The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  The room was narrow and dark. Celeste stumbled, hesitating at the doorway, searching for demons in the corners. She dared not break the silence that protected her to voice her concerns, but squinted anxiously into the shadows. The room appeared empty. She let them assist her inside.

  It was furnished with a wooden bed along one wall, a plain table and stool, and a low bench on which lay a white linen undershift, a silver comb, a little blue linen bag, a basin of water and a hand cloth. A heavy black robe with fur at its neck and hood hung from a wooden spike in the wall.

  Why would she need a furred robe in summer? Celeste stared at the cloak. Had she been here since last winter? Did she live here? No! It was not possible! Why could she not remember?

  The peasant girl patted her shoulder in a display of familiarity which struck Celeste like a blow. How dare she presume such impertinence? Was Celeste not a Lady?

  Yes, but not a Lady born, she remembered. She was Lady Celeste, married to Lord Bernard de La Roche. Lady: her title was as precarious as the internal silence that made her so forgetful. She herself was only Celeste, the fortunate youngest daughter of an ambitious landowner.

  Had she been set aside, abandoned here? Was she no longer a Lady? The thought stopped her breath. She closed her eyes, concentrating, but nothing more came to her. Her memory was sparse and fragmented, like a length of cloth after the dress pieces have been cut away from it. The reason for the peasant’s familiarity was lost along with the rest of her past.

  “My Lady,” the child murmured. With a rush of relief Celeste let herself be guided to the bed.

  It was firm and solid underneath her, cushioned by a thick feather mattress. She sat, swaying with fatigue as the girl undressed her. Silence was better than answers, and she was so very tired. When she lay down, she felt her body release, every muscle giving into the mattress, as though she were a bowstring unloosed. A sigh of relief came from so deep within her it emerged as a groan.

  Tomorrow she would remember. Tomorrow she would insist on more respect. Tomorrow… She turned her face to the wall.

  The soft sweep of the girl’s kirtle receded across the stone floor. The door closed quietly behind her.

  The reverent silence of the faithful shrouded the abbey.

  The deep, empty silence within her kept her awake although she ached for sleep. Why was she so weary? What had tired her so? She curled onto her side on the feather mattress, letting her body relax completely into the bed’s softness…

  The abbey bell wakened her. She rolled onto her back in the dark room, listening to it. Despite having just awakened from sleep, she was groggy with exhaustion. The bell tolled again. A small, gray rectangle, barely discernable against the black stone wall, indicated a narrow window high above her bed. Lauds, then. The nuns would be going to chapel to pray through the last hour before dawn.

  She peered around her room. A dark, still form lay in the corner by the door. She caught her breath until she realized it must be her maid, asleep on the straw pallet provided for her. No rising at Lauds to pray for her mistress’s soul from that one.

  Celeste felt the urge to relieve herself and sat up. She swung her legs out from under the linen sheet to the side of the bed. Sparks of light appeared behind her eyes as the room lurched around her. She grabbed the wooden plank of the bed and sat still, hunched over with her eyes shut until the vertigo passed. She had been very ill. She felt it in her body: a ragged slackness in her muscles, an ache deep in her bones.

  When she felt safe letting go of the bed she touched her hand to her head. The palm first and then the back of the hand.

  As she had done so often to Etienne. Chubby, rosy Etienne, with his mother’s dark hair and eyes, every feature hers, a miniature, masculine Celeste.

  Her forehead was clammy but not hot. Not like Etienne’s, which burned her hand when she touched him.

  The memory was clear but dispassionate, as though it had happened to someone else. Did she have a son? Where was he now?

  Nothing else came to her.

  Her own need returned with more urgency. She bent to feel under the bed for the chamber pot. There were no clean, dried rushes on the floor to catch up spills and dirt—just the cold, hard stone beneath her feet. What a disgusting place!

  When she was finished squatting over the chamber pot she called out, “You!”

  Was that her voice—the husky croak of an old hag, barely audible?

  “Get up!” she croaked, but she was too spent to put any force behind the words. How long had she been ill?

