Jean knows what they are looking for. It is hidden under the mattress on his parents’ bed. Mama read from it before he went to bed. Before Papa came in, because Papa could not read and even if he could, he would never approve of the things that Mama read. It is their secret, the very important secret Jean keeps with Mama. He tries not to look at the mattress. He wants to close his eyes, but he is too afraid. He presses back against the wall, into the shadows.
Papa leaps at the man giving the orders, grabs him round the throat. “Run!” he screams.
Mama shrieks with terror. It is too late for her to run; one of the guards already has hold of her. The other two leap on Papa, trying to pull him off their captain, but Papa is too strong for them.
“Run, Jean!” Papa screams.
Jean jumps up and races for the door. He has never heard Papa scream like that.
“Run!”
Jean races out the doorway.
“Run, Jean, run far away, and never look back!” Papa screams behind him.
***
Jean sat bolt upright, gasping in the darkness. He could still hear his father’s voice reverberating in the small, dark room. The acrid scent of burnt flesh and wood smoke wafted in through the window. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, his heart pounding with the need to move, to run for his life, but there was nowhere to run.
“She did not treasure her life,” he said. His voice in the night sounded faint and frightened, less real than the voices in his nightmare or the memory of the heretic’s screams. He saw his mother, kneeling on her bed, crying, and the face of the woman screaming as she burned. He said again, more loudly, “She did not treasure her life. She did not deserve…”
…to keep it. He sat alone in the night, unable to finish his sentence.
His face was damp. He did not cry; not ever. He shut his eyes, but still the tears seeped onto his cheeks, foolish and futile. He had not even known the woman who died today. The tears burned him, as though they had boiled up inside him a long time before spilling out. He tried to hold them back but they burned his throat and scorched the skin of his face as dry as a parchment and then they poured out, and futile or not, he could not stop them.
He tried to weep silently but there was not enough air in the room; the fire had sucked all the air out of it. Only the suffocating stench of death was left. His chest ached and his lungs burned and he doubled over on his narrow bed, holding himself, holding himself, and still the pain poured out of him. He heard a wailing, low and guttural, the sound of an animal in mortal agony, and he realized it came from him.
He fell sideways and curled up into himself, tightly, his forehead resting against his knees. He rocked on the bed with his legs against his chest and felt a great, searing sorrow fill him.
“…to lose it,” he whispered.
She was alive! Lord Bernard crumpled the letter in his fist.
He had imagined her lying in the woods somewhere between Cluny and Paris, having been set upon by outlaws. He had suffered nightmares envisioning the cruel indignities forced upon her before her murder, and wakened tossing and clenching his fists in his bed. He had been able to think of nothing else, while his men scoured Paris, and then the towns between, asking after her; and all this time she was safe and well with her brother. By God, he would murder her himself for what she had put him through!
Raimond stepped forward, his face pale.
“She is in Lyon with Pierre. Unharmed and untroubled.” He glared, as if it were Raimond’s fault that she was so carefree while he had been so tortured.
Once again they would smile behind their hands, the courtiers of King Louis’ court. They would don expressions of sympathy, hungry for gossip, and ask whether he had found his wife, their lips twitching with the effort not to laugh. Not his Lady wife—he might wed her, but he could not make her a Lady—not in their eyes, and not while she continued to behave so… infuriatingly common! Running around the countryside unescorted! Her death would have been tragic, but this—this made them both high comedy.
“I will let your men know.”
Bernard groaned. They were still out searching for her. “Do it,” he said, waving Raimond away.
He had not expected Celeste to help him advance his position—the Queen would never make her a Lady-in-waiting. But he had expected her to run his estate quietly and produce heirs, not ruin him. His wife’s madness had made his counsel suspect, and now there would be questions as to whether a man who could not control his own wife could lead men.
Eleanor was right: he would have to set her aside. Despite her beauty and his feelings for her, even if it meant returning her sizeable dowry.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called without looking up.
“A message for Lord Bernard.”
Bernard straightened.
“You are invited to joust in the tournament in three days’ time, to celebrate the King’s daughter, Marguerite’s, visit.” The messenger rolled up his scroll, waiting expectantly.
King Louis favoured tournaments, as did his Queen, Adéle de Blois. Even so, Lord Bernard might have been able to decline—the invitation was no doubt being issued to every nobleman presently at court—had it not been arranged to honor Marguerite. He had seen the girl, a pretty thirteen-year-old just beginning to show a woman’s figure, ride into her father’s court this morning. She had looked nervous and he had pitied her, joining the court of a father she would not remember and a step-mother she had never met. She was wed at two-and-a-half to Henry Fits Empress’ son, and had grown up in the English court. And now the Prince, fifteen-year-old Hal, had been crowned the future King of England by the Archbishop of York, but Marguerite had not been crowned with him. Louis had invited her to visit him in a cold fury, thinly disguised as paternal affection. With Louis Capet’s list of grievances against King Henry increasing, this was no time for one of his Lords to slight Marguerite by refusing to joust in a tournament arranged to celebrate her visit to the French court.
“Tell my liege Lord that I am honored.”
The messenger bowed and left.
