The pilgrim nodded. “Walk with us, then, while you collect yourself.”
Jean saw the heavy silver cross round the man’s neck and then, under the hood of his cloak, the circle of his tonsure. He must be the group’s confessor. And Jean had flung his hand aside!
He could do nothing now but agree. A request by a priest to walk with him was not a suggestion. Other travelers on the road would be watching, approving the priest’s Christian charity. If Jean refused his company, he would be outcast, ready prey to thieves and ruffians hiding in the thick woods beside the road. Worse, it could be taken as proof that he was bedevilled. He was lucky the priest wanted to walk with him, after he had rudely thrust the man’s hand from his shoulders.
He nodded his thanks, putting a good face on it, and fell into step beside the priest. No need to hurry, though. Sooner or later, the pilgrims would tire of his cumbersome pace. He slowed his step a little, sighing as though with weariness.
“What is your name, friend?” the tall priest asked, curbing his stride to match Jean’s. The pilgrims traveling with him fell back a little.
“Jean le Peddler, Father.”
“And where are you headed?”
“Lyon.”
When the silence became noticeable, Jean added, “to sell my goods to the wine merchants.”
The priest nodded. Was he waiting for Jean’s confession? He would wait a long time.
“What do you sell?”
He was the patient sort, then. Willing to creep up on it. But he would get little from Jean for all his patience. Jean knew enough to keep counsel with himself; he had learned that lesson early.
“Spices,” Jean answered. “Hose and shoe leather. And handkerchiefs blessed at Santiago de Compostella.” The man would know all that already if he had seen Jean at the market.
“Do you take them to Santiago yourself, to be blessed?”
“I am a peddler, not a pilgrim like you.” Jean shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I know a priest who goes on pilgrimage to Santiago every few years. He takes them for me.” A married priest, who kept his wife hidden at Zaragoza in order to appear in compliance with the church’s new laws; who feigned his pilgrimages to visit her and was willing to swear, for the price of a sou to aid in her upkeep, that the handkerchiefs had been blessed at Santiago.
“Perhaps you are on your way to Santiago?” Jean asked, turning the talk away from himself.
“No, we are headed for Marseilles to board a ship for the Holy Land.”
“May God bless you on your blessed journey,” Jean said, turning slightly to include them all as he crossed himself. A little ostentatious, but it appeared to reassure them. No one under a spell would be able to make the sign of the cross.
He was annoyed to find that he felt reassured, also. It increased his irritation with the pilgrims. Superstitious fools. The girl had not cast a spell on him. It was his own fault he had missed an opportunity to make a profitable sale at Cluny. He was tempted to turn around and walk straight back to the monastery. But he would be going against the flow of people, and in a few hours he would be alone on the road. It would be dark before he reached Cluny, and he carried a full money pouch. No, he could not go back. And he could not sell the nail at Lyon, it was too close to Sainte-Blandine-de-Lugdunum. What if she went to see the nail from Jesus’ cross at Lyon, and recognized it?
Well, there were other monasteries and churches on his route, though none as rich as Cluny or the Basilica de Fourviere at Lyon.
“Do you have a family?”
The priest was not satisfied yet, even if the pilgrims with him were.
“I was thinking of them when you came upon me, Father. Missing them.” Jean spoke in a low voice, as though it were a confession. If it had been true, it would be one. That was another rule: never think of home when he was away.
The priest’s face relaxed slightly. A few details and he would be convinced. Jean gritted his teeth. Trading was trading and home was home; no good would come of mixing them. But he would have to do it, have to share his family with this prying priest. The man would just keep at him otherwise, and perhaps set the others wondering about a man who would not open up to a priest. Best get it over with. He put on a pitiable expression, as a homesick person might show.
“Simon is the oldest. He will be able to come with me in another year.” Some would have considered him old enough now, among them Simon himself, but Jean had put it off. Simon would not find it easy to forget home. Simon was soft inside like a woman. Jean would have to take that out of him, and it would not be easy. It had to be done, for the boy’s own good—but not for another year.
