The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  On a sunny day he would have sold every handkerchief on display, but not one was bought this morning, though people had gazed at and touched them longingly. There was no one with any money here today. People with money had sent their servants to buy what the household needed—they themselves could wait for a pleasanter day to browse and socialize at the market.

  Tomorrow he would do better, if it did not rain. Already, his trip had been profitable. Simon’s surprise and delight would warm them all better than new clothes would. And when he sold the ring, there might be new clothes as well. He whistled to himself, a little tune he had known since childhood and whistled to his children. He stopped at once.

  Three women approached his area. He recognized them; they had been here before, at the edge of the earlier group, and had not bought anything. He continued packing up.

  “Do not ask. He will only cheat you out of what little money you have.”

  “He would not.”

  Jean turned.

  An old woman stood in front of his barrels. She smiled at him, showing a dimple in her left cheek. “You would not cheat me, would you?”

  “Pardon, Madame?” he stammered, to hide his confusion. She was the image of his mother, as she would have looked at this age. He leaned forward a little. No, it was only the slant of her eyebrows and her smile, gentle and a little sad.

  “I am a poor woman, but my son is sick. I need one of your blessed linens.”

  Jean stared at her. The timbre of her voice, the cadence of its rise and fall, all so like his mother’s.

  “He cheated you,” his father shouted as he and Jean’s mother walked into their little hut, before Jean could even ask what they had got at market.

  “No,” his mother replied. “He asked for what he needed and I chose to give it to him.” She put her basket on the table and beckoned to Jean, still talking to her husband over her shoulder. Jean stayed where he was, crouched on the dirt floor near his sleeping mat. He concentrated on the big black beetle he had brought inside on a twig, pretending not to hear them.

  “You saw him, Simon. How poor he is. And he has a family, four little ones to feed, and no home, poor soul.”

  “You believed him?”

  “The last part I believed, at least. He looked like the weather had knocked him about, had broken him. Think of it, no roof to protect him from rain or wind or hail, no hearth-fire on a cold winter night.”

  “Well, think on this,” his father said. “We have a son to feed! You take the food out of your own son’s mouth when you throw away our money like that! What if our son becomes sick? What if you or I do? How will your charity help us then?”

  Jean eyed them sideways from his corner of the room. His father was shaking his head, defeated by his mother’s gentle stubbornness. “You do not understand how hard it is to get and keep what little we have, how easy it would be to lose it all,” he said.

  Jean shivered. His stomach ached. It often hurt a little, with hunger, but now it was worse, all knotted up. If only they would not argue. He stared down at the beetle. It had been climbing up and down the little twig all afternoon, prompted by Jean’s nudges. It sat still now.

  “God will provide,” his mother replied.

  “I will provide, you mean! I provide, and you do not appreciate it. We deserve to be poor, the way you squander what little we have.”

  Jean jumped up and raced out of the hut. He ran hard, until the sound of his bare feet slapping against the hard, dry earth and his ragged breath drowned out the empty feeling in his chest, in his gut, drowned out his mother’s foolish smile and left only his father’s anger.

  An anger that came to him even now, when everything else had faded; an anger that was more careful of him than his mother’s kindness had ever been.

  He tried to summon that anger as he looked at the woman before him, but her smile—his mother’s smile, even to the dimple—disarmed him. In the presence of that smile, he no longer wanted vengeance against the poverty of his childhood. He no longer wanted to cheat others, to get back at them for cheating his mother and back at her, for letting them.

  He heard himself say, “Two deniers.”

  He opened his mouth immediately to take it back, but the old woman was already reaching for a square of linen with a hand that trembled. She dropped two deniers into his hand, which had opened reflexively at the appearance of her coins.

  “God bless you, Peddler.” Her words hit Jean like a slap, shaking away the memory of his mother. He stared at the two deniers, shocked. What had come over him? Pity? Compassion? A peddler could not afford compassion! It was a luxury for the rich, and they rarely indulged it.

