“Simon kept after us, reminding us of the sacredness of our goal, that this was the Holy Land where Our Savior had walked, where He taught men to fear and love God. That the mercilessness of the land only served to emphasize God’s mercy; that we should let the heat bend us to His will as iron is forged through the heat of fire into a fine instrument. He gave us heart and courage and will. I swear even the horses, listening to his voice, were fortified to their task.”
My breath caught as I listened. Ah, that was Simon, my Simon.
“We came near Acre in the evening and made camp while our scouts surveyed the land and the fortifications.” He stopped and frowned at me. I stilled my ragged breath and nodded for him to continue. He shrugged.
“We baited them to come out but they stayed behind their walls. We attacked in the night with siege engines but they drove us back each time. They had a well inside their walls but they must have been finding food scarce; there was disease in the town and disease in our camp. We believed they wanted to surrender but Saladin had forbidden them to. We took turns taunting them, trying to draw them out, and one day it was our turn, my father’s and our men.
“The Moors were getting desperate. Losing hope, perhaps. Or else the dreary waiting, the tension of danger without any action to relieve it, was too much. A battalion of their men charged out upon us.
“We were fewer than forty, some of our men having died on the journey and others from a fever in the camps. They took us by surprise and surrounded us, slaughtering us before the rest of King Philip’s army even realized what was happening. They screamed in their blasphemous language until the air rang, their faces dark with rage and a frenzied passion, swords raised, while a second battalion on the walls of the city rained arrows down on us. Men I had travelled with, grown up with, were dying all around me as they tried to fight back against the infidel. They cut us down without mercy. I saw my father pulled from his horse and butchered, no effort made to take him hostage, as if they knew in the end they would be beaten and any hostages set free again. When I looked up I was alone with a crowd of dark faces leering at me, swords raised to slaughter me as they had my father...” His words trailed off into a shudder. His eyes were unfocused, or perhaps focused on something only he could see.
“And then I heard a shout, a French voice calling ‘A Charles! A Charles!’”
He looked at me, the wonderment of that moment clear on his face, his eyes moist with it. “Simon.” His voice caught. He swallowed. “It was Simon, leading four of our soldiers through the Moors to me. The Moors heard him too, and turned from fighting me to meet his attack, but he was wild in his defense, the men with him infused with his courage—”
He stopped suddenly, his face twisted in an expression I could not decipher.
“And then?” I prompted.
“And then they killed him, and the four men with him, and only I escaped through the opening he had made.” Charles said this in a flat, distant voice, not at all the way he had told the rest.
“How did he die?”
“The Saracens killed him.” He frowned at me.
“By sword? By an arrow?”
“You want the details? You want me to tell you how much blood there was? How long he suffered? You want me to describe how my father screamed, still alive when they ripped his entrails from his body—”
“I want to know how you got Simon’s horse!”
I stood in the sudden silence watching Lord Charles’ face drain of color.
I had shouted at a lord! But I did not care. He had run. He could not tell me how Simon had died because he had taken Simon’s horse and run from the battle, leaving my husband and the four men with him to fend for themselves. What other explanation could there be?
The doors to the presence chamber burst open. Two guards rushed in. Charles held up his hand, stopping them before they reached us. “She is leaving,” he said calmly—only I was close enough to see how heavily he was breathing under that calmness—“You may escort her out.”
“I have not had my question answered.” I, too, spoke calmly. “My Lord,” I added.
One of the soldiers reached to grab my arm but Charles raised his hand again. He said nothing but stared at me tensely. I stared back.
“You may leave,” he said to the guards, his voice strained but steady. “I have this under control.”
The guards hesitated a moment before they turned and walked stiffly to the door.
“You recognized Simon’s horse.” He said this as a statement but underneath I sensed a challenge.
“Of course I did. We raised it from a foal. If you wish we will go to the stable and I will call it. You will see it knows me.” Thank God I went to the stables first and fed the horse an apple. He had remembered me, I saw it and so did the stable boy, but horses can be unpredictable. “Everyone in the town recognized it,” I added, hoping I would not have to verify that.
“You are very observant, and you are correct.” His smile was forced. “Simon bid me take his horse because mine was wounded. He was always generous and loyal. I meant to find you and offer you a gift commensurate to the value of Simon’s gift to me. After you had had time to grieve.”
I flushed at his insinuation that I was more interested in money than mourning. I wished I had kept the bag of coins so I could throw it at his feet now. If Simon had accepted Lord Charles’ request to buy the horse the first time, I would not have to stand here and be insulted. We would have plenty of money...
Simon had not known of the crusade when Charles first offered to buy his horse. He had considered other offers after turning Charles down, though it had pained him. “If only Roland were older. He has a feeling for animals,” I now remembered Simon saying.
“I cannot accept money for Simon’s horse.” I heard the words coming from my own mouth and bit my lip, horrified.
“Why not?” Charles asked.
Because it would not be happy? I almost laughed at the thought of giving such a foolish answer. I had never seen Lord Charles abuse a horse, and no one would deliberately damage such an expensive warhorse. But Simon had not wanted Charles to have his horse. Not that I could say that, either. I was feeling faint but I raised my chin and opened my mouth searching for a more acceptable answer. “Because it is all I have left of Simon.”