“Gilles is a jester, but a good boy. And quick.” Gilles was as sharp as they came. Gilles would understand the game. He kept his eyes open, that one. There was none of Mathilde in Gilles; he was all Jean’s.
“Mathilde lost two after them, but she is a good woman. A pious woman.” Maybe too pious. He had had to go to some lengths to convince her that the handkerchiefs were actually being taken to Santiago to be blessed. He would have to hide the truth from Simon, too.
“And a good mother. She taught the boys to cipher well enough for a tradesman. And to pray, as well.” He was babbling. Mathilde did her job and he did his. No need to sound idiotic about it. But the priest was smiling now, if a bit condescendingly.
“And the little one?”
A man had no protection against a priest. Jean looked away, but it was too late for that. Once a man started talking about home it was all there, in his face.
“Jeanne. She is two years of age.” That was all. He would say nothing more.
“Dark hair, like her mother? Like your Mathilde?”
Jean nodded once. He looked up, met the priest’s eyes. He was smiling at Jean with genuine warmth now, but underneath, just a hint of smugness. He thought he had learned something Jean had not meant to tell.
“She calls her mother ‘Mama’?”
Jean kept walking. He gave nothing away, not in his face or his breathing or the slightest move of a finger. What was the priest getting at? He appeared to attach some significance to his questions that Jean could not fathom. Was he trying to trap Jean somehow?
“All children call their mothers that,” he replied. The pause had been too long, but he said it anyway.
“That is true. But not all men remember it.” The priest clapped him on the back. “Well met, friend!”
Jean blinked, confused. The priest’s thoughts were too subtle. Nevertheless, he nodded, accepting the tribute. It was as good as a letter of protection. Anyone on the road who had heard the priest say it, or seen him clap Jean’s back, would come to his aid now if he was in trouble. Nevertheless, Jean was not pleased. He had paid too much for it.
The priest lengthened his stride. “Safe journey home!” he called over his shoulder as he moved ahead. The pilgrims in his charge hurried to catch up with him, smiling or slapping Jean on his arm or his back as they passed. Jean endured their goodwill. They would most likely tell others ahead to watch out for him. The priest was that type of man—a born shepherd.
The trouble was, Jean did not like being considered a sheep.
***
Jean walked until it was too dark to see the sides of the road, even with the campfires of weary travelers strung out along it. He did not need to stop at dusk to make a camp as the other travelers did; a spice seller would be welcome at any fire. He kept a small leather container of salt and rosemary and a few local herbs to add to the stew pots that he was invited to share.
He thought again of the scene at the town square and the cellarer’s glowering stare. “Huh!” he said, defiantly, as though the monk could hear him. “Huh!” He did not regret it. He did not regret it after all! He could still feel the child’s thin arms around his neck, and he was glad she was not lying stone-cut and still beneath a mound of human cruelty, like her mother. What if it hurt his business?
What indeed? Was he as fond-foolish as the priest believed him to be?
&n
bsp; Well, what of it? He would not behave so impulsively again, but he was glad he had saved the child, and that was the end of it. Whether he had acted this way before or not, it was done, and he would not regret it. One act did not make him as foolish as his mother. It did not make him anything at all like her.
***
He was back on the road at dawn. As the morning progressed, however, an uneasy reluctance slowed his pace. Travelers whose campfires he had walked past the evening before now passed him by. The donkey shared his lassitude—or at least was inclined to take advantage of it. The beast required more prodding than Jean had the energy for. Together they trudged down the road, each step slower, more sluggish than the one before.
Toward Sainte Blandine de Lugdunum.
Toward the Abbey of Sainte Blandine.
Toward the girl with dark, unfathomable eyes in a pale face, with hair so black it shimmered. The girl whose ring he had taken.
The girl who had sold him her sorrow.
Every step he took was harder, until he simply stopped, unable to go further.
