The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  She flushed, drawing back. Descended from a servant? Could it be true? She looked down, hiding her face from him. Did her servants know? Did Lord Bernard? Surely he would not have married her if he did. Or did he send her away because he found out? All of France would be mocking her—the peasant who thought she was a Lady.

  Pierre grasped her hands. “I know you have not forgotten, Celeste,” he said. “I am sorry for suggesting you had. I know why you took Marie as your maid when you could have chosen any of Father’s servants to go with you. You did a better job of rescuing her than I.”

  She looked up, shocked. Was he right? Could she have formed such ties with servants’ children? She opened her mouth to deny it, but Pierre was smiling fondly at her once more. She forced herself to smile and let him think what he would.

  “I do not like to talk of the past,” she said, her voice shaking. She turned toward the vineyard.

  “Then we will not. But out of love, I must know something.” He put a hand on her arm.

  She kept walking, not looking at him, certain her anxiety must show on her face. How would she satisfy him if he asked her a question she could not answer? He would not accept her memory lapses without comment, as Marie did.

  “It is not like Lord Bernard, to send you off without his own men to protect you.”

  “He is in Paris.”

  Pierre pulled her to a stop. He took her shoulders and turned her to look at him.

  “Does he know you are well?” His face looked strained, as though he feared to hear her answer.

  If she lied to him now, it would stand between them forever. What a relief it would be to tell him everything: her loss of memory, her nightmares, the fear that kept her away from her husband. Would he laugh at it, reassure her that she was worried for no reason?

  Would he be right? Even if his intentions were good, how could he know what had happened in Lord Bernard’s castle? That was the problem, right there. For if he did not know, her alarm would appear foolish. And if he learned that she had given away her marriage ring, he would think her wits were still addled and feel compelled to escort her back to Lord Bernard for her own good. She had no doubt he cared for her, but how far dared she trust him?

  “Of course he does.” It was not entirely a lie, after all. The Abbess must have told her Lord husband when she sent him on to Cluny after her. “When he is summoned to Court, he must go. His wife’s health does not matter to King Louis.” That also was true. Pierre and Isavel were free to draw any meaning they wished from it.

  Pierre released her shoulders. He reached for her left hand, and raised it between them. “You do not wear your husband’s ring.”

  Celeste snatched her hand away. She had gotten used to the lightness of her finger without the ring, and had forgotten to keep it hidden. Even through the glove it was obvious her finger was bare.

  “What is wrong, Celeste?” Pierre asked gently.

  She could not meet his eyes, gazing at her with such concern.

  “You are safe here. Stay with us as long as you wish. Isavel could use your help. She works too hard, but I would never have such a fine vineyard without her working by my side.”

  “Nothing is wrong,” she said sharply. Isavel would enjoy giving orders to Lady Celeste.

  There it was, the first real lie between them. It had not been so hard to lie to Marie or the Abbess or Father Jacques. She had not cared about them, or what they would think of her later, when they found out. She drew back, beyond his touch, and imagined it was Isavel she was speaking to, for Isavel would surely hear her answer.

  She had sold her jewellery to pay for an orphanage, Marie said. She could say she had given the ring to the abbey in gratitude when she recovered. But Marie knew she had not, and Marie would never be able to lie to Pierre.

  “I lost my ring while I was ill,” she said. “Lord Bernard is having a new one made for me in Paris.” She forced herself to look at him, to smile lightly, and was taken aback by the relief and joy on his face. His arms reached to enclose her. She shut her eyes and bent her head to his chest and felt the closeness between them as though it were not already lost forever.

  ***

  “I will not see you tomorrow, sister,” Pierre told her after their supper. “I will be gone at first light and not be back for several days.”

  “I shall miss you.”

  Pierre smiled. “I must sell my wine as well as make it. Sleep well.” He kissed her lightly.

  ***

  She is in the castle. Even while she lies tangled in its ephemeral reality, she recognizes her dream. She struggles to awaken, tries to scream to her dream figure, “No! Turn back!” but the nightmare continues, and she is trapped inside it.

  Slowly she climbs the stairs toward her bedchamber.

  (Stop! Turn and flee while you can!)

  The door opens. There sits the small wooden casket on the bench, and there, in the bed, she sees the ghostly image of herself. She cannot breathe, her terror is so great.

  She watches as her dream-self kneels beside the bed—

  No, she will not look!

  Her ghostly self stares at the bed, her face filled with horror.

  She will not look, she will not!

  “If Lord Bernard finds out, he will set you aside.” A man’s voice—whose? Standing in her bedchamber, alone with her—Raimond!

  She looks up, startled.

  Raimond stands beside her bed, smiling down at the ghostly figure of herself.

  A scream fills her throat…

  ***

  Celeste sat bolt upright, her strangled cry loud in her own ears.

  “Mistress?” Marie appeared beside her bed, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “Go back to your pallet.” Her voice sounded gruff, still panicky. “It was only a dream.” When Marie hesitated, she repeated more firmly, “Go back to sleep.”