  The bundled body in the corner did not respond.

  No wonder she was ill in such a place. Why would her husband not have had her better cared for? She tried to picture him but could not recall his image clearly. Even worse, she had no sense of him, no understanding. Had it always been like this, or had the sickness made her forget? And not only her husband: there was something else, something important. So important that even trying to remember disturbed her. Panic rose up inside her. She pushed it down, forced herself outside the fear. She was sitting on a chamber pot in an abbey. There was nothing alarming about that. She waited until her heartbeat slowed, then tried to rise. Her legs were too weak to elevate her.

  What was the girl’s name? She must know her own maid’s name. It would be something common—Lise, Jeanne, Marie—that was it. “Marie!”

  Marie tumbled to her feet. Her mouth opened in a little “O” of surprise as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

  “M-m-My Lady,” she stammered.

  Celeste regarded her through narrowed eyes. It was the peasant girl from the day before. Had she only a child to attend her? She reached out her arm impatiently. Marie rushed over to help her rise, then stood gawking until Celeste gestured sharply toward the chamber pot.

  Her left hand, as she moved it, felt too light. She brought it closer to her face, squinting in the darkness. Her ring finger was bare. What had happened to her husband’s ring? She stared at her finger. The missing ring was clearer in her mind than her husband’s face. What did its absence mean? Her head began to throb.

  Marie returned with the emptied chamber pot. “Is that all, My Lady?”

  Celeste dropped her hand behind her back. Had she left the ring at the castle when she came here? She could not remember coming. Had she been so ill they brought her without her knowledge? In that case she may well have been stripped of her jewels for safekeeping. Her other jewels, perhaps, but not her ring.

  “Is there something else you need, My Lady?” Marie’s eyebrows puckered into a small frown.

  Had her husband reclaimed it? Had he set her aside, cast her off like worn clothing? Oh Saints, how her head ached!

  “My Lady?” Marie stepped closer.

  Perhaps she had lost the ring. She recalled wandering outside the convent, being guided back by a nun. Something had happened before the nun found her. It was there, nagging at the edge of her thoughts.

  “I cannot remember,” she said. She had had this problem yesterday, but she had been certain a night of sleep would resolve it.

  “You are not well,” the girl’s voice trembled. “Do not fret. You will recover.” She patted Celeste’s arm.

  Celeste’s cheeks burned. This peasant treated her as a simpleton, and likely everyone else here did as well. Yet how could she object? The strange confusion in her mind rendered her utterly helpless. The thought brought a flutter of panic. Helpless against what?

  She drew in a breath and held it until she was calm. Until she knew what had happened to her, it would be better to keep quiet. She had been ill and was still weary, but the fever had broken. Her memory would return soon enough. Meanwhile, no one need know. She took a step toward the bed and teetered. Marie leapt forward to help her. Embarrassed by the weakness in her legs, she slumped on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily.

  “There, there.” Marie stroked her hair.

  Celeste gritted her teeth.

  “Are you thirsty?” The child finally a
sked.

  Celeste nodded. Would she think to offer food? Celeste was famished. How long had she gone without eating? Too long, judging by the thinness of her arms visible through the lace sleeves of her nightdress. She had always been slender, but now she was as scrawny as a peasant in time of famine. Marie, on the other hand, looked plump and fit, so there must be food here somewhere. Celeste’s stomach growled. She stopped herself from placing a hand over it, pretending instead not to notice her grumbling stomach.

  “Something to eat?” Marie sounded doubtful.

  “Perhaps,” Celeste murmured.

  Marie grinned. She curtsied awkwardly and ran out, as though afraid Celeste would change her mind.

  Celeste lay back on the bed and stared at the window, watching the little square of light get brighter. No more memories came to her. When the light had turned a soft rose, she sat up again. Where was that girl?

  Was she taking advantage of her mistress’s forgetfulness? No. Even if she had noticed it, she would never dare let on. Her situation was tied to Celeste’s. If she displeased her mistress, she would be sent home in disgrace. She would be lucky to get work as a field labourer after that. Marie would agree with whatever Celeste told her, and keep quiet about it.