  Then, by God, he heard a chorus of feminine voices crying “God bless you, Peddler,” as other hands reached for the handkerchiefs, until he had a handful of dirty deniers and half of his remaining linen handkerchiefs were gone. He grabbed up those that were left and shoved them into his sack before anyone else came running over.

  He could not remain here. Word would spread. Tomorrow he would be besieged by women wanting the last of his goods at unthinkable prices. He had set those expectations in motion, the fault was his. He saw the trap he had made for himself with his foolish weakness; he had to escape before it sprung on him.

  The women, bright-eyed with their unexpected fortune, were still blessing him as he dropped their deniers into his money pouch, spilling two onto the ground in his haste, stooping to scoop them up quickly. He packed his remaining merchandise into the open barrel and pounded the lid on quickly with a stone. He strapped both barrels over the donkey’s back, trying not to appear in too much of a hurry.

  When people’s expectations were not met, they became angry, suspicious. Two deniers for a shrine-blessed linen handkerchief would make anyone suspicious. He could not risk staying here in the hope that it would blow over; that no one come from Cluny would remember he had charged four deniers for the same handkerchiefs there, a reasonable price if they were truly blessed.

  He saw again his mother’s smile on the old woman’s face, and felt the child’s arms around his neck at Cluny as he carried her to safety. A terrible fear came over him. He was becoming as careless as his mother. No, never! He must leave at once!

  It was galling to leave this way, in defeat and, yes, fear. But he had seen peddlers accused of dishonesty and he had no wish to lose a hand as well as his purse. In a man’s home town, someone might speak up for him. But here in Lyon he was friendless and alone. He felt once again the anger, the hot, tight heaviness of it in his throat and gut, which had deserted him earlier when he looked into the old woman’s face.

  He shook his head bitterly and reached for the donkey’s lead rope. The donkey laid its ears back and switched its tail.

  Compassion, like flies, is attracted to asses, Jean thought.

  Celeste walked slowly down the last row of stalls. Where could he be? She had walked past every vendor at the Lyon market with Pierre and Isavel, under the pretence of searching for the right color of cloth for her new kirtle. All the while her gaze darted ahead, trying to find the peddler before he noticed her, her mind busy forming excuses to speak to him alone. She stopped, frustrated.

  “Well, you have seen them all,” Isavel said. “Is there not one bolt of fabric that would suit you?”

  “I am sure there are several. But I always enjoy a market, do you not also, Pierre?” Celeste said with a smile she did not feel.

  “Yes, we do,” Pierre answered, before Isavel could give her opinion.

  Celeste turned to look back at the bustling common grounds. She should have insisted on coming yesterday, rain or no rain. But Isavel had been so horrified at the thought of her catching a chill and it bringing on another illness, and Pierre had agreed with her. Instead they had stayed inside, doing needlework. She had been so frustrated, bending over the tapestry, that she pricked her finger hard enough to draw blood, despite the blunt end of the tapestry needle. What a fuss Isavel had made over a few drops of blood on
her tapestry!

  He must be here. She began retracing her steps, examining every stall, despite Isavel’s protests.

  “Rest in the shade,” Celeste suggested. “Pierre will wait with you.” Pierre, of course, gallantly refused to leave her. Isavel followed them, her expression grim.

  “You may borrow one of my kirtles till you have your own, if you wish.”

  “I am afraid the color would not suit me. Your complexion is more robust than mine.”

  She noted with satisfaction, the rush of blood to Isavel’s cheeks. Isavel opened her mouth to respond but Pierre put a hand on her arm. She closed her mouth with a snap.

  Celeste bit her lower lip. What made her say such things? She meant to insult your black kirtle, a voice inside her said. Where did that come from? She had not used to think such things of others.

  He was not here. She had seen every stall, walking the grounds twice until her feet ached. Wearily, she stopped at the table of a cloth merchant she had passed twice. She ran her hands over the bolts of cloth without seeing their colors. “Marie, go inquire after the peddler who sold Mistress Isavel her fine spices,” she said, holding up a blue silk, as though her words were of little import. “I want him to stop in at our castle near Le Puy. See if you can find where he might be.”

