The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  He was on his way home. He would not have to tell Mathilde that they were destitute. But all his misfortunes had begun with the nail and the ring, and he feared they were not finished with him yet. He was acutely aware of them bound into his tunic. Bound to him, and he to them.

  They were all he had to save his family.

  The little band of pilgrims continued south, away from Le Puy. Celeste rode with them, leaving behind the castle with its the dark and brooding secrets, taking with her precious little money, an incompetent maid, and an unwanted infant.

  Everything conspired against her happiness. And now this.

  She felt a tiny movement deep within her. It held her hostage, trapped by its vulnerability, and hers. If she could only be sure it was her husband’s. But Etienne had been his, and Etienne had not been safe within his father’s castle.

  She touched her hand to her belly. She would not let this child come to grief. Or bring her grief; the two were intertwined. If she could save it, could keep it safe, she might remember her past then, and escape it. Be free of it at last: a life for a life.

  She rode slowly behind the others, away from Le Puy, toward Saint-Gilles where they would take a boat to Jerusalem.

  Jerusalem. The Holy City. The dream of heaven, where God had stepped down onto the dusty soil to talk to ordinary men and women, to eat their food and drink their wine and sweat under the hot sun beside them; to lie down weary after a long day, and suffer pain and thirst, and wonder, in the end, if he had been forsaken here.

  Jerusalem. The city where God had pitied man. Where he had healed the blind, the lame, the sick. This infant would be safe in Jerusalem. She could leave him there, with the priests. It would not matter whose child he was to them. And no one else need know of him. Then she could return to Lord Bernard. With or without her ring, he would find he had little support in setting aside a wife so pious she had trod in Our Lord’s footsteps in the Holy City.

  First, she must get to Jerusalem. How much longer would it be before she showed, even under her loose kirtle? She jerked her hand away from her belly, looking around quickly. No one had noticed.

  Father Jacques would not let her travel with them if he learned of her condition. She should not be riding now. She had stopped riding as soon as she guessed she was carrying Etienne, even before she felt him quicken inside her, but this time she had no choice. Travelling to Jerusalem was safer than being cloistered with her maids in Lord Bernard’s dark castle, bearing a babe who might destroy them both.

  The infant moved again, a tiny flutter beneath her heart, bringing moisture to her eyes; she turned her face to let the breeze blow it away. She must remember how Etienne had died so that this one could live, however painful that knowledge might be.

  ***

  They stopped at an inn in Prevote Venissieux the second night. The innkeeper’s wife chattered as she served their meal. They had just missed the burning of a heretic. She described it in such detail that the Lady’s pretty maid was put off her meat pie and could eat only the bread and cheese and salted fish and fruit.

  “You are wise to sleep here the night,” the woman said, bringing in wine and a fresh loaf of bread. “There is a desperate band of thieves in the woods outside our town. They attacked a man who camped by the roadside and nearly killed him. A group of pilgrims carried him here, where he lay upstairs between life and death for weeks.”

  Celeste let the woman’s voice fade into the background. She was weary and hungry after two days of riding and not interested in the highlights of life in Prevote Venissieux.

  “…a peddler. A big man with a sharp face,” the innkeeper’s wife said in answer to a question from the boy. “And he had such nightmares about it! He kept calling out, asking about his donkey and a ring, which those vile cutthroats must have stolen also.”

  Celeste choked. She set down her mug of wine so quickly it sloshed over the brim, spilling onto the table. Marie patted her back as she coughed, but the others were all engrossed in the woman’s tale.

  “At first we thought he would die. He kept mumbling on about heaven, as though he were halfway there and could see it.” She crossed herself solemnly and left them with that thought while she went to the kitchen to fetch another jug of wine.

  “They stole everything except an empty barrel,” she said, returning with the wine and an apple pasty to end their supper.

  “Is he still here?” Celeste asked. Her voice cracked on the last word.

  “Oh, no. He left yesterday. A merchant from Marseilles gave him a lift on his wagon.”

  Marseilles. The peddler was travelling south, just ahead of them. But he had lost her ring to thieves. She would never get it back now.

  How could he have suddenly appeared in this insignificant little village? It was too strange to be chance. What perverse, inexplicable force drew her after him without her will or knowledge? He had lost everything, the woman said, but no one would consider a bent nail as anything much. Did he still have it? Was the nail pulling her toward him? Was that what the gypsy had warned her of? Undo what you have done.

  She could never take back her ring and the nail now. The sorrow she had seen in the peddler’s face would never become her own again. She was free. So why did she feel a weight of dread settling over her? Why did she still feel the presence of demons around her?

  Celeste wrapped her cloak tightly about her despite the warmth of the evening, and lay down on the rushes. She heard Father Jacques murmuring his prayers across the room, a comforting sound. She listened to the low, steadfast rhythm of his Latin, not trying to hear the words, just letting them surround her in the darkness, lingering in the air like a blessing.

  A shaft of moonlight from the window sliced through the air above her. Celeste closed her eyes. The light and the prayer were not for her; she was cut off from his blessing.

  ***

  The men-at-arms were vigilant on the road next morning. The Lady’s nervous cousin cried out alarms three times, which turned out to be nothing more than the wind in the trees, a deer, and another traveler on the road who had stepped into the bushes to relieve himself and was startled to face the raised swords of the two henchmen when he emerged.

