The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  “Please, lie still, Lady. You have broken your arm.”

  Celeste closed her eyes, nauseous with the residue of pain. Under the sheet, she felt her abdomen. It was still rounded, but it felt smaller now, empty. Between her legs she felt her women’s cloths. She groaned, and turned her head away.

  The infant was gone, his tiny, butterfly movements stilled forever.

  Her stomach heaved. She turned her head to the side of the bed, but there was nothing inside her; only a burning trickle of bile, which dribbled from her lips. Marie wiped it with the cloth.

  “I will get Lady Yvolde. She will know what to do.” Marie jumped up and ran to the door. She hesitated, looking back. “Do not move, Lady Celeste.”

  Her body felt heavy, weighted down. She could not even lift her head. The infant was dead. She had failed. She waited for the crush of sorrow; instead she felt only indifference. She was relieved, then frightened. Why did she not grieve?

  Her babe was dead and she could not care at all. She had no memory of violence done her; only this coldness that had been growing inside her, held back by the stirring of life, by a single good intention which had failed. Even about that, she did not truly care. Why could she not care? She wanted to. Her child had died; she wanted to grieve for it. She did not want to be this cold, unfeeling woman. The silence she had so welcomed into her mind and heart at the abbey was suffocating her! She had thought she was stronger now, but she was only indifferent, utterly detached from everyone around her, even her own infant. What had she become?

  The door opened. Lady Yvolde entered. “How are you feeling, child?” She sat on the chair beside the bed and reached for Celeste’s hand.

  Celeste pulled her hand away. “I did not protect my child.” Why should this woman care for her, when she could not care for her own child?

  “You must not say such things.” Lady Yvolde’s voice was firm. She took Celeste’s hand again. “It was an accident. You are not to blame.”

  “I did not care for him.” Celeste turned away, wishing she had not said it aloud, wishing it were not true. She should be grieving; instead, she felt relieved. Nothing was required of her now, no one depended on her.

  Lady Yvolde hesitated.

  She is remembering that I rode my horse, Celeste thought. She is thinking that I went on pilgrimage knowing I was pregnant, that I did not withdraw with my maids and my embroidery to wait out the days carefully. She thinks I am grieved that I did not take care.

  It was all true: she should have taken more care. She should not have gone riding this morning, she should have sold Marie and the horses sooner and bought her way onto the earlier ship, not dawdled as though she and the babe had all the time they needed. But that was not the worst of it, that she had not been careful.

  “I did not love him,” she said clearly. That was the worst. It could have been anyone’s child, for all she cared.

  Lady Yvolde held her hand. “You will,” she said, looking down at Celeste pityingly. “However you came by him, when he is born, you will love him.”

  Celeste blinked. She had not thought of that. Was the infant conceived against her will, as Lady Yvolde assumed? Had Raimond forced her? That would explain her lack of feeling, her inappropriate sense of relief, the fear in her dreams. But it did not fit her memory of Raimond, however fragmented: his courtly manners, his smile, his concern for her.

  She blinked again. When he is born? “The babe… he is… he is not…?”

  “Oh, my dear!” Lady Yvolde pressed her hand. “You did not know? Your babe is safe. You have not lost him.”

  “He is alive?” She pressed her hand to her belly.

  Lady Yvolde nodded. “I believe so. You have several cuts on your thighs. The blood, I believe, is from them.”

  She had not killed him. She closed her eyes, feeling weak.

  But what did it matter? She could not protect him now. They would not let her board the ship knowing she was pregnant. She had still failed. This infant would die, as Etienne had, now or in Lord Bernard’s castle. And she would not care. She shuddered, revolted.

  “Your husband is on his way. He will be here tomorrow, or the day after,” Lady Yvolde said, breaking the silence.

  He will set you aside. Raimond’s warning echoed in her head.

  It was over. She could do no more. She had not saved the babe, or herself. She turned her head to the wall.

  “Your husband’s cousin wishes to see you.”

  “No.”

  “Lady Celeste…”

  She did not turn back. There was nothing anyone had to say that interested her.

  “No one here knows about the infant.”

  She looked at Lady Yvolde.

  “It is your secret. You must decide whether to tell it or not. Your maid and I have taken charge—” she took a breath, “—of everything. No one knows but we three.”

  Celeste stared up at her, unable to think what to say.

  “Your husband’s cousin sent for the barber to bind up your arm. He says it is a clean break and will heal straight, but your husband may want a physic to see you when he arrives.”

  Lord Bernard will set you aside if you tell him, Raimond had said, as he pressed the nail into her hand.

  “I will go to the abbey,” she said dully, looking away again. It did not matter whether she told or not. Secrets had a way of coming out. Lord Bernard would set her aside. She should never have married him. She should have known her station.

  She closed her eyes. Even now she did not care. She could not grieve for herself any more than she grieved for her babes. It was wrong. It was sinful. It was a relief.

  ***

  “Wake up, Lady Celeste, wake up!”

  Celeste opened her eyes to see Marie’s anxious face above her.

  “I cannot delay him any longer. He insists on seeing you.”

  “Help me up.” She gasped with pain as Marie raised her to a sitting position.