Bernard cursed vehemently and at length. The best he could hope for from this tournament was to sustain no injuries and avoid being ‘captured’ by young knights hoping to demand a ransom for his freedom. He might need Celeste’s dowry after all.
She was alive and well. He carefully flattened the note from Lyon against the table in his chamber and read it again. Why was it from Pierre’s wife, and not from Celeste herself? And why had she told the innkeeper she was going to Paris? A flight of fancy which good sense had corrected? Or a deliberate attempt to send him in the wrong direction? Would she wait for him in Lyon?
Of course she would. He would send a message directing her to do so. Unless she chose to return to his castle? Yes, she was well and should return home. He would send his cousin and two of his men to escort her, with orders to make certain she stayed there. It was a generous thing to do in the circumstances, when he could use his men around him for the tournament.
He could decide what further steps to take after the tournament. He strode across the room and opened the door.
“Find Raimond de Le Puy and tell him I wish to see him,” he ordered a passing page boy, who ran off to obey.
Jean rose before dawn, unable to sleep. He pulled on his hose and his worn shoes—if they had not been so worn, the thieves would have taken them, too—and limped down into the courtyard behind the inn. He sat on the narrow stone bench against the wall of the inn, facing the stable. The air was crisp and damp, only slightly tinged with smoke. He closed his eyes and let the earthy animal smells of horses, donkeys and cows waft over him, along with the pungent odour of manure, the sweet smell of hay and the rich scent of the butter churn beside the barn door. He breathed them all in, the smells of the living. He should have slept here, in the stable yard.
He heard movement and opened his eyes. A stable boy stood at the barn door, yawning and stretching in t
he grey half-light. He bent down to pick up a bucket and headed toward the well. A man came out of the inn and called something to the boy.
“I am hurrying,” the boy called back in a thin, nasal whine.
The scent of porridge and ale and cooking sausages drifted through the open inn door. Jean’s stomach rumbled, but he did not want to leave the courtyard. The man went back in and shut the door. Jean leaned against the cool stone wall of the inn and closed his eyes.
He felt strange, the way he once felt after he passed a stone. Something small and hard inside him was gone.
When he was little, someone told him he had his mother’s smile. The hard lessons he had learned from her death were still true, but he could remember her smile now, could feel it on his own face and not despise her for it. She had not deserved her death; but she had died just the same. His family had not deserved this, but it had happened. He had never been a coward—it was time to face them, and do what he could for them.
The inn door creaked. Jean opened his eyes.
Three men came out. They walked across to the barn, calling for the boy to saddle their horses, and had he watered them yet? Had he overslept, the lazy fool? They had left orders that they would leave at dawn.
At last they clattered off, leaving Jean to his rest, but by then the stable yard was no longer quiet. A cock had begun crowing its salute to the rosy light stealing across the sky and two mangy dogs chased each other across the yard, yapping. A kitchen girl came out to milk the cow; Jean could hear her complaining to the animal, and the boy laughing as he passed her, leading another horse out of the stable.
“Hitch him to the wagon.”
Jean opened his eyes. The man who had spoken was standing beside a small wagon, little bigger than a cart, with low wooden sides and a single raised seat at the front. The back of the wagon was open. A plank of wood leaned against it, ready to be hoisted into place across the back when the wagon was loaded. The man was shorter than Jean and somewhat plump, but the softness was only in his belly. He hefted a barrel into the back of the wagon and leaped up to roll it against a burlap-covered pile, all the while issuing orders to the stable boy and watching to make sure the horse was hitched correctly. His tunic was of good, heavy russet, and his hose looked new, though both were dusty from the road.
“Where are you headed?” Jean called.
The man looked up. His expression was careful but not startled. He had not missed Jean’s scrutiny.
“Why do you ask?”
“I need a ride.”
The man snapped his fingers at the boy, who lifted the wooden plank up to him. He slid it into place and lashed the ends with rope.
“I heard about you. The fellow set upon by thieves.” He stepped over the plank and jumped down. “I am a merchant, not a pilgrim.”
Jean nodded. This was a language he understood. “I have a barrel upstairs, in good condition. A merchant can always use another barrel.”
“So you are a merchant?”
“A peddler. Spices and other goods.”
The man walked around the horse, checking that the harness was firmly strapped the way he wanted it. “There are two others inside headed for Avignon, and I cannot take three,” he said from behind the horse.
Jean nodded, as though accepting that. Let the man wait a while. If he had liked the look of the two, he would have already offered them a ride. The merchant came back around his wagon and looked at Jean.
“They will eat twice as much of your provisions, and give you nothing in return,” Jean observed.
“Except protection.”
Jean pursed his lips. “I killed two of the thieves. With another man by my side they would never have harmed me.” An exaggeration, but the first part was true.
“That was before your injury.”
“I heal quickly.”
“But still you cannot walk.”
“I cannot run,” Jean corrected. “If we are set upon, you can be sure I will not run away. I will be fighting for my life, as well as for your merchandise.”
The merchant examined the harness without answering. A careful man. Jean liked him.
“The barrel is sound and well-made.”