  How could a dream follow her from place to place, progressing with each repetition? What sin had she committed to have such a burden haunt her? She closed her eyes, trying to block it out, but it only came back to her more clearly.

  “He will send you away, if you tell him. He will set you aside and no one will take pity on you. You will be utterly ruined if you ever tell anyone.” Raimond’s voice, cold and threatening, filled the room.

  “I will not tell,” she whispered.

  Not tell what? What was Raimond doing in her dream? She remembered him, now that she had dreamed him: her Lord’s cousin, only a few years older than she. She recalled clearly his kindness, his courtly demeanour, his concern for her. He had confided in her, and she in him.

  There had been nothing of that courtly friendship in her dream. Why was he alone with her in her bedchamber at night? What was the secret he insisted she keep?

  She closed her eyes. Surely not. Surely not that. She ran her fingers over her belly. Lying like this, on her back, it was almost flat. Had she imagined the bulge? Under her hands she felt only the pleasing roundness of a woman. But she had not had her courses. If she was with child—she was not with child—but if she was—whose child might it be?

  A wave of nausea overcame her. She leaped from the bed and grabbed the chamber pot, gagging into it until her stomach ached and her throat burned. When she was done, Marie helped her back into bed and took it away without a word.

  ***

  The days passed slowly. With Pierre away, Isavel was busy overseeing the winery as well as the maintenance of the household. Celeste offered half-heartedly to assist, but Isavel politely declined, urging her to enjoy her leisure. Celeste bit back a sharp retort and left Isavel to her martyrdom.

  A seamstress came to measure her for the new kirtle in the morning. In the afternoons she walked alone in the vineyard. Without Pierre’s company it was a desolate place. A cloud covered the sun, and the wind worried at her hair; the round bellies of the ripening grapes mocked her and the chattering birds brought on another headache.

  If only she could remember enough to know whet
her she might be with child, and if so… Dear Lord, it must be her husband’s child. How could she go back to Lord Bernard until she knew?

  Tomorrow she would go to the Basilica de Fourviere and pray to Holy Mary. She would find the words this time. She would pray without stopping, until she was faint, until the Virgin heard her. She must not have a child. She could not bear to fail another child.

  ***

  Marie was not in her bedchamber when she went up after supper, but she did not wish to call down for her. She would come running upstairs soon enough. She plumped her pillows and sat back against them.

  She caught herself dozing and looked up. The room was noticeably darker. Where was Marie? Celeste rose and opened her chamber door. Marie should have her ears boxed for making her mistress come to find her.

  The stone stairwell carried the sound of a harsh whisper up to her. She crept to the corner and peered around it. Isavel stood near the bottom of the stairs clutching Marie’s arm, forcing the girl close to her. She shook her arm roughly several times as she spoke.

  Celeste could not make out her whispered words, but it was clear from her expression that she was forcing some confession out of Marie. Marie glanced over her shoulder up the stairs. Celeste stepped quickly out of sight.

  Whatever Isavel was asking Marie, it was certain to be something Celeste would rather she not know. Celeste retreated to her room and called, “Marie, is that you on the stairs? I have been waiting for you.” She heard Marie’s footsteps hurrying up to her.

  “Forgive me, My Lady,” Marie said, rushing into the room.

  “What have you done to need forgiveness?”

  Marie blinked. “I—I have kept you waiting,” she stammered.

  “You have. And who delayed you?”

  “Who—?”

  “Yes, who. Were you talking with someone? Mistress Isavel, perhaps?”

  “I—”

  “Consider well before you speak, Marie.”

  “She made me tell her.” Marie hung her head. She began to wring her hands, reached to cover her ears, stopped herself and wrung her hands in earnest.

  Celeste decided not to box Marie’s ears. Isavel was formidable. “What did you tell her?”

  “She asked about your courses,” Marie whispered, white-faced.

  How dare she? Celeste almost spoke the words aloud. She did not need to ask what Marie had told her—the girl’s expression was confession enough. She turned away in a cold fury. “Undress me.”

  Marie obeyed silently. Her hands shook as she lifted the kirtle over Celeste’s head.

  Celeste climbed into bed without another word, and lay in the dark fuming. How Isavel would revel in Marie’s admission. She would, of course, assume the same conclusion as Marie.

  She touched her stomach, as though she might feel the truth there, but she could detect nothing, no spark of life other than her own. There must be some other reason for her missed courses. Her breathing steadied as she became calm. The immediate problem was Isavel. She would insist that Celeste was with child, whether it was true or not: she must be silenced. Celeste closed her eyes, exhausted.

  ***

  Celeste woke before sunrise. She lay in bed listening for the noise that had wakened her. There it was again, the soft whinny of a horse.

  The horse whinnied again. Her room faced the courtyard and the stables; noise floated up to her window, including the sound of voices. They spoke too quietly for her to make out their words. Deliberately so, she realized, and she began to listen more carefully. One of the voices was Isavel’s. Celeste got out of bed and crossed to the window.

