***
Late in the afternoon, Marie urged her pony up beside Celeste’s gelding. She did not speak, but rode beside her silently, until Celeste glanced down at her.
“Lord Raimond would not let me stay with you.”
Her voice was so low Celeste had to bend to hear her. “Lord Raimond?”
“That is what he made us call him. But I know he is only Lord Bernard’s cousin.”
“He sent you away?” What was the child trying to tell her?
The bent head trembled. Was she weeping? “The night Etienne died. He said I snored, and I would wake you, that you and the babe needed sleep. He sent me to sleep in the hall.” She looked up, hiccupping, her face wet with tears. “I do not snore, Lady Celeste.”
Raimond had sent her maid out of her bedchamber? To be alone with her? She shivered.
“I should have been there,” Marie cried, weeping openly.
Celeste recalled the adulteress at Cluny. Surely not. A sudden, vicious pain lanced her temples.
“You may box my ears if you wish,” Marie sobbed.
“I do not wish,” Celeste said, gritting her teeth against the pounding in her head. “What else do you know?’
“Nothing,” Marie sobbed. “I was not there.”
Celeste looked at her sharply, but there was no accusation in Marie’s face, nothing ugly or insinuating, only regret. Regret and fear? What was Marie afraid of?
“Stop crying.” Celeste glanced around. If the other pilgrims were aware of the fuss, they were pretending to ignore it. “Dry your eyes, Marie. It was not your fault.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, of course.” Her head pounded fiercely.
“Thank you, Lady Celeste! You are the kindest, best of mistresses—”
“Be quiet,” she said, cutting off the stream of praise. Up ahead, Brother Jacques had stopped under a copse of trees, signalling a rest break. “Compose yourself,” she whispered before they reached the others.
***
At sunset they drew near the road which led west toward Le Puy, where Lord Bernard’s castle lay. Celeste slowed her horse, letting the others pass her. Marie trotted up and rode beside her.
Should she turn onto it and return to Lord Bernard? It was not far to his castle from here. Perhaps he was there now, waiting for her?
She imagined him greeting her as she rode up, looking at her the way he did, as though he would devour her. The memory surprised her, so clear, so intense. She felt a deep ache for him in her gut, in her groin and her thighs, tight against the warmth of her horse. She caught her breath. She must go to him. He drew her…
How? Why did the thought of him draw her when she could remember nothing else? How could she trust an emotion so detached from all reason? Like a loose thread, torn from the garment that made it useful. How could she trust a fallen thread of memory?
They were almost at the road now. Celeste looked down it, conscious of Marie watching her. That same road continued beyond Le Puy, west to Santiago. If he went to Lyon, Pierre and Isavel would tell him she was headed there. Would he go all the way to Santiago, searching for her? What would he think when his enquiries turned up no sign that she had passed that way? After this second misdirection, her intent would be clear. No lie she might conceive would hide the fact that she had run from him. She stared down the narrow road.
The first time she had taken this road, she was a bride of fifteen, riding to her new home. The castle, as they drew near it, was magnificent, backlit by the sun, the flags on its turrets snapping in the wind. They rode across its mighty drawbridge, the clatter of their horses’ hooves and carriage wheels against the solid timbers echoing over the moat. She saw her husband’s emblem etched in stone in the arch above and rode beneath it proudly, feeling the thick, cool walls enclose her. Inside, she had gazed in delight at walls hung with rich tapestries, beautifully carved furniture adorned with cushions embroidered with gold and silver thread, silver dishes and candlesticks on the table.
She smiled, remembering. If she turned down this road, she would return to a life of privilege and wealth.
She reined her horse in.
If she turned down the road to Le Puy right now, everything she had done could be explained—a desire to thank God for her recovery at Cluny, an impulsive visit to her brother on her way home, a tiny lie that she was going to Santiago in order that she might surprise him, knowing he would stop at his castle before continuing to Santiago, and find her waiting—
“My Lady, we must go back,” Marie whispered beside her.
Celeste looked down at her. The girl was sweating in the hot sun, the freckles standing out in her white face, her pale lips trembling.
If she did not go back now, she might never be allowed back. Even Marie understood that.
Peasants had lined the road to see Lord Bernard and his new bride riding toward the sunlit castle. She waved back at them timidly, until she saw that Lord Bernard ignored them, sitting tall and proud beside her. She straightened then, and lowered her arm, but she could not stop smiling, the day was so bright, the castle she rode towards so beautiful, the man beside her so handsome she could barely credit that he was her husband now. And then she had seen the castle, and trembled at its splendour.
She pulled the reins sideways, turning her horse toward Le Puy. Whatever had happened later, this was a true memory, as real as her hands on the reins, as the breeze on her face, as the beating of her heart. She had been frightened by dreams and the misgivings of her child maid. Lord Bernard would not set her aside because of a ring. She would not allow it. She would ride back now with her head held high and dare anyone to mock her.
Marie pulled her pony around. “Father Jacques,” she called. Celeste raised a hand…
Something moved deep inside her, stopping her breath. She felt it again, a fluttering in her womb, a tiny, invisible ripple across her belly: the astonishing, unmistakable quickening of life.