  The merchant was wrapping her selection when Marie returned. While Pierre paid for the cloth, Celeste pulled Marie aside.

  “There was a spice peddler here yesterday, My Lady, but he left when the market closed. No one knows where he has gone. Are we going back to the castle now? What is it, My Lady?”

  Celeste stumbled and leaned against the merchant’s table.

  “Are you ill, My Lady?” Marie grasped her arm.

  “No, I am only weary.” Celeste straightened as Isavel and Pierre hurried over.

  “No wonder,” Isavel muttered half under her breath.

  “There is the White Lion Inn.” Pierre handed the folded and tied silk to his servant and clasped Celeste’s arm. “Let us rest and eat a pie before riding home.”

  ***

  She should not have choked down the fish pie. Its rank taste stuck in her throat, threatening humiliation with every bounce of the carriage until finally she had to cry, “Halt!” and rush out to the side of the road. The nauseous stink hung about her, as foul as her mood, all the way back to Pierre’s manor.

  “My Lady…” Marie, washing her face gently with a cloth dipped in the bowl of rose water she had brought to their room, paused.

  “What is it?” Should she return to her husband without the ring? There was little chance she would find it now; not without making her interest in the spice peddler apparent.

  “I… I have your cloths, My Lady, if you need them?”

  “My cloths?” He had been here yesterday. She should have gone despite the rain. Well, she had not. But she had noticed a few jewel smiths, perhaps she could have a ring made to imitate hers. She did not have enough coins for a real ruby, but—

  “Your cloths.” Marie blushed furiously.

  Celeste stared at her. Cloth? Oh, for her courses. What did that matter right now?

  “Perhaps you do not need them?” Marie asked. She put down the wash cloth and reached for a towel. “You fainted at Cluny, My Lady. And now you have thrown up twice.”

  What was Marie fussing about? She drew back from the towel Marie was patting her face with. Were her courses due?

  Was she late? Did Marie think— She gripped the bench, feeling a rush of vertigo. “How long was I at the abbey, Marie?”

  “Eight Sabbaths, including the one that healed you.”

  “Eight?”

  Marie nodded.

  “And before that?”

  “Twelve Sabbaths have passed since… since the funeral.”

  And I have not—?”

  Marie shook her head. “It is fourteen Sabbaths since you last bled.”

  “You would know?” Could it be possible?

  “I wash them, My Lady. And I can count. You taught me.”

  “I have been ill. Sometimes a woman… when she is ill…” It was not possible!

  “Yes, I know, My Lady. The herbalist at the abbey told me women often stop having their courses when they are ill, especially if they are thin.” She looked at Celeste speculatively. “You are not thin now, My Lady.”

  “You spoke of me to the herbalist?”

  “I did not mention you!” Marie cried hastily. “I knew you would not like it. We spoke about the fever in the village.”

  It could not be true. “No…” she whispered. Her voice caught on the word. No, it could not be. She could not bear to think it!

  “If you are with child, it does not matter about the ring,” Marie crowed. “Lord Bernard will not be angry, if you are carrying his child.”

  “I am not!” She wanted to scream and beat at her stomach, the little round stomach she had noticed several days ago. “Get out. Take the water and leave me. Now!”

  Marie gave a little “Oh” of surprise, looked at Celeste’s face, and scuttled out.

  Celeste closed the shutters. She paced around the room. Why had she not had her courses? Was she still ill, her body too weak to follow a natural feminine rhythm? That must be it. Surely she would know if she were with child. She would feel its presence within her, frail and determined, fluttering toward existence. She would sense its tiny will creeping over hers, subverting to itself her cares and her interests, her hopes and dreams. She would be consumed by its tenuous hold on life, would feel as defenceless as it to every puff of misfortune that might brush its fragile light into darkness. She stood in the little room, hugging her stomach, swallowing the bile that rose to her throat.