A horse? I wanted a horse to take my husband’s place? I looked down, pretending to be overcome with grief rather than embarrassment. Simon was the sentimental one, not me.
Lord Charles said nothing. I could feel him studying me.
“Sit down,” he finally said, breaking through the barriers of class as his mother so often did. He motioned to a chair. I perched on the edge of it, far less comfortable than if he had kept me standing. He clapped his hands.
The door opened immediately. “Bring wine,” Charles ordered. “And two goblets.”
I wanted to protest, but dared not speak. I was a grieving widow, I reminded myself, keeping my head bowed. Who wanted a war horse to console her. I blushed again. And I had thought Charles’ tale false?
A servant entered carrying the wine and two goblets. His eyes widened when he saw me, but he set the wine on the table without comment. At Charles’ request he moved a large arm chair to the other side of the table and poured wine into the two goblets. Charles motioned him out and sat down. He took a drink of his wine and waited.
I raised my goblet and sipped. The wine was rich and fruity, like drinking springtime. It slid down my throat as smooth as moonlight on a meadow. I had never tasted anything so fine.
“What would you do with a war horse?” Charles asked, as though this was a normal conversation.
I took another sip of wine to avoid answering.
“A war horse is not a child’s pet. Who would ride it? It cannot stand in a stable all day. Do you have a stable?”
I frowned. He knew we did not. His father let Simon keep it in his stable, but Simon worked here then. And I was not Simon.
“And you cannot a
fford to feed it.” Lord Charles’ voice had the tone I used when trying to reason with Alys or Guarin.
“It is Simon’s horse,” I said, as foolish an answer as any they might have given. “Your father gave it to him for his service.” I stared him in the eye.
He glanced down, swirled the wine in his cup. Ah, I had him. But then I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. “It is my horse now.” He looked up, eyes hooded. “Simon gave it to me. But out of my love for him and my concern for his wife and children, I want to see you compensated.”
That was exactly what I had wanted. That was what I had come here for. But there was a lie somewhere in his words. Simon would not have given Lord Charles his horse. Not without a more compelling reason than I had heard so far. How could I accept anything from this man until I knew the truth?
“I do not want your charity. I want what is mine by rights. Simon would have wanted that from you as well.” I made myself stare him in the eyes as I said it, and saw him wince. He drew back, his face draining of color. He caught himself and took several quick gulps of his wine as his color returned.
I wanted a good swallow of wine as well, to fortify my resolve, but I would not let him see that. I had startled him—because of my boldness, or was there something else? He had not reminded me of my place or commanded me to silence. Something had happened— I bit my lip—something between him and Simon? Whatever it was, he was shaken.
“The horse is mine.” His voice sounded odd. He cleared his throat and set the goblet down, refilling it from the jug. He drank again, then looked at me with the air of someone weighing a decision.
“You are the wife of the man who saved my life, and I want to show my gratitude. I am the lord of my holdings now and can do as I wish. I have a quarry that is making good money. I will sign it over to you for your son as soon as he comes of age—shall we say fifteen years? Until then I will appoint a steward to manage it and turn the earnings over to you each year. What do you say?”
Say? I could not speak. Alys would have a dowry and Guarin would be a wealthy man. I took a swallow of wine and coughed.
“You must accept it,” he said impatiently. “It is... in memory of my friend Simon.”
I would have said yes. I would have wept with gratitude and let him keep his secret to himself—if he had not called Simon his friend. Everything was his—the horse, the quarry...and now Simon? He had thought he owned Simon because his family had favored him. And if I accepted his ‘gift’ he would own me, too. And my children. Whatever guilt he felt over Simon would be assuaged and we would owe him now. I shivered.
“You were not his friend,” I said, standing up. “He is dead because of you. You should not have let him sacrifice himself. You cannot buy your way out of your guilt with a stone quarry.”
Chapter Four: Repentance
“Father forgive me. I have sinned.”
Father Sebastien looked down at the bowed head before him. He had been this boy’s confessor all his life. Three Sabbaths had passed since he had returned from the Crusades. Father Sebastien had been waiting, first with a pleasant confidence, then a nagging worry, and lately with increasing anxiousness, for the boy to come for confession. He had been on the verge of speaking to him several times but held back, hoping Charles would come to him. And dreading Charles’ answer, to be honest. Had the boy lost his faith during four long years of battle in the Holy Land? There were men who returned from war sound in limb but broken in their mind or worse, in their soul.
“Tell me, my son.” Father Sebastien’s calm voice betrayed none of his apprehension.
A short litany of venial sins came from the bent head—instances of anger at his commanders, lust resulting in the rape of several Moorish women, greed during the looting after a battle—minor sins to be expected in war and easily pardoned.
He waited a moment when the boy stopped speaking before assigning prayers of penance. It was his habit to do so, giving the penitent time to examine his soul before absolution. The silence weighed on him this time. He opened his mouth to cut it short when the boy murmured, “I swore an oath. In the heat of battle I swore an oath which I cannot keep.”
