the bed. A deep, rasping sound came from it, the grate of indrawn breath as jagged as glass. Father Jacques finished his prayers and looked up.

  “Have you come to pay your respects?” he asked.

  “An escort,” she stammered. “I need an escort to Lyon.” She barely knew what she was saying. The words fell out of her mouth in a desperate attempt to block the harsh struggle for air coming from the figure on the bed, and the soft, wet rattle that followed each laboured breath. “I have been praying all night about this.”

  Father Jacques sank wearily onto the stool beside the bed.

  “Much of the night,” she amended, in case he had seen her sleeping when he came to attend to Mistress Blanche.

  “Why do you wish to go to Lyon?”

  “To pray at the Basilica de Fourviere.”

  “Does your husband agree to this second excursion?” He looked directly at her for the first time since she had entered the room.

  “My husband has little time for religion,” she said, reciting the arguments she had decided upon. “So I must be devout for both of us.” It was likely true; Lords were not known for piety, they were too busy with governance and war.

  “I cannot encourage a wife to act against her husband’s will.”

  He looked very young to be saying something so foolish, Celeste thought.

  “Even for the benefit of his soul? Of both our souls?”

  “Why do you need to pray at the Basilica de Fourviere?”

  “To give thanks for my recovery, and pray for my husband.”

  “You gave thanks at the Mass for Mary’s Assumption.”

  “Is it wrong to thank God twice?”

  He looked at her quietly without replying, until she looked aside.

  “Do you doubt that God heard your prayers here?”

  She looked back at him, but he was watching Mistress Blanche again. He spoke softly, as though addressing the sick woman. Celeste looked down at her.

  Mistress Blanche lay on the bed still dressed in her green silk kirtle, a thin white sheet drawn up to her waist. Her face was white, as translucent as the beads of moisture on her forehead. The blue lines of her blood pulsed weakly, obscenely visible through the thin veil of her dry skin. Her eyes were closed. She lay without moving except for her fingers, which plucked restlessly at the sheet with small, desperate movements.

  Etienne had lain so still, his face as pale as hers with all the life-color gone from it.

  Father Jacques dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and wiped it across Mistress Blanche’s forehead. Celeste held her breath, afraid he would tear the fragile layer of skin that held her together.

  She dabbed cool water on Etienne, just so, watching the tiny rise and fall of his chest until its movement was barely visible. She leant her ear against his lips, seeking the whisper of air between them.

  “No!” she cried, when Lord Bernard sent for a priest. But when the priest came, her hope wavered. She let him bless the child, as though Etienne’s little soul had had time to sin.

  “You may leave now,” she said as soon as the prayers were finished. “My son is not going to die.”

  Lord Bernard escorted the priest out. She heard him excuse her behaviour, and the priest’s haughty response as they walked away.

  “Etienne,” she whispered, bending over her son. She lifted him out of his cradle. He was hot and limp in her arms, and as light as the pale moonlight stealing through the window. She rocked him gently in her arms, and sang softly, under her breath:

  Where has it gone, the smiling sun?

  Little birds, where have you flown?

  Close your eyes, my little prince,

  Here with your head against my heart,

  Close your eyes and follow them.

  His eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheeks. Celeste drew a breath that trembled in her throat. Her voice shook as she sang:

  Under the sea is the smiling sun,

  A
sleep in their nests are the little birds

  Prince of the drowsy, dying day

  Lay your head against my heart

  Close your eyes and follow them.

  ***

  “Lady Celeste? Do you believe God did not hear you?”

  Celeste looked up, shaken. Father Jacques was watching her, waiting for her answer.

  …Prince of the drowsy, dying day, lay your head against my heart…

  “He did not hear,” she said.

  “If he did not hear you at the Mass for Mary’s Assumption, will he hear you in the Basilica de Fourviere?”

