“Her father?”
The priest looked uncomfortable. “We must pray that he will learn forgiveness. He is a good man, I am sure, in other circumstances.”
The girl’s father? He was talking about the little girl at Cluny! He must still think Jean linked that child to his own little Jeanne. To him, that explained this strangeness that had come over Jean, a strangeness that was more than a distraction.
But not a spell. The priest had made that clear. A priest would know the difference.
What if it were as simple as a child who looked and spoke like Jeanne?
As simple and as complex as that. Because home was home and family was family, and everywhere and everyone else was not. If that was no longer true, then Jean was no longer Jean. And if not Jean, then who was he?
No! The priest was wrong. It was not the child who haunted him, nor lingering thoughts of his family, as he had claimed earlier. It was the mysterious black-eyed young woman, with her ring and her nail. The nail that he had not been able to throw away, that he had forgotten to sell when he had the chance. The nail that he still carried, because it was bound to the ruby and to him by his ill-omened trade. He closed his eyes, but they danced in his mind, the shiny nail as black as sin and the brilliant, gold-clawed ruby as red as the sorrow of God and the blood of His martyrs.
“It is a spell, Father.” He could barely form the words.
“No, it is not.” The priest spoke firmly, loud enough to reach any in his company who had overheard Jean’s admission. “Good does not come of spells. Children are not saved because of a spell. ‘Suffer the little children to come onto me,’ our Lord said. He does not work through spells. Therefore you are not under a spell.”
Jean was embarrassed at the extent of his relief. He glanced sideways. Everyone nearby was watching. What a spectacle he had made of himself.
“Well then,” he said. He gave the donkey’s halter a perfunctory yank. “Then that is settled. For me, anyway.” He glared accusingly around at those watching.
The priest patted his shoulder again. They resumed walking.
***
It was a great relief to reach Lyon just after sunset and part company with the pilgrims. Jean walked briskly through the narrow, twisting streets. The late summer breeze was rich with familiar scents: horse dung and wood smoke, sewage tossed from windows and floor rushes swept into the streets, freshly-baked bread, carrot and onion stews, fish and fowl roasting over hearth fires. People called from open windows to one another and children in the streets laughed and squabbled at their games. Jean smiled and nodded as he passed townspeople, slyly assessing the quality of their clothes and the weight of their purses.
The merchant’s house where he hoped to find a welcome was not as large as most, but Jean had stayed there before. He would be well-fed and allowed to sleep in the loft for a reasonable barter of spices. Despite its distance from the hearth and consequent lowly status, Jean preferred sleeping there rather than in the large hall, as it allowed some measure of protection against theft. Even if other guests shared the loft, and there usually were others, it would be impossible for anyone to make off with his goods without being seen carrying them down the ladder. He found the building he was looking for and knocked on the heavy wooden door.
“Jean the spice peddler,” he said when the door opened. The steward closed the door without a word. Jean remembered him: an unpleasant fellow, resentful of having to serve a man less well-born than himself. It was one of the things Jean liked about staying here.
In a few minutes a stable boy arrived. Jean followed him through a gate in the tall wooden fence, into the inner courtyard. The surly steward was waiting at the door. Jean let the boy take his donkey to the stables, giving him a coin to unharness the weary animal and guard his things, and followed the servant up the narrow stairs to the floor above the undercroft. They entered a small, dark anteroom, separated from the great hall by screens. The steward led him into the hall.
It was an older house, without a separate kitchen. Three female servants stood around the hearth fire in the center of the room. A well-dressed middle-aged woman with a clutch of keys hanging at her waist stood behind them issuing orders as they fussed over a haunch of pork sizzling on a spit above the flames. A large, black stew pot hung beside it. The long table had been set in the middle of the room and benches placed on either side, ready for dinner.
Smoke burned Jean’s eyes, despite the hole high above the hearth and the open shutters on the narrow windows around the hall. The woman spoke sharply to one of the servants, but her voice was drowned by the crackle of fat falling into the fire and the rushes scratching on the stone floor under Jean’s feet as he followed the steward across the room toward her.
To his left, steep stairs set into the stone side of the wall led to the upstairs rooms. Several screen partitions created extra rooms along that side of the hall. The other walls were hung with tapestries depicting hunting scenes, battles and feasts. A ladder at the far end of the hall led up to the loft, where Jean expected to lodge.
The woman greeted him, asking in the same breath to see his wares. He bowed, hiding his smile. She wanted to make her choices before he visited her neighbours.
“Your steward bade me leave them and come in to you, Mistress Marguerite,” he answered.
The steward received a look that cheered Jean thoroughly, but Marguerite only said, “Get them and bring them here.” When the steward left, she returned to supervising the cooking of their meal until his goods arrived.
She bought a blue silk handkerchief blessed in Jerusalem, the scarlet ribbon, and a pair of green hose for her husband as well as nearly a sou’s worth of spices, measured on his scales, which he asked the steward to retrieve from one of the panniers. Jean was scrupulous in his weighing, tipping the balance slightly in her favour. The merchant’s wife would have everything weighed again on her own scales after he had gone to sleep. If she was satisfied, her neighbours would hear of it. Finally, Jean offered her two squares of leather in return for his meals and lodging.