  The door burst open. Raimond stood in the doorframe. She stared at him.

  Then he smiled, the full, beautiful smile she remembered. Her fear had been groundless; he had ever been her friend. Had he not extracted the nail for her, given it to her to make her well? He must have found her request foolish—she was embarrassed to remember it—but he had indulged her, as a good friend would. And warned her that her husband was not so indulgent.

  “Are you well, Celeste?” His voice and expression conveyed such concern she could not help smiling back.

  “Leave us,” she said to Marie.

  “I am recovering from your bad judgement.” She spoke jestingly. He had acted badly, racing after her, even if she had provoked his pursuit by running away.

  To her surprise, his face drained of color. “My judgement is better than yours, as you well know,” he said.

  She flushed. She had been foolish to want the nail, but how dare he throw that in her face now? “It was you who did it, not I,” she said. Her dreams had shown her that much.

  He took a step toward the bed, his face twisted so that she hardly recognized him. “Whatever you think you know, you had best forget it.” His voice was low, menacing.

  She stared at him, shocked. Why was he so angry? He was her friend, her ally. What had got into him? She straightened in her bed to cover the pounding of her heart. “Call Marie back. It is not seemly that we are alone together.”

  “It is too late for that. Have you told anyone?” He leaned over her, his face dark and tense.

  “Marie knows. She saw it.”

  “What did Marie see?”

  “The nail.” She blushed, saying it aloud.

  “The nail?” He looked surprised, then turned his face from her. When he looked back, he appeared amused. “So Marie knows about the nail.” He chuckled. “Well, she will not tell our secret.”

  He smiled down at her, that warm, open smile she remembered. Above his dazzling smile, his eyes were cool, calculating. Why had she never noticed that before? She blinked and it was go
ne.

  The door opened a crack. “Lord Bernard has come,” Marie cried breathlessly through it. They heard boots pounding up the stairs.

  “Do not talk to him about all that,” Raimond whispered. “Else he will believe you are still mad.” Again, that flicker of expression in his eyes, gone before she could identify it.

  “My Lord,” she heard him greet her husband in the hall. She took several deep breaths.

  Lord Bernard entered and stood looking at her, his face so tight with emotion she could not read it. She stared back defiantly. He had come to set her aside. He would be surprised to find she no longer cared.

  “Let me see your arm,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “Why?”

  “I know something about broken limbs.”

  “I am not one of your horses.”

  “Then I will not need to have you held down while I examine you.” He came to the bed and touched her shoulder, squeezing it gently. His fingers were warm and strong. She sat still as his hand moved down her arm, wincing only when he reached her bound forearm. He let go at once.

  “It will heal,” he said gruffly.

  “Then you have wasted a trip.”

  “Apparently not. I have arrived in time to prevent you taking a voyage likely to end in worse than a broken forearm.” When she remained stubbornly silent, he burst out, “Are you mad, racing off like that with only a girl to guard you?”

  “I am not mad.”

  “Then you will be content to give up this foolhardy pilgrimage. We will go home as soon as you are well enough to ride.”

  His puckered eyebrows made him look bewildered rather than angry. How could she have forgotten that expression, and the way his mouth moved when he spoke, full and sensuous, even when he was angry? She looked aside. “I cannot go back with you,” she said.

  “Because of the pilgrimage?” He hesitated. “Or because of Etienne?”

  “It does not matter. I do not care about either now.”

  He paused again. I have surprised him, she thought. The girl who once cared about everything.

  “It is better not to care too much,” he said.

  He did not know about the second pregnancy, but even so, how could he accept what she had said? “Do you think I want to be the kind of woman who does not care about my child?” she demanded.

  “I think it is time you acted like a woman, not a child.”

  He scowled at her, but his anger strangely calmed her. “I am not a child,” she said, turning her face from him. Whatever else she might be, she had not been a child since Etienne died.

  You have no future, the gypsy’s voice taunted her. She had tried to be stronger, more resourceful, but she had failed. She was done with trying. She held up her bare ring finger for him to see.

  “I will not go back with you.”

  How pale she was, lying in her bed. He had come as soon as the tournament was over, having received Raimond’s message of her accident.

  How dared she go racing off across the country as though she were invincible, with her small, bound arm a testament that she was not? She sat up in her bed glaring at him, and he was weak with relief to see those huge dark eyes no longer blinded by madness and grief. He stood watching her, the intense stubbornness on her lovely face as she struggled to sit up, biting her tender lip to stifle the pain. He could not set her aside now that she was well, not even if the whole of Louis’ court scorned him for it.

  He had been allowed to touch her only in order to check her arm. His hand still burned from the feel of her shoulder, soft and warm beneath her nightdress. He could barely breathe while he examined her arm.

  And then she said, “I will not go back with you.”

  “You are coming home with me if I have to carry you bound across my saddle,” he roared.

  “How was Paris?” she shouted.

  He stood with his mouth open, staring at her. She had deliberately misdirected him to Paris, then to Santiago. He had suspected, but not wanted to believe it. If Raimond had not made enquiries at the pilgrim’s hostel in Lyon— And here she was, flagrantly taunting him with her deceit! How was Paris, indeed!