The man slapped the horse’s rump and approached. He stood before Jean squarely, hands on his hips, looking him over, as though he had not already.
“I do not cook for others.”
“I can cook,” Jean said. He smiled affably. “If you provide the food.”
The man grunted.
“Where are you headed?”
“Marseilles. No side trips.”
“Take me as far as Saint-Gilles.”
“Show me the barrel.”
Jean rose. He entered the inn and climbed the stairs to his room, gritting his teeth against the pain and forcing himself not to limp. The merchant, following behind, would be watching for that.
There were two empty wadmal bags in the bottom of the barrel. “I keep the bags,” Jean said. “They were not part of our bargain.” He lifted them out and tossed them on the bed.
The merchant examined the barrel carefully and then straightened. “I can give you half an hour to get ready. Then I leave, with or without you.” He hoisted the barrel across his shoulders and left the room.
Jean picked up one of the wadmal bags. There was nothing else to take; even his staff had been stolen. He held the bag by a corner and shook it flat. Something flew out of the open end and skidded across the floor. He frowned and walked around the bed. There was nothing on the floor that he could see; it must have rolled under the bed. He would have to bend down and reach under and then get up again and it would all hurt his side. He thought of just leaving it, but what if it was a denier, tossed into the bag at market when he was too busy to open his purse? He shook his head. No use dreaming. Nevertheless, he lowered himself to his knees and peered under the bed. It was too dark to see anything.
He bent further down, ignoring the pain, and swept his arm across the floor. He felt something hard, and closed his hand around it. He had to kneel beside the bed a moment, panting, waiting for the spasms to subside. He knew already it was not a coin. It was the wrong shape. He opened his hand and stared down in disgust. A nail.
He drew his breath in sharply.
Bent a little at the end. The hair on his neck prickled against his skin. He dropped the nail onto the bed and stared at it. He had tried to throw it away, tried to sell it at Cluny, believed it had been stolen with the rest of his goods. And still it stayed with him.
“Sorrow!” her voice cried, hollow and unholy. A cry devoid of hope; a cry from hell.
Stayed with him, even when he had lost all else.
Everything else? He scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain, and grabbed both bags, holding them upside down over the bed. The ruby ring and the pilgrim’s badge fell onto the sheet.
“Aghh!” he gave a strangled cry. He stared down at them, wanting to laugh with relief and at the same time frightened. He reached out, then pulled his hand back, afraid to touch them. The ring lay blood-red against the silver emblem from Jerusalem. Surely nothing evil could touch a holy relic? Slowly he picked them up. They were solid and cool in his hand, real.
He was not ruined. What did it matter how they had remained with him? He could sell them for enough to buy a donkey, and some spices. Not as many as usual, but enough for a start. They would be hungry this winter, but they would make it through, and then he could start again. He sat down heavily, wiping roughly at his eyes.
Outside, a horse neighed.
He took a steadying breath and hurried down to the innkeeper’s wife to borrow a needle and thread. “To mend my hose,” he told her.
Back in his room, he picked open the hem to his tunic and carefully sewed the nail and the ring and the badge at intervals inside it. He examined the outside hem carefully to make sure they did not show.
The merchant was waiting. Jean hesitated on the stairs, then turned down the hall.
He found
the priest saying the last rites over the dying pilgrim, and waited awkwardly at the door.
“I have a ride home, Father,” he said when the priest finished the prayers.
The priest nodded without looking up.
What does he care? Jean thought. I am not one of his pilgrims. He was surprised to find it bothered him.
“I am sorry—” Jean gestured toward the bed where the dying pilgrim lay, letting his words trail off. “I thank you for your help.”
“I am not the one to thank.” The priest rested his hand on the dying man’s arm. “He paid for your care and lodgings with the money he had saved for his pilgrimage.”
“Well then,” Jean shifted awkwardly. “I will… pray for his soul.” He was embarrassed as soon as he said it. The priest would know it for a lie; he knew Jean did not pray.
“Yes,” the priest said, looking directly at him now. “Pray for him. That is how you can repay your debt.”
Jean flushed. But he was the one who had offered the bargain. He nodded reluctantly. “I will, then. Farewell, Father.”
The priest rose and clasped his shoulders. He regarded Jean with the same intense expression Jean had seen on his face in the town square. “You carry sorrow with you,” he said.
Jean started, tried to pull away.
“Do not be ashamed. Your sorrow is a holy emotion. Our Lord’s sorrow saved us all.”
He let Jean go. Jean stumbled backward, toward the door.
“Wait,” the priest said. He crossed the room to where the pilgrim’s belongings lay, and brought his staff over to Jean. “He does not need this where he is going, and you, I think, will.”
***
The merchant was seated on the wagon with the reins in his hand when Jean hurried into the stable yard.
“You are late,” he said. “I hope you are a good cook.”
“I am,” Jean said. The merchant’s lips twitched briefly.
Jean used the wagon wheel to clamber up into the back of the wagon, leaning on his new staff and gritting his teeth against the spasm in his side. He lowered himself onto the burlap-covered mound, which turned out to be agreeably soft.
The Sorrow Stone Page 21
