Its size still puzzled him. His earlier unease returned, but he shrugged it off. Perhaps someone had given it to the woman and told her it was from the child’s coffin. He remembered her soft little hands. She had never helped her husband build a home, or cobbled together a hen coop, like his Mathilde. Someone had given her the nail, and played her for a fool. The thought angered him.
He laughed at himself. Had he not done the same?
It was better for him that it was not a coffin nail. Christ’s cross would not be held together with a flimsy little bit of iron. Should he straighten the end? No, let it look as though it had been extracted from the wooden cross. He poured a fat drop of oil onto a cloth. A nail that had touched Christ would shine for all eternity.
He polished the nail until it gleamed in his hand. It lay against his skin, black and glistening. As black as her eyes. He opened his money pouch and took out the ring. The large ruby was brilliant against his palm. As red as her trembling lips when she cried, “Take my sorrow!”
They lay together in his hands, hard and bright. Neither one was a child’s coffin nail, but they were her sorrow, nevertheless. They should not be separated.
A strange thought, but he was convinced of it.
An absurd thought! What made him think such things?
He closed his hands. They may be her sorrow, but they were his wealth.
He tightened his fists around them until they dug into his palms, the iron nail in his left, the ruby ring in his right. He clenched his hands tighter, until the iron and the gem bit into his flesh.
It was wrong to separate them.
He gripped them even more tightly, ignoring the pain. They were his, now. He would control them, not they, him. His breathing grew ragged as he squeezed his fists tighter and tighter.
A loud thud made the door shudder.
He gasped and opened his eyes.
Outside his room a low voice grunted, “Watch yourself.” A heavy table scraped across the stone floor.
Jean opened his hands slowly, panting for breath. His palms were marked with deep red bruises. The nail had drawn blood from his left palm.
What madness had come over him? Thank the Saints, it had passed quickly. His hands shook as he returned the ring and the nail to his pouch. He sucked the wound like a bewildered child, until it stopped bleeding.
***
The guest house was full and every bench occupied by the time Jean left his room. The noise of their talking and laughter echoed against the close stone walls. Some benches had so many squeezed along them that those at the ends had to angle their outside legs to the side to prevent themselves tumbling onto the floor. The servers would have to look sharp to avoid tripping on them.
Through the far door he saw more tables set up outside, where villagers and townspeople would be eating. The tables were already filled, and people stood in the field holding their mugs and their knives, waiting for the feast to begin as they watched the jugglers and dwarves and other entertainers in their midst.
Dried rushes crackled under his feet as Jean crossed the room, looking for a place to squeeze himself in. The tables were bare, except for the knives and cups each traveler brought to his place, waiting for servers to carry in trenchers and platters of food. Someone moved aside, exposing a narrow space on the bench, and Jean placed his knife and cup on the table in front of him, taking care not to expose his palms.
A hearty meal was what he needed to banish whatever had come over him in his room. He exchanged greetings with the man who had made room for him, a fellow he had seen at the fair selling pots and metal implements. Trade had gone well for the metal smith, as everyone in earshot already knew. He boasted about his good fortune, a foolish thing to do before starting his journey home. Jean congratulated him, implying he had not done as well himself, which not only assured his own safety should scoundrels be listening, but endeared him so much to the metal smith that the man offered to buy his meal. Jean was sorry to say his meal and lodgings had already been paid.
“Then we will share a meal on the road.” the metal smith declared. “You are headed for the market at Lyon, heh?” Lyon timed its market to follow Cluny’s, taking advantage of all the pilgrims heading south.
Jean nodded politely. There was no point denying it, the metal smith would see him there; but he had no intention of walking anywhere near a man with money and a loose tongue.
The fellow across the table held up his hand. Jean turned. A portly, middle-aged monk had entered the room, followed by several servants carrying jugs of wine. The monk waited until the hall was quiet and then announced that as soon as everyone had had a mug of wine to quench their thirst, they must proceed to the square where the adulteress was to be stoned. The Feast of the Assumption would be served afterwards.
A cheer went up. The postponement of the stoning had not been received favourably on the first day of Market.
Jean did not cheer. He drank his wine sullenly but without comment and slapped his mug down on the table.
“’Twas the Bishop who delayed the stoning.”
Jean stiffened, half-way to his feet.
“I hear he blanched when he heard the name of the adulteress. And now he has been called away, on church business. Called away from the Cluny Feast of the Assumption?” The metal smith shook his head, smirking.
“The Bishop is a busy man,” Jean said. He did not smile back. This man was dangerous company. Jean left quickly, walking toward the square with everyone else. He bent down on his way, collecting good-sized stones, whether he wanted to or not. When he reached the crowded square he pushed his way near the front, where his righteous indignation at the sight of a sinful woman would be noticed by the monks and the bailiff, and be good for future business.