  Despite himself, he laughed.

  His response startled her. She smiled ruefully.

  “Let us start again,” he said, feeling generous because, whether she wished it or not, she would be coming home with him. He pulled the stool over to the bed and sat beside her. He could feel the heat between them, as urgent and sweet as it had ever been. He was sure it was not just him, wanting her. He could see it in her eyes, in the tension in her body, in the warmth radiating from her skin. Why was she fighting it, trying to antagonize him? She had changed. Not in her attraction to him, or his to her, but in some deeper way, something essential.

  “I sold my sorrow,” she said. There was a challenge in her eyes that he had not seen before. “With your ring.” She held up her bare finger once again.

  “I have noted that the ring is gone. And you believe that has made you well?” Surely she could not think so, unless she was still deluded, unable to reason clearly. Someone had taken advantage of her fragile state. He would find the scoundrel and make him pay for it.

  “You are not angry?”

  Oh he was angry, but not at her. And it would do no good to let her see it. “You are worth more to me than a ring. A ring cannot order my household, or warm my nights and give me sons. It is more important that you are well again.”

  She turned her face away, frowning. There was something else, something she was not telling him. He waited for her to speak.

  “I sold my sorrow, and with it, my past.”

  What was she talking about, ‘sold her past’? Were her wits still addled? No, he would not think it, nor upset her by suggesting it. “Then you must reclaim it.”

  “I cannot.”

  “There is always a way,” he said, trying to sound reasonable despite the absurdity of the conversation. Would he have to set her aside after all? “Do you know where the ring is?”

  “No,” she said, too quickly.

  How young she was, barely seventeen. She did not trust him; he saw it in her quick glance and inexperienced lie. What was she hiding from him? He looked down at her profile, the set line of her jaw. She had changed. There was a new strength in her, a resolve; she was a woman now. But not the woman he had hoped she would become. Her attitude of detached indifference puzzled and irritated him. He waited until she looked up again.

  “Is it my ring or your wedding vow that you do not want to reclaim?”

  She stood outside the pilgrim’s hostel, watching the door from a corner of the street where she would not be seen. The infant, wrapped in a thin blanket, whimpered in her arms.

  “Shh, shh,” she whispered, holding the hot little body close to her and rocking it soothingly. “Are you certain it is her?” she asked the boy standing beside her. He nodded.

  “And this is where they brought her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is a Lady? On pilgrimage?” she frowned, rocking the restless babe.

  “The stable boy said so, Mama. I only know what he told me.”

  The baby cried, a weak little mew of misery.

  “What if she does not come out? Let me go inside and bring her to you, Mama.”

  “No! She has already seen you twice. I will not risk my son to save my daughter.”

  “Papa did not steal the ring.”

  His face was set and stubborn, but looking into his eyes, she saw that he was afraid she would tell him he was wrong about his Papa.

  He was wrong. Jean should never have taken advantage of a mother’s grief. But Jean knew that now. Every time he looked at Jeanne, she could see he knew, though he would not admit it.

  “He said he did not,” the boy repeated. He was so young it hurt her.

  “Then he did not,” she said. “But it is still hers, and all that comes with it, and she must reclaim it so Jeanne will live.”

  “Let me wait here with
you.”

  She shook her head, about to say no. He was not looking at her, but at his sister, his expression a mixture of dread and resignation that was not young at all.

  “When I speak with her, you must keep out of sight,” she said, instead.

  They waited a long time before the Lady appeared. Her left arm was tied in a sling. She was very pale and walked carefully, hiding some pain. The woman’s heart went out to her, until she saw her face, as cool and unconcerned as stone. Jeanne whimpered again. She looked down into the pinched little face.

  They passed their sorrow onto others, the nobility. They shed suffering as a snake sheds its skin. Whatever Jean had done, this woman had done worse. He had taken the ring to help his family, not believing he would harm them; she had given the ring to help herself, not caring who she harmed.

  A man had come out of the Inn to join the Lady. He was tall and dark-haired, and he moved with the easy confidence of nobility.

  Mathilde clutched Simon’s arm and ducked behind the corner of the building, her heart pounding. Should she still approach the Lady? She had hoped to meet her alone. Jeanne stirred within the blanket, a tiny, fretful movement, and then lay still.

  She bent over the blanket, listening. Jeanne breathed raggedly through blistered, parted lips, but she was still breathing.

  Mathilde motioned Simon to stay back. She straightened and stepped out from the corner.

  “I do not wish to take a walk.” She wanted to be left alone, the one thing Lord Bernard refused to do.

  “The physic, whom you refused to allow to examine you, said going outside would improve your humors. If you do not need a physic, there is no reason you should not walk.” He held the hostel door open.

  He was impatient to get her moving so they could leave. He must be eager to return to Louis’ court. She had said she would go to the abbey, but he had curtly refused.

  She had been wrong about the tie between them; that was apparent in his calm aloofness ever since she would not answer his questions. Why should she? He had made it clear her opinion did not matter: he had already told Father Jacques she would not be continuing the pilgrimage.