  Celeste looked down at Mistress Blanche, dying in a strange bed at the end of her pilgrimage. Father Jacques covered her restless hands and held them still. His hands were slender and soft, accustomed to prayer, not labour. She looked down at her own hands, as soft as Father Jacques’. She had prayed. How she had prayed!

  “No,” she said.

  The room filled with the terrible soft rattle of Mistress Blanche’s breathing. Father Jacques dipped the cloth into the water and gently patted her face again. “You might be surprised, where God can hear you,” he said.

  “Is she very bad, Father?” Marie stood in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at Mistress Blanche.

  “She is near the end.”

  “Is there anything to be done?”

  “Send her servant to fetch his master. And pray for her.”

  “I will, Father,” Marie said solemnly.

  ***

  Despite their prayers, Mistress Blanche died two days later. Her maid informed them of it while they were breaking their morning fast. She wept as though the woman had been her mother, not her mistress.

  “Father Jacques must find an escort for us soon,” Celeste said to Marie, when the maid left them. “Before all of Cluny’s visitors leave.”

  “Pilgrims stop at Cluny all the time.” Marie wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “The innkeeper’s wife told me. The Abbot of Cluny wants them to stay at his guesthouse and the townspeople want them to stay at the pilgrim’s hostel or the inns.”

  “We might wait weeks for a group we could join to happen by.”

  “I will talk to the Abbot about it today,” Father Jacques said, behind her.

  Celeste turned, blushing. “I did not know you were there, Father,” she stammered. He looked exhausted. As soon as he had drunk a mug of ale, he left for the monastery.

  Father Jacques returned in the late afternoon. Celeste hurried over to him. “What did the Abbot say?”

  He looked at her oddly, without answering.

  “They have all gone without me!” Celeste cried. She had feared this would happen; he had waited too long to make his enquiries. If only the old woman had died sooner!

  “I have spoken with the Abbot.” His voice sounded strange. “I am going to Jerusalem.”

  “You! What about me?”

  “You and Marie may pilgrimage with me.”

  “To Jerusalem?”

  “We will stop at Lyon. You can leave us there.”

  “Just us three?” How could he protect her from thieves and cut-throats?

  “A group of six pilgrims approached the Abbot for a monk to accompany them and hear their confessions. The Abbot has already sent out monks with earlier groups, and now he is sending me. To Jerusalem.” He stared at her, as though unable to believe his own news. “We are leaving in ten days, when they have made their preparations.”

  Ten days? She could not wait ten days. The market at Lyon would be over in four days. “Thank you, Father Jacques,” she said, nearly choking on the words.

  “Go to the other inns. See if there is a group travelling to Lyon,” she ordered Marie as soon as Father Jacques had gone.

  ***

  “Lady Celeste!” Marie stood at the door of the inn, hopping from foot to foot.

  “What is it?” Celeste hurried over. “Have you found a group of travellers we may join?”

  “Not here. I must talk to you in private.” Marie whispered. “Please, come away!” she added urgently.

  “Very well.” Celeste followed her out onto the street.

  As soon as they were alone, Marie grabbed her arm. “I saw him!”

  Celeste froze. The metal smith had been wrong: the peddler was still here!

  “What did you say to him? Did he speak to you?” Celeste demanded when she could speak again. Had he told Marie about the ring? She grabbed Marie’s shoulders, barely restraining herself from shaking the girl.

  “I ran away.” Marie was close to tears. “He did not see me.”

  “Where is he?” Celeste looked around as if she might see the peddler peering down the street at them. “Tell me quickly.”

  “On the road near the monastery.”

  “So he is leaving. In which direction was he heading?”

  Marie shook her head. “He has just arrived. I saw him riding through the gates of the monastery.”

  “Riding? On his donkey?” The poor beast had been overburdened already.

  “On his stallion.” Marie looked at her strangely.

  “His stallion?” Celeste straightened. “Who did you see, Marie?”

  “Lord Bernard.”

