The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  The horses! Even if he did not recognize them in their pilgrim’s garb, the horses would give them away: a dun gelding and a black pony together. They should have taken separate routes and arranged to meet at the gate.

  “Stay behind. We must not ride together,” she hissed, urging her gelding ahead. She wished she dared go faster. Every step her horse took seemed interminable as she crossed the side road at the bottom of the square. Would he look her way, would he recognize her, before she reached the corner and passed out of sight of the square? She sat rigidly on her horse, willing herself not to turn, not to raise her head beneath the brim of her hat to see him again, not to show in any way her terrible awareness of him as his horse trotted through the square toward her.

  What was this fearful attraction he held over her? She was drawn to him as a moth to a candle. And he would destroy her, as the flame consumes the moth. As he had nearly destroyed her in his castle. What had she learned in that castle that had separated them, that had nearly driven her mad and sent her fleeing to the abbey? The familiar pain began in her temples. She urged her gelding across the cobbled street until at last a row of merchant shops obscured the square, and she was finally safe.

  Marie’s pony cantered up beside her. The girl was pale and breathing heavily. Her hat was askew, tilted to hide her face. “He did not see us,” she gasped, leaning her head back to peer up at Celeste from under the wide brim.

  Celeste turned and kicked her horse into a canter.

  ***

  They were the only pilgrims passing through the gate this late in the day. Celeste rode with her head down, hiding her face. She should have left right after Assumption. There had been hundreds of pilgrims leaving then. She felt the gatekeeper’s eyes on her and Marie as they passed through the gate and onto the road to Lyon. Her back tingled with the strain. She was certain a cry would go up behind them at any moment.

  When the road dipped, taking them out of sight of Cluny, she urged her horse into a gallop and raced along the road until she and the horse were both drenched in sweat.

  She had escaped. She pulled the horse to a stop, laughing out loud, and dismounted, stretching her legs after the hard ride. She had never traveled without a male escort before, and that, too, was exhilarating. While she waited for Marie to catch up she took off her cloak and tied it behind her saddle.

  Marie arrived and pulled the pony to a stop, still panting from the run. She looked around apprehensively, and did not dismount or take off her pilgrim’s cloak.

  Her nervousness irritated Celeste; no one would attack them in the daytime so close to Cluny, where their screams might be heard. Nevertheless, she swung back up into the saddle. There would be others on the road ahead, who had started out earlier. They would have to catch them up before dusk. But for now her independence pleased her.

  “Where are we going?” Marie asked.

  Celeste kicked her horse into a gentle canter. “To Lyon,” she called over her shoulder. She would get her ring back after all. And when her memory returned, she would know what to do. She was no longer too sweet or too pious or too obedient to take care of herself. If the fever, or sorrow, or the sale of a crooked nail had taken that out of her, it was best gone.

  And yet, she remembered her husband’s face, and felt something fierce flutter in her breast, and stop her breath, and ignite an ache that spread through her.

  ***

  They rode without stopping all afternoon and into the evening, passing only a few peasants on foot. Celeste kept them at a brisk pace despite her weariness. She had expected to find more travelers along this road. There was an inn at Sainte Blandine de Lugdunum, but it was too close to the abbey where she had been so ill and unhappy. She had nearly died of unhappiness there. Happiness was not a place that one could go to, it was not as easy as that, but there were places that one could avoid.

  Dusk was falling when they saw a campfire beside the road up ahead. Celeste slowed her horse. They could not afford to be too fastidious about the company they kept this evening or they would have none at all, but she must not be foolish with her trust, either.

  A half-dozen figures sat around a fire, too far to make out clearly. She advanced warily, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. A man got up to tend the fire. His brown robe and hood revealed him to be a Franciscan friar. She kicked the gelding into a trot.

  “Wait, Lady Celeste,” Marie called in a carrying whisper. “Stop a moment.”

  “Well?” Celeste demanded, when she had halted the gelding and still Marie did not speak. “What is it?”

  “They…they are holy men.”

  “Yes. We will be safe with them.”

  “Will…would they know if someone is going to hell?”

  Celeste sat very still. “Why do you ask?” she said, in a low voice.

  “I must say something.” Marie did not look at her, but at the distant fire.

  “Consider carefully before you do.”

  Marie muttered something under her breath.

  “I cannot hear you.” Celeste glanced at the monks by their fire. She and Marie must look suspicious, conferring here.

  “I said, I told a lie,” Marie repeated, avoiding her eyes. “I know it is a sin and I will go to hell.”

  “Who did you lie to?” Marie’s afterlife was not her concern; the lie, however, might be.

  “I was so afraid when I saw Lord Bernard!”

  “Who did you lie to?”

  “The innkeeper.”

  “The innkeeper? You lied to the innkeeper? What did you tell him?”

  “I told him we had decided to go to Paris. I told him not to tell anyone. Will I go to hell, Lady Celeste?”

  Celeste laughed. She kicked her horse forward. She did not know whether Marie would go to hell, but she was fairly certain Lord Bernard would be going to Paris.

  “Will I?” Marie called behind her.

  She laughed again. “Not before we reach Lyon.”