“We have shoes,” she said proudly, looking at the bag of cinnamon sticks which she had touched longingly but not opened. He offered her two sticks, though they were more than double the price of the leather. She accepted them with delight. It was worth it when she instructed the steward to carry Jean’s barrels and panniers up to the loft where he was to sleep, and to be sure to bring them down again the next morning for him.
The next two days made up for Jean’s difficult journey to Lyon. The sullen steward delivered his barrels and wadmal bags to the stable every morning, and carried them back to the loft each evening. One of his barrels had been empty since Cluny, but he had the steward hoist it up and down along with the other, for the pleasure of seeing his expression as he did so. It was less amusing this year than it had been last year, however, and when he saw the servant rubbing his back the evening of the second day, and noticed gray hairs at the corner of his cap, he left the empty barrel in the loft and carried the other one up himself, cursing his foolishness as he did so.
The wine merchants were eager to buy his spices—what was wine without a well-seasoned meal to go with it? The pottery merchants asked what the wine merchants had bought and would not be outdone by them. Jean feared he would have no spices left for the market, a satisfying concern indeed.
At the end of the second day, he climbed contentedly into the loft. The mistress of the house, still pleased with her cinnamon sticks, had given him a tallow candle only half burned, to take up with him. He set it carefully on the planked wooden floor of the loft, a little distance from the thick straw pallet made up for him.
He was alone in the loft. The two boys who had shared it with him—nephews of the silk merchant—had left that day to return to their home. It was a rare treat to have a place to sleep all to himself. He removed his boots and wriggled his feet in his hose, stretching his legs out before him. He looked at the barrels, one empty and the other nearly so, an
d sighed with satisfaction. The money pouch was a heavy weight at his side. Why not look at it? No one was here to see.
He untied the pouch from his waist and loosened the strings. Slowly he tipped it up, letting the precious coins fall into a heap on the floor beside the candle. The thin, yellow line of light above them turned the brown coins into gold. He looked at them a long moment, imagining that he could do anything he wanted with them. Then he began to count.
First, the money to feed them all winter and buy next year’s spices. He counted out the coins he would need, setting them on the floor aside from the first pile. He made it a generous pile, more than he had spent this year, for he could have sold more of the rare spices today if he had them. When he was through, he still had nearly a third of the coins in the original pile. He smiled down at them.
He must keep some extra for his side goods. He would not buy hose again, but the shoe leather had sold well; he had only four pieces left. He would decide what else to offer next year when he saw what came in on the ships. Two years ago he had bought some fine sewing needles made in Constantinople, and sold all but one which he had intended to give to Mathilde at Yuletide. Then one of his barrels turned out to have a leak and he had found most of the spices in it dampened when he unsealed it. He had to sell them for half what he had bought them for, and could not afford to keep the needle for Mathilde.
Carefully he counted out a smaller number of coins and added it to the pile for next year’s wares.
There was still more left. And there, at the bottom, lay the ring. He frowned. What if one of the merchants had seen it when he was making change today? They would wonder where it had come from. One of them might have recognized it. How careless he was being, how foolish. He scooped it out of the pile and pried the lid off the empty barrel, tucking the ring into one of the large wadmal bags lying at the bottom of the barrel. He thought for a moment, then rifled through one of the panniers until he found the nail and the pilgrim’s badge, and tossed them into the wadmal bag as well before refitting the lid tightly onto the barrel.
He sat down again in front of his two piles of coins. There had been years when he had had only a few coins left over from those needed for another year’s trading, or none at all, to get them through the winter. He remembered one other year when he had had this much extra. Jeanne was born that year. Mathilde’s labor was difficult; mother and babe had nearly been lost. He had had to send for a doctor.
He shook his head to clear it. Home was home and trading was trading.
Jean looked down at the smaller pile of coins. He hesitated. But he was alone in the croft—who would notice?
“Never look back,” he muttered under his breath. It was a rule. He looked again at the little pile of coins, seeing faces on them, Mathilde and the boys, little Jeanne.
No one could see him here.
Quickly he counted out three deniers. Gilles was growing; he would need a new tunic. Jean added a fourth for hose. He needed a new tunic himself; he added two deniers to the third pile, feeling better. This was about trading; a trader must look prosperous.
There were still a surprising number left. Jeanne would be nearly three when he got home. Time to start thinking of her dowry. It was up to him to see she married well. Six deniers: half a sou. That would make a very good start. He smiled to himself.
Mathilde had not had a new kirtle in… He shrugged. Too long to remember. She had not asked for one. He looked at the dwindling pile of his profits. He had promised himself for years that he would set aside something for bad times. But there was still the ring, and the nail and the badge. He could sell them in Avignon, or at Narbonne. He might give the ring to the priest to sell in Spain when he visited his wife. Even if the fellow kept a portion of the sale, he would do well—and who would question a priest? He grinned and counted four deniers into the third pile, and one more for a new white veil as well, to cover Mathilde’s thick, brown hair.