  Jean made his way through the gates of Cluny onto the busy road south. Pilgrims in their broad-brimmed hats and grey tunics walked at a good pace or rode briskly off, looking refreshed and eager to continue their pilgrimage. Peasants in short russet tunics and mended hose walked humbly at the sides of the road, while tradesmen, landowners and merchants in dyed linen drove their wagons down the middle, moving aside only when nobility with their colored silks and cloaks embroidered with gold and silver threads, swept past them in carriages and on horseback.

  The constant babble of conversation and the harsh accents of foreigners grated on Jean’s ear, and the frequent clatter of hooves and calls to “Make way!” jarred him. His head throbbed. It was two full days’ walk to Lyon.

  He had had little appetite for the feast and even less for conversation. He had taken a few bites of the roasted pig and returned to his room, which was just as well. After his inexplicable rescue of the child, he was a pariah. Even the loose-tongued metal smith avoided him, not that he cared to talk to that fool.

  All night he had tossed restlessly with dreams of the girl at the abbey: Sorrow. The memory of her despair exhausted him at each awakening, and oppressed him even now despite the warmth of the day and the fine weight of his money pouch.

  If that were not enough to make his head ache, there was that look the cellarer had given him when he left the monastery this morning: a look which did not bode well for future business. Jean had earned it, interfering in the stoning of a proven adulteress. The monks had all been there—they were behind the verdict even if the bailiff and his men carried out the trial and execution.

  Whatever made him rush to the child’s rescue? He had never done anything so stupid. He was a careful man, not one to be compelled by a flood of emotion to save a stranger’s child. The adulteress and her daughter were none of his business; his business was peddling spices and other goods. His business was making money, and he had never been distracted from that before. Now he had earned the disapproval of the cellarer of Cluny. He could barely digest his morning meal for thinking about the significance of that look.

  It was well past mid-day when he remembered that he had not met with the Abbot of Cluny. The realization brought him to a standstill. The donkey, glad of a rest, snatched a weed from the roadside and chewed thoughtfully while Jean stood dumbfounded beside it.

  He had not kept his appointment with the Abbot. An appointment he had been granted with reluctance because he promised it would be worth the Abbot’s time. He was sick at the thought, so nauseated he would have run to the side of the road if he had been able to move. He leaned against the donkey, which swished its tail at him unsympathetically.

  Perhaps the Abbot would not remember? He may not even have noticed that Jean did not come on one of the busiest days of
the year at his monastery. Jean clutched at the pathetic hope.

  “Is aught amiss?”

  He had passed up a certain sale, a lucrative one, after setting it in motion. What could have made him forget so completely? Even his weariness and his headache could not explain such a momentous oversight.

  “Is there aught amiss, friend?”

  What if the Abbot had seen Jean rescue the child? What if he took Jean’s absence as a comment on the stoning? Jean groaned aloud.

  “Are you ailing, then?”

  He had missed his opportunity to be rid of the nail, wherever it came from, and to be rid of her with it… Because he was ensorcelled! Why had he not seen it, that black hair, those dark eyes like bottomless wells, her pale face filling his dreams…?

  No, that was madness! He had not bought her sorrow! It was not even a coffin nail she gave him.

  “Good Sir, what ails you?”

  Jean gasped as he felt himself roughly shaken.

  A tall pilgrim stood directly in front of him, searching his face with concern. His companions clustered about them.

  “Nothing ails me!” Jean snapped, shrugging himself free of the man’s grasp on his shoulders and glaring round at them.

  “You have been muttering to yourself,” one of the pilgrims said.

  “For a good while, like one caught in a spell,” another added.

  “I recognize him. He was at the stoning. He—”

  The tall pilgrim waved the speaker to silence.

  “A spell? I am not spell-bound,” Jean cried.

  The pilgrims watched him warily. One of them made the sign of the cross, another touched the emblem at his shoulder.

  “No one is accusing you of it,” the tall one said quietly.

  “I-I just remembered something.”