“Homesick again, friend?” Someone slapped Jean on the back, then threw an arm across his shoulders.
“You did not see us when you passed last night, heh?” The tall priest continued, taking in Jean’s bewildered expression and wrapping his easy conversation around it. “I was hearing confessions, or I would have called you to join us. But here you are, walking with us again.”
The strong arm across his shoulders pulled Jean forward. One of the pilgrims slapped the donkey’s rump sharply, and they were moving again.
The priest did not force Jean to talk. He left him to his silence and chatted with the others in his entourage. He kept his arm over Jean’s shoulder, though, and Jean was miserably glad of it. If there were any lingering malevolence waiting here to punish him for taking advantage of the girl, the priest’s silver cross would surely protect them both.
As they approached the fork in the road which led to the abbey, Jean watched the road warily, but there was no pile of black cloth lying beside it to trap him today. Not with the priest’s arm guarding him.
They were passing the road now.
Now it was behind him. He let out a breath he had not known he was holding.
“Shall we stop at the Abbey of Sainte Blandine for our midday meal?” one of the pilgrims walking behind them asked. “Here is the road that leads to it.”
Jean stumbled, his knees buckling. What was he doing walking with these men, here of all places? If he met up with the girl, if she told her story to them, he would be condemned, ruined. What if she were still at the abbey?
The priest’s grip tightened around him until he regained his footing. “Not yet, I think,” the priest said calmly. “Let us go a little further before we stop.”
Jean breathed. He drew the air in slowly, painfully, trying not to gasp for it. Trying to hide the depth of his distress from this priest who prided himself on his perceptiveness. One breath, and then another. She was not on the road.
One footstep, then another, and another.
They were past the road to the abbey now. The main road curved slightly. Now the abbey was well behind them. Jean’s tread grew steadier. He had let this foolishness go too far; surely it would all end now, the dreams, the doubts, the ill-considered actions.
Now even the fork in the road was no longer visible. The priest’s arm on his shoulders felt heavy, confining, with its implied familiarity. He took a deep breath, straightening.
The priest, sensing it, loosened his hold. As he did, he leaned down and murmured in Jean’s ear, “Do not worry yourself so. The girl is all right now.”
“Lord Bernard? Lord Bernard is here? At Cluny?”
“That is what I have been telling you,” Marie wrung her hands in the way that so irritated Celeste.
“Are you sure?” She grabbed Marie by the shoulders and shook her. “Are you sure it was Lord Bernard?”
“Yes!” Marie cried, stumbling backwards. “He was a road’s width from me. I hid behind a bush and watched him ride across to the cathedral with his men. Do not strike me, Lady!” She raised her hands to cover her cheeks.
“How many men?” She should slap Marie for her impertinence, but then she would have to wait even longer to get anything out of her.
“Three henchmen. One of them held his horse when he went into the cathedral. And Raimond.”
A tall, dark man, younger than Bernard, closer to her age. His …cousin. The memory wavered, carrying a mixture of warmth and threat. She shook her head.
Lord Bernard was here. The Abbess must have told him she had gone to Cluny.
Why had he pursued her here? Like a sparrow fleeing a hawk she turned and twisted, and still he came after her. She could not meet up with him now. Not when she was so close to reclaiming her ring. Was it not enough that she had to worry about finding the peddler—
The peddler! What if he was still here, at Cluny? If he had not left yet? Oh God! If they should meet, and Lord Bernard find his ring in the peddler’s possession—
“We must leave at once,” she cried.
“Leave?” Marie’s face paled. “You must go to him, Lady. He is your Lord husband, and he has come for you.”
“You forget yourself!”
“Because I love you! I want you to have a future!”
Celeste drew back sharply, looking around. No one was near enough to hear. She would have to dismiss the girl when this was over.
“Calm yourself,” she said, breathing deeply herself. “Lord Bernard does not know that you have seen him. He will not know I left knowing he was here.”
“What if he sees us leaving?”