  Isavel stood near the stable doors talking to one of Pierre’s men. He stood close to her, holding the reins of a horse which was saddled and bridled for a journey. Isavel’s posture was stiff. There was something furtive in the way she leaned forward so that she need not raise her voice. The man nodded and turned to mount the horse. Isavel looked around quickly.

  Celeste ducked beneath the window. When she raised her head again, the man was mounted. Isavel handed him a folded piece of paper with the red seal of Pierre’s winery across its fold. The rider bent to take it, then kicked his horse and galloped off.

  This time, when Isavel looked around Celeste did not hide, but stood at the window looking down at her. Isavel looked startled, but held her gaze without flinching before she turned away.

  ***

  Celeste returned to bed. It was too early to rise; even the servants were still abed. She lay staring at nothing in the pre-dawn darkness until her eyelids drooped. Marie’s breathing was the only sound in the room: the soft snore of sleep. A lulling sound…

  Prince of the drowsy, dying day…

  She remembered Etienne: his rosebud mouth, his tiny, half-moon fingernails and bright, dark eyes, his black hair sticking straight up at all angles from his soft, pink scalp, his milky smile…

  Etienne had not died of his fever. She knew it suddenly with a clarity that made her gasp. Something in that dark castle had killed him.

  Her head began to ache. She covered her mouth with her hand, fighting the urge to vomit.

  How had he died?

  “I did not keep him safe,” she whispered in the darkness. She covered her face with her hands. “I did not protect him.”

  She closed her eyes against the terrible pain in her head, and the worse one in her chest. She had not protected Etienne. She groaned softly and rolled onto her side, hugging her knees tightly to her under the nightgown.

  Across the room, Marie shifted and murmured in her sleep.

  They believed she was pregnant, Marie and Isavel. What if there was another infant, hiding deep within her? Relying on her to keep him safe. To keep him hidden.

  There was no child.

  But what if there was one, hiding beneath her heart?

  She could not fail another child. She could not bear it again.

  But if she did? If she allowed this one to die as well, failed a second time?

  The pain in her chest was excruciating. She could not breathe for it. Surely she was dying. There must not be a child, there must not be, there must not…

  She lay gasping for breath, sweating, hot salty tears on her face. There must not be, not be a child… the words tumbled through her mind, easing the pain, relieving the pressure. She could breathe again, she could move. There must not be a child!

  Celeste rose and tiptoed across the room. Tied to her belt was the delicate Lady’s knife she used for eating. She brought it back to bed with her. The metal gleamed silver in the moonlight. She shivered. Surely there was no child.

  But if there was? She ran her thumb along the blade, testing its sharpness, then held it still in front of her. What if her hand slipped? What if she cut a vital cord and bled to death?

  And what if there was another infant, like Etienne, hiding deep inside her? She took a deep breath to calm herself.

  Pulling up her nightdress she cut deeply into the pale skin of her inner thigh, as high as she dared below the tendon. A hot stream of blood rushed out. She gritted her teeth and cut into the other thigh. She hoped these were Isavel’s best sheets.

  “Marie,” she said. Her voice wavered. She closed her eyes. She thought of Isavel, eager to tell Lord Bernard the secret she had learned. “Marie,” she called again, sharply.

  The child sat up with a snort. “My Lady?” she rubbed her eyes open.

  “I need my cloths, Marie.”

  ***

  “I am sorry, My Lady, that you are not with child,” Marie murmured as she bundled up the sheets and helped Celeste dress.

  “It was never in doubt.”

  “Lord Bernard will forgive you and you will bear him another heir soon.”

  “Hold your foolish tongue.” She sat stiff and silent while Marie braided her hair, then she swept out of the room leaving the girl to make what she would of her mistress’ tight-lipped anger.

  She found Isavel in the kitchen, hearing the cook’s suggestions for the day
’s meals.

  “I would speak with you, sister-in-law,” Celeste said evenly, aware of the many ears in a kitchen. Isavel returned Celeste’s look with one of proud resolve. After delivering the rest of her instructions, she preceded Celeste outside and across the yard. A stable boy hurried toward them.

  “Leave us,” Isavel ordered. Her voice trembled, barely discernable. Only she had noticed, Celeste decided.

  “What have you done?” She asked Isavel.

  “Nothing that would not please a dutiful wife.”

  Celeste subdued her irritation. “What errand did you send your man on this morning?”

  Isavel hesitated. “I have invited Lord Bernard to visit us,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

  “He is not at his castle to receive your message.”

  “My messenger is on his way to Paris.”

  Celeste’s hands curled into themselves with the effort to control her anger. The impertinent, interfering—

  “You are his wife,” Isavel said primly. “You must do your duty.”

  Celeste leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “Do not presume to teach me my duty. I am not his horse. I am not his hound. I do not wait for his call, or quiver for his attention.” She was shivering. It was only the pain in her thighs and the loss of blood. She leaned against a stall door.

  Isavel’s face had turned white. She glared at Celeste.

  “Was there anything else in your message?”

  “What else would I tell him?”

  “Nothing,” Celeste said. “I am afraid I have spoiled a pair of your sheets. My maid will wash them when she washes my cloths, but the stain rarely comes out.”