“My Lady?” Marie asked.
She was with child.
She groaned, bending forward, holding herself. She was with child. But whose?
“Lady Celeste?” Father Jacques had turned at Marie’s call. He waited on the road to Jerusalem, looking back at them.
The infant within shivered against her heart, butterfly-frail, trusting her to protect him.
To care for him, as she had cared for Etienne, sleeping beside his cradle. And Etienne’s fever had broken. Oh, she remembered the cool feel of his forehead, the even sigh of his breathing, the joy so tight and painful in her breast!
Her head pounded fiercely. Etienne had not died of a fever.
The infant moved inside her, as though in fear.
She squinted under the brim of her hat and thought she could see Lord Bernard’s castle, a tiny black speck far down the road. Etienne had died in that castle. How had he died? In what way had she failed? The sun shone brightly overhead, but the distant castle hunched beside the road like a spider, dark and silent.
She turned her horse and urged it ahead to join Father Jacques and the other pilgrims on the route to Jerusalem.
“It is time you walked.”
Jean woke, hearing the words a beat behind their articulation. One of the dour pilgrims stood in his room, his glance cool and scornful.
Jean looked away. What did he care what this pilgrim thought of him?
“You have been slothful in your recovery. The priest will not say it, but I do.”
The thought of the priest’s pity was worse than the pilgrim’s scorn. He had never been a beggar.
Jean turned onto his side and pushed himself up, trying to use the muscles in his stomach and side as little as possible. He swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed and stifled a groan. The pilgrim reached out to help him but drew his arms back when Jean glared at him.
The wooden plank floor was cold against his bare feet under the sparse rushes. He pushed himself upright. His feet were so swollen they did not feel flat against the floor but rounded, as
though he were walking on sausages. He wobbled and threw his arms out.
The pilgrim caught him, held him steady until the agony in his side eased. He did not look so scornful now.
Jean tottered around the bed, leaning heavily on the pilgrim. With every step his pain increased and his legs grew weaker. He held his side tightly with his free hand and gripped the pilgrim’s shoulder with the other, until he could go no further, and had to let the pilgrim carry him back to bed.
The man came every day. Jean hated the sight of him, but gradually his strength increased until he could hobble down the stairs alone, to sit in the courtyard between the inn and the stables. He watched the comings and goings of others without interest, but the sun was warm and no one in the stable yard spoke of saints.
***
The pealing of Matins woke Jean: four separate bells, tolling in their church towers. The clearest, ringing out a full, even tone, must be from the church here in Prevote Venissieux. Then there were two higher notes, a beat behind each other, from smaller bells in nearby villages, and finally a faint, solemn toll coming from a much greater distance, chiming out in counterpoint to the others.
This morning the medley included a fifth stroke, rhythmic but dull. Pause-and-beat-and-pause-and-beat: as though someone were beating out the time for the bells. Jean frowned, listening intently. The sound reminded him of something unpleasant, although he could not place it outside its current cadence as part of the chorus of Matins. He pushed the bed sheet aside and sat up slowly, holding his side. When the pain eased, he hobbled across the room, stopping now and then to breathe, until he reached the window. He leaned against it a moment before opening the wooden shutters, latched across the window against the night air.
The window faced directly onto the town square. Two men stood in the middle of the square, their broad, bare chests and muscular arms glistening with sweat although the early morning sun had barely begun to warm the day. They stood on a wooden platform, pounding a tall post deep into the hard, dry ground in the center of the public square, with huge wooden mallets. They had worked their alternating strokes into a steady rhythm: Lift-and-pound-and-straighten (pound—the other mallet struck the pole) and-lift—
A small group of children stood a short distance from them, watching. One little boy had found a stick and was copying the movements of the men in perfect time, raising a little puff of dust each time he hit his stick against the ground.
Jean stumbled back from the window and slapped the shutters closed, fumbling with the latch to secure them.
The bells had stopped tolling. The incessant pound-and-pause-and-pound of the men driving stakes into the ground echoed across the square, loud and harsh without the music of the church bells to soften it. Jean lifted a heavy wool blanket from the bottom of the bed, dragged it over to the window and draped it across the shutters. It made the room dark but it dulled the noise outside. He lay down on the bed. The muffled pounding sounded now like a heartbeat, deep inside him. Groaning, he rose and limped across to the door, holding his side. Slowly he hobbled down the stairs to sit on the stone bench against the inn in the courtyard. The square was behind him now, on the other side of the inn.
“They are going to burn a heretic,” the tall priest said, sitting down on the bench beside him.
Jean closed his eyes. He leaned back against the cold stone wall. Fire was a terrible thing. He never went to watch a burning, even when his absence would be noticed. He did not care about the heretics—they brought their fate upon themselves—but he hated fire.
“I must leave,” he said in a tight voice. “I must go home.”
“I am glad to hear you say it at last,” the priest said. “The inn is full of guests come to watch the burning tomorrow. Some of them will be traveling in the same direction as you.”