Celeste hesitated. Lord Bernard might well see them leaving if he was staying at Cluny. They could leave by the town gate, but that would mean circling back to reach the road to Lyon. It would take time, and time increased their likelihood of being intercepted.
“We must disguise ourselves.”
“As for a masquerade?” Marie asked doubtfully.
Celeste choked back a laugh. She took a breath to calm herself, and thought a moment. It must be something subtle that would hide them without drawing attention. Peasant’s garb? The thought of wearing coarse russet was distasteful. At any rate, they would be riding horses, not walking like peasants.
Pilgrim’s cloaks! There would be hundreds of pilgrims leaving Cluny, all wearing the cloaks they had bought at the fair. And why not wear such cloaks? They were pilgrims, also. She gave Marie her purse and sent her on the run to buy two cloaks, and two of the wide-brimmed hats as well.
“Be careful not to let anyone at the Inn see them when you return,” she cautioned. “Carry them under your cloak and pack them into our baggage before you come to dinner.”
***
Returning to the inn yard, Celeste sought out the stable boy and instructed him to saddle her horse and the pony. “Have them ready for me and my maid to ride after dinner,” she told him. “They must have some exercise.” She felt foolish as soon as she said it. A Lady would not explain her actions to a stable boy. But he only nodded and went to find her tack.
She entered the inn and sat at the table. The innkeeper’s wife handed her an earthen bowl filled with hot stew. Although she had no appetite, she forced herself to eat. Who knew when they would eat again?
Marie returned and stood at the door, looking in. Celeste discretely motioned her toward the corner of the room where she had piled their belongings. Marie went over and knelt with her back to the dinner table. Celeste dared not watch her, and was relieved when at last she came to the table and sat beside her with a single tiny nod.
While they ate, Celeste kept her eye on the door. Her hands shook as she lifted the bowl to drink the thick broth. Lord Bernard must know by now that she was not at the monastery guesthouse. The Abbot would remember her from the Bishop’s sermon and send for Father Jacques to tell her husband where she was staying. He might already be on his way to the Red Cock Inn.
She rose, biting her lip to keep from hurrying, paid the innkeeper’s wife for their meal and went to retrieve her belongings. Her basket, when she lifted it, was reassuringly heavy. She walked casually across the inn to the door, although every muscle in her body ached to run.
Their mounts were waiting outside. The stable boy tied their baskets behind the saddles after they were mounted, his hands slow and clumsy, as if they had all day. At last they clattered out of the courtyard. Their horses’ hooves rang against the cobblestones, loud in the quiet streets now empty of the crowds of pilgrims. Celeste cringed at the noise, hoping it would not draw attention.
She turned onto a narrow street a short distance from the inn, where they could not be seen, and stopped. Taking the pilgrim’s cloak out of her basket, she wrapped it around her despite the warmth of the day, and tied one of the hats onto her head, ordering Marie to do the same.
Celeste’s hands trembled on the reins as they trotted through the town toward the road south. At every corner she expected to see Lord Bernard and his men riding toward her. If he caught her fleeing, how would she explain?
On a cobbled street running into the town square, she heard hoof beats and turned to look.
She recognized him at once. She would know that strong, unguarded face anywhere: the dark, wavy hair, calm brown eyes, soft upper lip and generous bottom lip curving into the thick black beard that covered his cheeks. The lined, handsome face of her husband. She stared at him, unable to breathe.
“Lord Bernard!” Marie gasped beside her.
“Pull your cloak around you,” Celeste whispered. He was talking to one of his men riding beside him, and had not noticed them. The way he sat his horse, a little back in the saddle and very straight, forcing the huge beast to change its center to him, the way he held his head and gazed around the square, radiating confidence and mastery… She could not look away.
She pulled the brim of her hat lower, shielding her face, until she could no longer see him, but only feel him across the square, like a lodestone, drawing her. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, the taste of her nightmares, of fear and violence. Her horse shied beneath her.
The Sorrow Stone Page 13