A wooden stake had been pounded into the ground in the centre of the square. An iron circlet was attached to its top, about a foot above the ground. Jean had seen such things before. The woman’s hands would be bound behind her to the circlet, forcing her to her knees. She would not be able to shield herself. There was something pathetic about a woman hiding her face, and something brazen about one who did not. Justice was generally more palatable when the condemned were brazen—or at least appeared so.
At the edge of the crowd across the square from Jean people began moving, parting and surging back as two strong men pushed their way between them. Jean made out a dark head between the guards, bobbing sideways and backwards as though the person was fighting their hold. Then they were through the crowd.
The adulteress was small and slender, with long, dark hair that swung across her face as she struggled between the guards. She barely slowed them down as they crossed the open ground toward the wooden stake. When she saw the stake she stopped struggling abruptly and slumped forward, so that they had to carry her between them the last few feet.
The crowd quieted as the men reached the stake. They stood there, holding the woman up exposed for all to see. She wore only a thin undershift and shivered despite the heat, her arms crossed over her breasts to hide her shame.
The guards shoved her down onto the dirt. A ragged cheer broke out across the crowded square.
The woman raised her head defiantly and stared out at those who had come to watch her die, turning a scornful and accusing glare upon them. For a moment she stared straight at Jean, her face no longer hidden by the guards.
It was Sorrow! The same unearthly pale face, the same black hair, black gown, the same dark eyes, burning into his soul! He gaped at her, caught in her knowing eyes, exposed in all his petty lies and cruelties. She saw him as he was, as he let no one else see him.
The stones fell from his hands.
Then the guards pushed her against the low stake, forcing her sideways, and bound her hands to the iron circlet.
Jean stepped back into the crowd, ducking his head. She could denounce him, even now, and he would be lost. The ring would be discovered in his pouch; no one would believe she had given it to him. He must get away!
Jean stood still among them, willing himself to leave but unable to move. When she was dead, he would be safe. But when she was dead, she would take the truth of him with her, and she was dying in sin…
The thud of stones meeting flesh filled his ears. He felt, in his own body, the hot, burning pain as each one hit, tearing the thin fabric of her shift, digging into her bruised and bleeding flesh. It should be him there, not her. He could not move, speak, breathe…
Something shoved up against his leg. His breath emerged in a gasp.
“Mama!”
A girl of five or six squeezed past him. She pushed her way through the crowd till she reached the front, crying all the while, “Mama! Mama!”
The woman’s face was hidden, covered by her hair. The air was thick with stones. Again and again they struck her, but still she did not cry out.
“Mama!” the child screamed again.
The woman looked up.
“Mama!” She sprinted across the open ground. A stone whizzed past her ear. A second hit her back, flinging her to the ground.
The woman cried out then, a wild, animal shriek. It echoed, hideous and compelling, across the square.
She would be killed! The horror of it swept over Jean as he stared at the fallen child. No! He could not bear that! He shoved his way through the crowd, unable to look away from the woman, unable to escape the terror in her eyes as she strained against her bonds, struggling to reach the child sprawled on the ground. She shrieked again, a high, keening noise. Jean gritted his teeth to keep from screaming with her.
At the edge of the crowd he stopped. What was he doing? What in the name of Heaven had come over him?
Then the child moaned and the woman screamed again and Jean ran forward, unable to stop himself. The little girl tried to roll over as Jean reached her. He was no longer looking at the woman, but he felt her strain toward him as he bent down and scooped up the child.
A stone struck the side of his head as he straightened. He staggered, almost dropping the child. He regained his footing and turned to race back to the safety of the crowd.
“The adulterer!” a man cried.
Other voices took up the cry. He stepped forward, but the gap in the crowd where he had pushed through to get to the child had closed against him. A second stone hit his arm. There could be no mistaking that this one was meant for him. He saw the metal smith among the crowd, his arm drawn back, aiming. As Jean watched, he flung his stone.
It hit Jean’s shoulder with a stinging blow that took his breath away. He crouched over the child, holding her tightly to him, more aware of the woman’s anguished cries behind him and the child’s terror than his own pain. Two more stones came flying at him; one missed its mark but the other hit the child’s leg. She screamed and twisted, trying to burrow into him. A third stone hit her cheek, drawing blood. He wrapped both arms around her, leaving his own head exposed as he searched for an opening in the crowd.
To the left, several people turned, looking behind them. Jean ran toward them, taking advantage of their distraction. He was about to plunge among them when a large, burly man stepped forward and pushed him roughly back into the square. He looked up.
The cellarer stood, arms crossed, before him. “Set her down. There is sin in her, too. You saw how she is drawn to her false mother.”
Jean blinked at the monk. He began to bend down, opening his arms.
Feeling his hold loosen the child whimpered and grasped at his tunic.
He could not do it. He wanted to, oh how he wanted to. This was lunacy, risking his life, his livelihood, for a stranger’s child. But he could not overcome the urgency of her need, stronger in him than his own. He shook his head, backing away from the cellarer’s challenging stare, looking for an opening. More people were now craning their necks toward the commotion behind and to the left. Jean dodged around the cellarer, feeling his glare acutely, and plunged into the crowd.