  They put him into her arms, swaddled in a square of linen. He was as light as a sparrow. He lay still at first, resting after his struggle into life, only his little lips moving, pursing and sucking at the air. They were pink and soft and perfectly formed, a tiny rosebud of a mouth, opening and closing soundlessly. His head began to move from side to side, searching for her. His eyelids opened a crack, shut again, and fluttered opened once more, the long, dark lashes trembling against his pale skin. She watched him, blinking herself, as though they were both seeing for the first time, starting life together. His deep black eyes, her eyes, stared up at her.

  He could hurt her. He could wound her more deeply than anything else in the world. She was completely vulnerable because of him. If anything should happen to him…

  She could not be pregnant! She could not ever be so vulnerable again. She fell to her knees, pressing her forehead against the bed. “I am not with child,” she moaned, clenching her teeth to avoid screaming the words.

  ***

  “Something is wrong. You know it is.” Isavel’s voice reached Celeste as she descended the stairs after her rest. Pierre murmured a response too low for her to hear.

  “Then how do you explain the pilgrim’s cloak I found in her pack?”

  Celeste paused, listening.

  “Send a message! I doubt he even knows she’s here.”

  Celeste trod heavily on the stone step, calling for Marie. The voices below fell silent. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Isavel had left the room. Pierre smiled and invited her for a walk in the vineyard.

  “Fetch a jug of water and take it up to my room,” she ordered Marie. Pierre had a worried expression on his face. Whatever he had to say she would rather hear alone.

  “Marie,” she said sharply. The girl was simpering at Pierre and gave no indication of having heard her.

  “Do as you are told,” she cried, striking Marie on the cheek.

  Marie shrank back, holding her cheek, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Fetch a jug of water for my room,” Celeste repeated. “And open the shutters to air it.” Marie was besotted with Pierre, blushing and stammering whenever he spoke to her. Celeste itched to reprimand her again when she ran to the kitchen without a word or a curtsey. She turned to see Pierre staring at her. />
  “Sister, I have never seen you be unkind to Marie,” he said.

  “I do not mistreat her,” she protested.

  Pierre did not argue, but his expression disagreed.

  “How have I harmed her? I only box her ears when she is impertinent or lazy. Your wife does no different with her servants.”

  “But you grew up with Marie.”

  “Yes, I believe that is the problem.” She smiled at Pierre. “But I am doing my best to correct it.”

  He looked at her strangely. “You have changed,” he said.

  He was her brother, her friend since childhood; he knew her better than she knew herself. How could she pretend to be the same girl he remembered? “People change,” she said.

  “You defend her because she bats her eyes at you,” she added, smiling indulgently. She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, walking outside with him. “Have you seduced her?”

  “Never!”

  “She is a peasant,” Celeste shrugged, wondering at the force of his denial.

  “Enough.” Pierre straightened his arm, dislodging her hand. “I caught her father beating her and whipped him for it. He bears the scar across his cheek to this day.” He nodded in satisfaction, then frowned, “although he did not learn his lesson. Marie was only five, but she has remembered. I think I am the only man she does not fear. It is not amusing to suggest I would betray that trust, whether she is a peasant or not.”

  “Do not be angry, Pierre. I did not know.”

  “You knew her father beat her. You knew his beatings killed her sister, Lise. When I think that you watched your childhood playmate beaten to death! If I had been there then, instead of here with our Uncle, reading of it in your letter—” His hands clenched into fists at his side.

  Celeste stepped back, appalled at his intensity. “But they were servants’ children,” she said.

  Pierre’s face showed surprise, followed by a hard, unreadable expression which frightened her more than his earlier outburst had. “Our great grandfather was a servant.” His voice was cool, each word spoken precisely. “He worked hard, and was rewarded, and married well, and he saw that his sons did the same, and their sons as well. We may be wealthy, but our blood is common, sister. Do not forget that, now you are a Lady.”