Father Sebastien’s hand, rising to make the sign of the cross over the boy’s dark curls, stopped in the air. He had been right. He usually was, unfortunately. He said a hasty prayer in his mind that it would be something simple, something that would weigh on a boy’s mind because of inexperience.
Man, not boy, he corrected himself. A man of twenty-two years, Lord of the castle now and proven in battle. Proven? Perhaps not yet. This burden he came home with, perhaps it was the battle meant to prove him. The priest felt a bead of moisture on his upper lip. Was this a test of the young lord, or of him?
“Can you tell me the oath?”
“I cannot, Father.”
Father Sebastien sighed. Shame, then. Nothing wounded a soul like shame. And no other injury was as likely to explode upon the priest trying to mend it, let alone trying to do so blindly, as he must now.
“The words. Tell me how you framed your... promise. How you confirmed it.”
“I swore that I would...do something, if...someone else...did something for me. I swore on my immortal soul that I would do it.”
Father Sebastien closed his eyes. It was never wise to tell a lord he must keep his word, even a boy who had prayed with him since childhood. A test of him, then, as well as Charles.
“Was it... was it a wicked oath, made at the tempting of the devil? A weakness you now regret?”
Charles looked up, his expression hopeful. “Perhaps. How would I know, Father?”
“Would keeping it be in violation of one of Our Lord’s Commandments?”
Charles’ face fell. “No.” He bent his head again.
“Is it this oath that has kept you from confession since you have returned home?”
“It is, Father.”
He barely caught the mumbled words, but there was no denying it, that was shame in the young lord’s voice. Whatever the oath, keeping it would not corrode his faith or damage his soul as surely as shame would. It was Father Sebastien’s duty to lance the poison before the boy sickened of it, but he would not be thanked for doing so. He tried one last time: “Did you make the sign of the cross when you swore your oath?”
“I did, Father.”
Was that a note of pride in his voice? The boy was pleased he had done it right. Father Sebastien quelled his annoyance. Innocence could look very much like stupidity, and yet Our Lord loved the innocent. Enough irritation remained to enable him to say what he must, regardless of the consequences.
“Then you must keep your oath. On your immortal soul, you must honor your promise.”
The young lord looked up, an expression of shock on his face. He had come to Father Sebastien for a way out, expecting to be given some form of penance. And Father Sebastien had tried everything he could think of to absolve the boy of his promise, may God forgive him. Neither of them wanted the consequences that would surely come from an impetuous oath. “What is done is done,” Father Sebastien said grimly. “Sealed by the cross, with God as your witness. It cannot be undone.”
Charles stumbled to his feet, his face turning red. “I confessed!” he cried.
“God has heard your reluctance, my son. And He will bless your consequent action all the more for it.” He made the sign of the cross over Charles quickly, before the boy could bolt. Sealed and done. Both their fates.
Chapter Five: Knowing and Having
I stopped to adjust the yoke over my shoulders, rubbing the muscles at the back of my neck. The baskets were empty now but I was still sore from carrying them across town full of clean laundry. I should stop at the mill and buy some flour to make bread, and at the butcher’s for a soup bone. The children needed to eat even if I was too weary to feel hunger.
It was not the work that tired me. I was accustomed to work. Nor was it the shame of being escorted to the castle gates three days ago and warned not to return. Lor
d Roland had ridden up as I was being turned out and demanded an explanation.
“Lord Charles’ orders,” the guard had answered curtly; no more explanation needed for a younger brother. I had hurried past him with my head bowed, flushed with embarrassment and anger.
The anger was gone now. Or rather redirected, against myself.
I had spent a virtuous two days nursing my outrage, my certainty that there was more to Lord Charles’ story than he admitted. And then, yesterday, I had gone to help with the Castle laundry on my usual day, only to be refused admittance at the castle gate.
“But I always come on Wednesday to do the laundry,” I stammered.
“No more,” the guard said. The same man who has escorted me out three days earlier. “The steward has hired another woman to come on Wednesdays.” He grinned at me, an ugly, open-mouthed leer which exposed his missing front tooth, the one below chipped.
“I shall never forget your face,” I whispered fiercely, my hands clenched into fists as I fought to hold back my tears.
He took a step toward me. “Nor I, yours. And I have the power to make your situation much worse.”
How could it be worse? The day before, the young blacksmith who rented Simon’s smithy had told me he had been hired at the castle. The townspeople would have to make do with one blacksmith up the other end of town who did shoddy work.
I needed the money I earned doing laundry at the castle now more than ever. But it was no use arguing with a gatekeeper. And this morning two of the merchant’s wives had told me they had another laundress now. The money they had paid me today was the last I would have of them. How was I going to feed my children?
How was I going to pay the rent on my house? It was due in two weeks. I had set aside every extra coin I could this past year, but I had counted on the rent from the smithy and the castle laundry. I would be short. Perhaps I could just pay rent on my house, let the smithy go? No, our house went with the smithy, Lord Barnard had always rented them together. Simon had had to wait until the old smith lost his sight before he could approach Lord Barnard and ask to rent the joint property. As long as Simon was expected back I had been allowed to hold onto it, but now? I could not even argue that I had a renter.
The Lode Stone Page 3