  The door to her room squeaked open. Marie entered with a mug of ale in her hand. A novice from the kitchen stepped in behind her, carrying a wooden platter of bread and cheese and olives. She placed it on the table beside Celeste and stepped back. Celeste waited. Instead of leaving, the novice handed her a knife. Her knife. Celeste stared down at it. Something about the knife repelled her, some lost memory associated with it. She did not want to touch it. Instead, she lifted the entire chunk of bread and bit off a small piece, forcing herself to chew it slowly before washing it down with a trickle of ale. The novice shrugged and placed the knife on the table. Celeste nibbled at a corner of the cheese and put a single olive into her mouth.

  Marie and the novice watched her. Celeste set the wooden platter aside and took another sip of ale. Then she sat still, slouched over, holding the mug in her hand and ignoring the platter of food on the bed beside her. It required all the will-power she had.

  “Will you eat more?” Marie asked anxiously. At the same time the novice said, “Are you finished, Lady?” She reached for the platter.

  Celeste waved vaguely without looking up. “I will try to eat more later,” she mumbled. Would the novice never leave? Celeste fumed silently, hiding her eyes behind drooping lids.

  At last the novice asked, “Will that be all, then, Lady?”

  Celeste nodded.

  The moment the door closed behind her, Celeste grabbed the cheese in one hand, the bread in the other and stuffed them alternately into her mouth, tearing off great chunks and swallowing them barely chewed, washing them down with deep chugs of ale when they threatened to choke her. The wooden platter was empty within minutes. She was tempted to lick it even after she had picked up every crumb. How soon could she ask to eat again?

  She looked up.

  Marie stood staring at her, her mouth agape.

  How had such a silly, awkward child come to be her maid? “Lower your eyes,” Celeste said. “Do not stare so at your mistress.”

  Marie bobbed her head, and kept it bowed. She was too young to have been in service long. Nevertheless, there was something between them, Celeste could feel it. She saw Marie as a little girl, playing in a corner… No, the memory was unclear, if it was a memory at all.

  Celeste stood up. Her stomach heaved. She was nauseous again, violently so, and grabbed up the chamber pot just in time. Marie was at her side before she finished, wiping her forehead with a cloth. She leaned over the stinking pot of vomit, letting Marie wipe her face, until her stomach calmed. When she was sure she was finished, she put the chamber pot down and straightened. She should have made herself eat more slowly.

  The empty platter was still on the bed. She placed it on the table, meaning to lie down again. As she did, she noticed a dirty coin lying there. At once she recalled the peddler pressing it into her hand. She slid the platter over to cover it, but Marie had already seen.

  “You sold it,” Marie said, tearing her gaze from the grimy coin to stare at Celeste. “To that peddler.” Her voice was hushed, her eyes wide in her round face.

  Sold it? Celeste’s heart pounded. Then she remembered the feel of the cold, hard nail in her hand and the silly fable Marie had told her about peasant women relieving their grief by selling a nail from their child’s coffin.

  She saw the peddler’s face—

  Marie broke into a delighted shout of laughter. “And it worked! You are better!”

  “Do not talk foolishly,” Celeste snapped. Was the girl really so simple as to think that a person could sell her sorrow and be rid of it? Had she made Celeste believe her? Her cheeks flushed hot. “I had a fever.” At least it was only a nail.

  –The peddler’s sharp face, leering over her—

  Marie’s grin wavered. “Yes—” She rallied. “Your forehead was hot. But it was because of—”

  “Because I was ill. My fever has broken, that is all. That is why I am better.”

  –Leering over her as he seized her ring! Her husband’s ring!

  “But you did do it.” Marie pointed to the coin.

  She had sold her husband’s ring! She put her hand to her head, which now pounded unbearably. She had been mad, mad! But she had still worn the ring. Lord Bernard had not set her aside when he sent her here. She was still Lady Celeste.