“No, today. I must leave now.” He struggled to his feet.
“That is not possible. It would be better if you not mention it again.”
Jean sat down. What had made him say that aloud? He must regain control.
“I may be trusted,” the priest said with a small smile.
“I am eager to see my wife and sons,” Jean said stiffly.
“I understand.”
A kitchen maid came out the inn door. She called a greeting as she crossed to the stable. The priest responded with a smile. “She has been very helpful to me.”
Jean nodded. What did one say when a priest admitted in private that a girl was helpful?
“One of our pilgrims is ill,” the priest said, as though aware of Jean’s thought. “He will not finish his pilgrimage.” He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.
“He was ill when we began our journey. We have stopped at many holy shrines since then. He will be blessed for what he has done as well as what he attempted to do.”
Are we blessed for our attempts? Jean wondered. He did not think it was enough to try. His mother had squandered their safety in every way, while he had done all he could to guard his family, save once, once only, because of an old woman’s smile; and still the result was the same. There were no blessings dispensed for trying.
***
In the night he woke, screaming, from a dream of fire, feeling the searing of his own flesh engulfed in the sizzle and crackle of the flames as he struggled out of sleep. He lay sweating in the hot, still air. An old nightmare. He had not dreamed it since he married Mathilde. L’eau p’tite, he called her–a little water–because, lying beside him, she drove away the fiery nightmares of his childhood.
“L’eau p’tite,” he whispered in the darkened room, letting the cool sound of the words chase away the lingering heat of his dream.
He limped to the window, pulled the blanket down, and opened the shutters. A refreshing breeze blew in. He left the window open and returned to bed.
***
He woke again at mid-morning, groggy with having over-slept. Through his window came the shuffle and jostle of people gathering in the square, calling greetings to one another.
“Mama, will she have horns? And a tail? Will her eyes be red, Mama?” a little girl demanded incessantly beneath his window.
“Heretic!” a man’s voice cried.
The wound in Jean’s side throbbed.
“Heretic, heretic!” the crowd roared in rhythm with his pain.
A cleric’s voice rang out across the square, harsh and self-righteous, exhorting the heretic even now to save her eternal soul through confession.
“If I have sinned, I will meet you in hell, for you will surely go there after this day’s deed!” a woman’s voice cried. A horrified silence followed her words.
In his bed, Jean smiled.
“Light the fire,” the cleric said.
“Burn her!” “Burn the heretic!” voices called.
The wind blew smoke in through his window. The woman began to scream.
He closed his eyes, cupping his hand over his exposed ear. By God, he hated fire! He lay rigid and angry on his bed, berating himself. He had heard women scream before. The suffering of strangers was not his business.
The sound and smell and heat of fire filled the air, suffocating him. He gritted his teeth. It was her own fault: she knew the cost of heresy.
The smell of burning flesh came through his open window, sickening him.
Would she never stop screaming? Why was the fire so slow? It should have silenced her by now. He leaped from his bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side, and hobbled to the window.
The woman writhed and groaned against the stake, her face twisted in a hideous anguish as fire encompassed her legs, reaching hungrily upwards.
“More faggots!” Jean screamed. His voice, still weak, could not be heard over the noise of the crowd and the snapping of the fire and the agonized screams of the woman. “Throw more faggots on the fire, for the love of God!”
Were they made of stone? Did they have the hearts of demons? He would go down himself and feed the fire, and end her suffering!
A man directly below looked up and caught his eye: the pilgrim’s priest.
Jean stared at him, unable to look away, mesmerized by the intensity of his expression. The woman screamed again.
The priest turned back. He raised his hand and moved it slowly, heavily, in the hot air, drawing the four points of the cross, resting it against his breast. A calming movement, strangely soothing.
Others in the crowd had crossed themselves, a quick sign to ward off evil. The priest had not drawn a ward. He stood with his head bent, as though he had drawn the heretic’s suffering into himself, and Jean’s as well, and held their pain in the hand cupped over his heart.
Jean backed away from the window and slammed the wooden shutters closed. A man could not take on another’s suffering.
He stumbled across the room with his hands clasped over his ears and fell onto the bed.
The priest was wrong. Trying was not enough.
***
The crash of the door being flung open jolts him out of a deep sleep. He huddles under the thin blanket on his pallet, squeezing himself against the wall, too terrified to call out for his parents. Moonlight filters through the open door. In its eerie light four armed men march across the room to the curtain around his parents’ bed. An arm reaches up and tears it away.
Mama is kneeling on the bed, holding the blanket tightly around her. Only her face shows above it. Her eyes are wide, terrified. Papa leaps to the floor between her and the men.
“Heretics!” the man who tore down the curtain yells. Jean can see the spray of his saliva in the moonlight. “Filthy Jews!” His voice fills the little hut, thick with a fury Jean has never heard before, not even in Papa’s worst tempers.
“Seize them!” Two of his men lunge toward Mama and Papa. He gestures sharply to the third. “Find their blasphemous writings.”
The Sorrow Stone Page 20