  ***

  The Franciscan friars discussed their request for several minutes before the friar they had spoken to came over to them again.

  Where are you going?” he asked.

  “To Lyon,” Celeste said.

  “Your husband is in Lyon?”

  “My Lady’s brother lives there,” Marie said, when Celeste did not answer.

  Pierre lived in Lyon? She concentrated on his image as she had remembered it when the stranger leaned over her in the town square. It evoked brief scenes from her childhood: the two of them riding in the woods on their ponies, inventing games together.

  “To visit my brother,” she agreed.

  The friar went to speak with the others. He returned to tell them they could share the friars’ camp, but they must sleep on the opposite side of the fire from the Franciscans.

  ***

  They reached Lyon in the early evening. Pierre’s estate lay east of Lyon, his manor perched on the crest of a gentle hill. The track leading to it was wide enough for their horses to trot abreast between the deep ruts made by wagon wheels. On either side of them, rows of grapevines stretched across the hill facing the sun, spaced so that each row would not cast a shadow onto the higher one behind or the lower one in front.

  As Marie pointed out the direction, Celeste remembered visiting her brother here, and her childless uncle. Pierre must have been fostered by their uncle, and inherited the estate from him. She remembered laughing here, and hiding in the vineyard for Pierre to find her, and sitting beside him on the wagon when he and Uncle took the barrels of wine into Lyon. The memories came to her easily, with no accompanying headache. She was smiling by the time she reached the manor and swung off her horse, tossing the reins to a servant.

  “Tell Pierre de Lyon his sister has come to visit,” she said. The servant went to do so, leaving the stable boy to hold her horse.

  “Celeste,” Pierre cried, appearing at the door of the manor and hurrying toward her. “How did you come here? You look well?” It came out as a questio
n.

  “I am well,” she said.

  A wide smile lit up his face. He was not much taller than she was, dark-haired and dark-eyed as she had remembered him, with a small-boned, wiry body. His complexion was sun-darkened, like their father—the land did that to men—but his features were hers. He stopped before her, holding his arms out. Celeste stepped into them, closing her eyes. The way he smiled, the feel of his arms around her, the grape and sunlight scent of him, everything was familiar.

  “What brings you to Lyon, sister?”

  “You,” she murmured, holding on to him.

  He laughed and kissed her on each cheek. “Take their belongings inside, and see to their horses.” He leaned back to look at her. “We have been worried for you.”

  She smiled. She remembered him completely; no secret misgivings or headaches plagued her here.

  “But where is Lord Bernard?”

  “Oh, he is too busy to come visiting.”

  “Surely you did not travel alone?”

  “No, of course not,” Celeste stammered. She should have anticipated his questions; naturally he would be surprised to see her. “The rest of my party stopped at Lyon.”

  “We could have put Lord Bernard’s men up,” Pierre protested. “He will take it as an insult.”

  “I was not accompanied by his men, but by a group of Franciscans.”

  Pierre looked shocked. Before he could ask more questions, she said, “It has been a lengthy journey, Pierre.”

  “Of course. You must be tired and thirsty.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and drew her toward the manor. “You have chosen a good time to come. We have just bought fresh spices from a peddler and the cook is eager to try new recipes. Isavel has ordered the kitchen maid to prepare a meal for you.”

  “Thank you,” Celeste said, covering the rumble in her stomach with her hand. They had left the friars at their prayers, and had not eaten since yesterday’s dinner at the Red Cock Inn, but she would not tell Pierre that. Her unexpected arrival appeared suspicious enough.

  Inside the main hall, a table in front of the hearth was already set with three cups of wine. A servant placed a trencher piled high with cold meat and fruit beside one of the wine cups and motioned for Marie to follow her back to the kitchen.

  A blond young woman who appeared to be Celeste’s age came toward them. “Welcome, Lady Celeste,” she said, reaching to clasp Celeste’s hands. Beneath her sleeves, her wrists were brown from the sun, her hands as dark as a peasant’s. If this was Isavel, Pierre had certainly married beneath himself.

  The woman leaned forward and kissed both of Celeste’s cheeks, while Pierre beamed down at her. Celeste returned her greeting, murmuring, “Thank you, Isavel,” as though she remembered the woman. She slipped her hands out of Isavel’s coarse grasp as soon as she was able.

  The kitchen servant reappeared with a bowl of water and a small towel. Celeste removed her right glove and dipped her hand into the water to rinse away the dust of travel, drying it on the towel. Holding the right glove in her gloved left hand, she speared the meat and fruit pieces with her delicate Lady’s knife and ate hungrily.

  Pierre and Isavel sat across from her sipping their wine, having already eaten, while Celeste devoured the food on the trencher. They stared occasionally at her gloved hand, but refrained from commenting. Celeste pretended not to notice their curiosity.

  Pierre smiled approvingly when she had finished. “Your appetite has returned.” He motioned to the servant to take away the trencher to be given to beggars later.

  “We had not heard of your recovery,” Isavel said.

  “It was quite sudden. Marie took me to mass, and when I knelt before the statue of Holy Mary, I was healed.”