  The peddler’s grinning face mocked her. He had stolen her ring with the nail!

  “Where did I get that nail?”

  “From the coffin.” Marie took a step toward her.

  Celeste held out her arm, warning her back. What coffin? Who had died? Someone close to her if she had been grieving. She could not ask Marie, the girl would be convinced she had lost her wits.

  “You helped me pull it out?” Something about the nail frightened her. If only she could remember. She frowned, trying to concentrate despite the pain.

  “N-n-no,” Marie stammered, her eyes wide, anxious.

  “Speak,” Celeste commanded.

  “You were not in your right mind, My Lady. You insisted the coffin be placed beside your bed until the funeral. Your husband—” She stopped.

  Her husband? Had he died? Was that why she was living in an abbey? A vague face, masculine and powerful, came into her mind. She grasped at the memory. Something else was there. Some emotion, struggling against the cocoon of silence that held her. A stab of pain made her gasp. She closed her eyes.

  And saw a coffin. She had lain in bed staring at the small wooden coffin. A child’s coffin. Not her husband, then. Perhaps the infant—Etienne? But she had not touched the coffin. Surely she would remember extracting a nail from it. She had a brief vision of blood on her fingers, of someone else’s hands on hers—it was gone. She swayed. The pain in her head was making her dizzy; she was seized by an inexplicable terror. She swallowed, breathing deeply. Silence was better. Silence was safer. Silence would not push her toward the darkness she had so recently emerged from.

  She must not think any more about the past. It would come back to her when she was stronger. Already she was remembering a few things. Things she might prefer to leave forgotten.

  “You sold it.” Marie pointed to the coin, her mouth set in a stubborn line. “And you are better now.”

  Celeste glared at the girl, but she would not argue with a servant. “You may have the denier.”

  Marie shrank back from the table. “Oh no! That is yours, in place of your sorrow. Who knows what you would open yourself to if you do not keep it?” She spoke with such horror that the back of Celeste’s neck tingled.

  “What foolishness,” Celeste said, shaking her head to throw off the sensation. “It is only a peasant’s fable.”

  “It is true,” Marie cried. “My mother’s cousin sold a nail from her babe’s coffin and she was much better. Then she g
ave the denier to my uncle, to buy a piece of rope for the cow, and afterwards she hanged herself with that very rope! My mother told me.”

  Celeste stared at Marie. After a moment she forced out a sceptical laugh. Nevertheless, she picked up the coin.

  Marie gasped. “My Lady, your ring!”

  Celeste’s hand froze over the denier. They stood in a silent tableau staring at Celeste’s bare finger.

  “I have lost weight. It must have fallen off.” Celeste snatched the denier from the table and buried her hand in her skirts. “It will turn up somewhere.” She tried to lock eyes with Marie, to stare her down.

  Marie did not look at her. She ran to the bed, skimming her hand over the blanket, then yanked the blanket off and shook it vigorously. When nothing fell out of it, she threw it to the floor and grabbed the bottom of the mattress, lifting it high to peer underneath. “Help me, Lady,” she cried, sounding so shaken Celeste overlooked the impertinence.

  Celeste put the coin in her purse and took hold of the side of the mattress. She bent and gave a perfunctory look underneath.

  Marie ran her finger quickly along the stitching at the edge of the linen, seeking a hole through which the ring might have fallen inside the mattress.

  “My Lord will be displeased if we cannot find it, but he will soon forget it. He has other concerns to think about.” Celeste spoke casually, trying to reassure herself as much as Marie.

  “Forget it?” Marie turned to stare at Celeste. “He wed you with that ring. Do you not remember, My Lady?” Her voice rose, taking on a desperate edge. “He said as long as you had that ring, the marriage would hold!”

  Celeste’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth with her hand to prevent herself crying out. Was it true? She remembered the ring, the physical weight of it on her finger, knew it to be her husband’s marriage token. But she could not remember receiving it. She knew her husband’s name but could not visualize his face. He was like a silvered image in her mind, flat and cold, without any distinguishing features.