There were—he counted them out—eight deniers left. But there was still Simon to consider. Simon would be coming with him next year. It was time. Jean had been on his own, scrounging for food, when he was much younger than Simon. Perhaps that was why he kept putting the boy off. But Simon would not be alone or afraid; his father would be there to protect him.
He scooped up the eight deniers. A trader could not look poor—people would wonder about the quality of his wares. Simon would need a new tunic, new hose, new shoes. Jean decided to set aside two of the pieces of leather, one for him and one for Simon. And a warm cape with a hood. And a pouch; Simon would need his own money pouch.
Jean counted out the coins. It would take most of the remaining deniers, but he could already see Simon in his new outfit. He pictured his son turning around to show off his cape, the pride on Mathilde’s face, mixed with a little worry, perhaps, and the envy on Gilles’ face. He laughed under his breath. Gilles’ turn would come. Then he imagined Simon’s face, earnest and young, trying hard to smile.
Jean was not home very much of the year, but he knew more than Simon thought he knew.
Simon did not want to come with him, even though he had protested again this year when Jean declared he was not yet old enough. Simon wanted to be apprenticed to a blacksmith. He loved animals, and he was good with them, and good also at working with his hands, at shaping things. He did not hate fire the way Jean did; he was drawn to it, despite Jean’s warnings.
“It changes things,” Simon said. Jean agreed with that, although Simon saw how it made iron and metal malleable, while Jean saw how it devoured wood and flesh, how it could eat up a boy’s childhood and spit the ashes at his feet.
Simon did not see that. Simon would rather be a blacksmith’s apprentice with holes in his hose, a threadbare tunic, and worn out shoes, than be dressed like a merchant’s son and barter for sales at distant markets. Gilles should come with him. Gilles would like the traveling and the fairs and festivals and all the people he would meet. Gilles would like haggling over a price until he struck a profitable deal.
Simon had never asked to be apprenticed. He knew they had no money to buy an apprenticeship. It made more sense for Simon and Gilles to work with him, to build up his trading route. Why was he even considering the boy’s whim?
But if he got a good price for the ring, and sold the nail and the pilgrim’s badge to the monastery at Narbonne…
No, it was not possible. There would be nothing left to set aside. There would be no new kirtle for Matilde, or tunic for Gilles, and what would he do about a dowry for Jeanne?
Jeanne was a baby. It was too early to think about her dowry.
He knew that was not true. He was not likely to get many windfalls like this. There were worse things that were far more likely to happen. He should set something aside.
But even so…
Jean put his hand over the little pile of coins for Simon. He pushed them toward the pile intended to clothe them all.
He was not being sensible.
Even so…
He pushed the mound of coins for Simon across to join the small original pile, the pile that would not include some set-aside money, after all.
Yes. Even so.
The candle sputtered. The tallow had burned almost completely away. Jean scooped up the piles of coins and poured them into his pouch, being careful not to miss any. He wound the string tightly around it. The candle sputtered again and went out. Jean tied the pouch to his belt. The rush lights in the great hall were still burning, throwing enough light into the loft for him to undress by.
A murmur of male voices drifted up from the hall below. The women had gone to their beds long ago. The loft was too warm for the fur covering they had given him, so he lay down on top of it. It made the pallet as soft as a feather bed. He slept like a lord, and dreamed that his sons were squires at court in Paris.
***
Jean awoke to see a dull, overcast sky through the windows. He had slept deeply, as he sometimes did after coming to a decision, and had no time
to eat more than a few quick spoonsful of the porridge set out for him. He had traded for his keep and it bothered him to waste what he had paid for. He should not have counted out his money that way last night. He had made his decision and he was content with it, but he should not have made it here. A trader needed to think like a trader. He needed to keep his wits, not his family, about him on the road. The broken rule was a bad omen.
The market was bustling with shoppers when Jean arrived. He found a space near the end of a row of farm carts and unloaded his donkey quickly, keenly aware of the sound of buying and selling all around him, and the clink of coins passing into other men’s hands.
He glanced up at the sky. Heavy, dark clouds had rolled in on a stiff wind. He did not dare open the lid of the barrel with the last of his spices to let their aromas entice customers over, in case the clouds burst before he could get it shut again. Still, he took his weigh scales from the pannier and set them on top with an open pot of salt which could be covered quickly and a small selection of the less expensive herbs. He placed the linen handkerchiefs and some ribbons on top of the empty barrel, where they could be admired, and draped two pair of hose over the sides.
He sold the last of his salt to an innkeeper, save the bit he kept for himself on his journey home, an extravagance he felt he had earned; but he did not sell any of his remaining spices. A few people stopped to admire the ribbons and handkerchiefs. He had nearly a dozen people around him at one point, listening eagerly as he explained how the linen handkerchiefs had been carried on pilgrimage by a holy priest and blessed on the tomb of the Apostle James at Santiago. He told how such blessings had brought miracles to those who owned them, and held the group spellbound with stories of lost things found and fortunes won and sudden, wondrous cures. He told it well, as he always did, dispelling the overcast gloom with his compelling rhetoric and extravagant gestures.
The Sorrow Stone Page 15