He pushed his way through them, gasping for breath and nearly deafened by the pounding of his own heart. Finally he stopped, exhausted, out of the spray of stones. The people around him ignored him, returning to the easier sport of stoning the bound adulteress.
The little girl’s body shook against his chest. Jean held her tightly, his hand cupping the back of her head. Her dark curls brushed his fingers and he could feel the deep shudder of her silent sobs, the high, quick pounding of her heart. Shielding her face, he turned to look at the woman again. She knelt in the dirt, no longer screaming but writhing with pain as the rocks struck her.
It was not the same woman at all. How could he have imagined that she was Sorrow? Even with her head bowed, he could see that this woman’s cheeks were broader, her features plain and more filled out than the other. She was clearly at least ten years older, with dull brown hair, not shimmering black, and she was not wearing a black kirtle but only a dark undershift. What had made him imagine it was her? A shudder of relief passed through him.
The child stirred against him. Where was its father? He looked around.
On the other side of the square a man stood at the forefront of the crowd. Those nearby pressed rocks into his hands. His face was twisted in rage and pain, his mouth open, but his voice was swallowed by the crowd’s roar of encouragement as he flung stone after stone at the bound woman, hurling them at her with a crazed ferocity, too close to miss. They tore into her flesh, pounding her into the ground, crushing her against the wet red dirt.
Jean closed his eyes. The heat of the crowd was like a fire surrounding him. He held the child tightly, listening to her quick little breaths and her fluttering heart and feeling the dampness on her cheek through his tunic. He had been older than her when he lost his mother, but still too young. He held onto her as nobody had held him.
When he opened his eyes again, the woman was no longer visible. A mound of stones had grown around her, with only a few small hints of what lay hidden beneath them—a bare foot, a red-brown fold of fabric, three outstretched fingers.
Someone tugged on the sleeve of his tunic. He looked down into the face of a boy, ten or eleven years old. Jean stared at him blankly.
“You have my sister,” the boy said. He let go of Jean’s tunic. Jean saw his hands trembling. His face was very white, his eyes wide and blank. He spoke with no expression at all.
Jean set the girl down. He had been holding her against him so tightly it hurt to loosen his arms, to let her go. She leaned against his leg, blinking. The boy took her hand and turned to lead her away.
Jean’s arms hung empty at his sides. “Do not look back,” he said.
He watched the backs of the children walking away from the square. The boy held his little sister’s hand tightly, keeping her close beside him. That twisted angry man stoning his wife would be no help to either of them.
“Never look back,” he called after them.
His voice broke on the words.
“Go break your fast in the guesthouse,” Celeste told Marie, shaking her awake as soon as dawn broke. She had been up half the night trying to think what to do while her lazy maid slept.
Marie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “But I eat in the kitchen with the servants.”
“Then offer to carry things to the guesthouse. And keep your eyes and ears open while you are there.”
Marie looked at her blankly.
“Find out who is staying here, where they are going, when they will leave.” Anything that would help her to get away.
When Marie left, she went through her belongings. Nothing but ribbons and hair pins in the silk bag beside her brush and comb. The pins were decorated with colored glass instead of gems. Worth something, perhaps, but where were her sapphire pins? Surely she
had not sold those for the abbey. Or the ruby ones that sparkled in her dark hair, and matched her—
—Well, perhaps Lord Bernard had been practical in not sending those with her, she thought, rubbing her thumb against her bare finger. At least she remembered her jewellery. Much good the memory did her now! Still, it was a positive sign. The vestiges of her illness were receding.
She continued searching through her scanty possessions. Nothing of any value. A peasant would have more wealth about her. Perhaps she could sell the cloak?
She lifted it down from the wall hook and shook it out. It jingled. She shook it again. The unmistakable sound repeated. She knelt on the floor and patted it down until she found the money pouch tied inside, under the left shoulder. Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
Thirty deniers. Had Lord Bernard hidden the purse in her cloak to prevent its being stolen, or had she hidden it from him before he brought her here? That would be a useful thing to recall. Either way, she now had money. She could leave the convent.
The tower bell was ringing Mass when Marie finally returned.
“There are eight people staying in the guesthouse, My Lady,” Marie said, hurrying to help Celeste into her kirtle. “Three peasants working for their keep and five pilgrims on their way to Cluny to celebrate the Feast of the Assumption.” She began to braid Celeste’s hair, piling the thick black braids about her head.
“Pilgrims? Describe them to me.”
“An older woman escorted by her maid and her husband’s manservant. They are accompanied by a Cluniac monk and a young man who is traveling with them, but he does not wear the red cross of a pilgrim.”
“Is the woman nobility?”
“No, Lady. They address her as ‘Mistress Blanche’.”
That was good. A commoner would not question a Lady about her reasons for traveling. “When will they leave?”
“They argued about that while they ate. The young man wanted to leave this morning. He is eager to get to the Assumption Market, but the monk said it will last all week. Imagine, a week-long market…”
The Sorrow Stone Page 8