  “All at once?” Isavel’s eyebrows rose.

  I see you are not as pious as I used to be, Celeste thought. “I was very tired at first, and suffered from headaches. And I was weak from having eaten little during my illness. But I am completely recovered now. It was a miracle.” She finished with an air of finality meant to discourage further questions.

  “I am surprised Lord Bernard agreed to part with you so soon after your recovery,” Isavel persisted. “Perhaps he will join you here?”

  “I am afraid he cannot,” Celeste replied. “He has gone to Paris.” She smiled sweetly at Isavel. “The meal was excellent. Pierre told me a spice peddler visited you.”

  Isavel flushed. “Yes,” she said, sliding her rough hands beneath the table into her lap.

  “I must send a message for him to stop in at Lord Bernard’s castle. Do you know where he is staying?”

  “I do not.”

  “Ahh. Then perhaps he mentioned where he is from?”

  Isavel rose. “Lady Celeste, I am not nobility, but I am the wife of a wealthy wine merchant. I do not have personal conversations with peddlers.”

  “Isavel.” Pierre shot Celeste an apologetic look.

  “Of course not. Forgive me,” Celeste said smoothly. “I will have Marie give him my message at the market tomorrow.”

  “I would be happy to help you choose some cloth for a new dress at the market. I expect you will want one now that you are no longer staying at an abbey.”

  “How thoughtful of you.” Celeste rose and bid them good night. She crossed the hall as grandly as she could in her horrid black kirtle, calling to Isavel over her shoulder to send her maid up to her. Let Isavel remember that Celeste was a Lady while she was only the wife of a wealthy merchant.

  A proud and unpleasant woman, Celeste thought as Marie unpinned her hair. One who instinctively sought another’s weakness. An image of the one-eyed cock came to her mind. She pushed it away.

  No wonder Pierre was surprised by her visit, married to such a hostess. If Isavel learned of her loss of memory, she would delight in telling everyone. She shuddered, imagining the mocking laughter as she floundered from error to error with no vision of the past to guide her.

  Her stomach ached, upset from the long ride and heavy meal. Sleep would settle it. She climbed into bed, telling Marie to snuff out the candle.

  Darkness rushed over the room, thick and black as smoke.

  Just so had her illness, her fever (her bargain with the peddler?) snuffed out her past, leaving her no memories to illuminate the present. She lay on the soft feather mattress, utterly blind.

  ***

  The deep breathing of sleepers surrounds her as she crosses the great hall. The stairs are dark and narrow—she must hold the wall for support. At last she stands swaying at the threshold of her bedchamber.

  The door opens slowly, the quiet scrape of its movement ominous in the darkness. Her feet are frozen to the cold stone floor; she cannot even raise her hand to cover her face, although she cannot bear to see inside the room. The door is fully open now; she cannot breathe, her terror is so great.

  How small it is, so small it makes her ache. It only covers half the bench it rests on.

  She steps through the doorway, stretching her hand toward the little wooden casket—

  ***

  Celeste woke drenched in sweat. She lay still, panting, as it dried, leaving a salty tightness on her skin. She breathed the cool night air in deeply, remembering the silence she had felt at the abbey when she first awoke from her illness. She had blamed a passing fever. So it was: a fever of grief, an illness of despair.

  She sat up. No, a malady of weakness. How had she been undone by something as common as the death of an infant? Every woman endured that. The Abbess had called her bold, but she was not. She remembered the little wooden coffin clearly now, and the upstairs room. She closed her eyes, concentrating.

  A rush of fear swept over her. Something else had happened in that room. She opened her eyes, gasping. She must not go back to the place where it had happened, nor walk through the halls that might recall it. It would overwhelm her if she did, as it had before. She pressed the palms of her hands tightly against her forehead.

  Slowly, the pounding eased, an
d with it her fear. Of course she would go back. She had nothing to fear now. The girl in her dream, the girl that she had been, was a helpless, frightened, superstitious thing. Lord Bernard had owned that girl, as he owned his hunting dogs, his hawks, his horses; and she had acquiesced to being owned. The peddler had taken advantage of that girl, the Abbess had bullied her, her own father had used her to buy a noble bloodline.

  But she was no longer that girl. She had sold her along with her past for one denier. She had made a good bargain after all.

  It was a trap. The priest knew all about the girl, knew what Jean had taken from her. He was being tested. If Jean did not confess, and quickly—

  He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  He had made confession on countless Sabbaths. He went with a prepared script of harmless venal sins: impatience with his wife, envying his neighbour, coveting another man’s possession. The sort of things they expected to hear from him.

  This was a real confession.

  Never confess, his father’s voice insisted.

  This was a dangerous confession.

  Do not give them the proof they need, he warned Jean’s mother.

  This would be a public confession.

  Keep quiet.

  He closed his mouth. They had abandoned him as a child, left him to fend for himself, scavenging and stealing to stay alive. But he had learned one lesson from his parents’ deaths: never trust anyone. They had kept him alive, by teaching him that.

  The priest patted Jean’s arm. “Never mind. The words will come when you are ready. Meanwhile, rest assured, the girl is safe with her brother and her father.”