  The boy cantered from one side of the road to the other between the men, looking into the forest on either side with his hand on his sword, occasionally stealing glances at his mother’s maid to see whether she noticed.

  “My husband’s men-at-arms are excellent swordsmen,” the Lady said, riding up beside Celeste. She had introduced herself yesterday as Lady Yvolde de Bourges, and had not seemed put out by Celeste’s lack of conversation, but cantered beside her in a companionable silence.

  “I am not concerned,” Celeste replied. If robbers attacked them, no doubt she would be frightened, but she could not rouse herself to fear them in advance. She had too much else upon her mind.

  “You have great faith.”

  “We are on pilgrimage; we all have faith.”

  “Do we? I have sometimes thought it is doubt that makes us go on pilgrimage.”

  Was Lady Yvolde questioning her motives? “I did not take you for a doubter,” Celeste said coolly.

  “Doubt is the prerequisite of any journey.”

  What was she supposed to say to that? Admit it? Deny it? “Why doubt?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

  “The soul journeys toward faith, the mind toward understanding, the body toward courage. Yet none of these pilgrimages is undertaken without the seed of doubt. We doubt our faith, our knowledge, our courage, and seek to prove them.”

  “You make doubt a virtue.”

  “A necessary flaw. Have you not met men who are utterly certain of themselves?”

  Celeste smiled. “I concede; doubt is indeed a virtue. Have you discussed your theory with Father Jacques?”

  “Only the part on strengthening my faith,” Lady Yvolde replied.

  Celeste laughed.

  “And what is it that journeys toward happiness?” she aske
d, smiling still, as though the answer was of little import.

  “Ah, the most difficult journey of all. The journey of the heart.”

  “Why should it be so difficult?”

  “Because that journey requires all three: faith, understanding and courage.”

  “Sheathe your sword, you foolish boy,” the portly cousin cried.

  The boy came galloping toward them, brandishing his sword at the shrubbery beside the road.

  “I must see to my son,” Lady Yvolde said with a sigh.

  ***

  They joined another group of travellers that night, camping together beside the road. The men-at-arms kept watch by turns. Celeste lay awake, considering Lady Yvolde’s comments. Marie whimpered beside her. “Go to sleep,” she whispered crossly when the whimpering continued.

  “I am afraid,” Marie mumbled.

  “You have a knife,” Celeste hissed. “If anyone comes near you, use it.”

  “But it is not very sharp. It does not even cut bread well.”

  Celeste rolled over, trying to find a comfortable spot on the hard ground. Marie whimpered again, the noise muffled against her arm. But Celeste was conscious of it now, waiting for it; even muffled it would prevent her sleeping. Again the miserable little sound came. She had been beaten by her father, Pierre said. She might keep this up all night.

  “There are no bandits!” Celeste hissed. “The innkeeper told us that so we would pay to sleep at his inn.”

  “What about the man they nearly killed?”

  “Nearly,” Celeste whispered scornfully. “I could make up a better tale than that.”

  Marie was silent, comparing it, perhaps, to the stories Celeste had made up when they were young. At least she was quiet. Celeste reached for her own knife, in its sheath at her belt. Could she use it? If someone came at her, would she? She tried to imagine it, to picture a figure lunging at her in the dark. She thought of her nightmares, her helpless terror. She had not been a girl who could fight back.

  Somewhere in the woods on the other side of the fire a twig snapped. She gripped the knife fiercely. Oh yes, she would use it.

  In the morning it began to rain, a cold, steady drizzle which persisted for two days. Their clothes were wet, their capes clammy and uncomfortable even after they hung them on branches by the campfire. The saddles rubbed against their damp clothes and chaffed their skin into painful rashes. The cuts on Celeste’s thighs opened again and bled, she had to wrap them in cloths while pretending to relieve herself.

  When the sun came out at last, it burned their faces and necks because they had stopped wearing their heavy, sodden hats. The Lady’s cousin developed a toothache and moaned about it to anyone who would listen. Her maid complained of headaches and begged them stop so she could rest in the shade. The boy whined incessantly; he was hungry, bored or tired in turns. He sulked when his mother’s maid would not ride with him and teased Marie until she was in tears. Celeste wanted to take a switch to them both. Only her brother’s admonition to be kind to Marie restrained her. If Pierre could fault her for it, so might her travelling companions.

  Lady Yvolde commiserated, cajoled, and encouraged them all. Celeste admired her calm persistence in keeping them moving. She, herself, was stoically silent. What had they to complain about, compared to her? Father Jacques, who had so indulged Mistress Blanche on the trip to Cluny, followed Lady Yvolde’s lead and maintained a steady pace. Apparently he had decided none of them would die of their complaints.

  On the fourth evening, as they were preparing to bed down beside the road, Marie approached her. “You must make confession, My Lady,” she said in a low voice.

  She had suggested this to Celeste before, and Celeste waved it aside as she had done then. This time, however, Marie persisted.

  “You must! We are on a pilgrimage and Father Jacques is our confessor.”

  “Mind your place,” Celeste snapped.

  “Please, Lady Celeste,” Marie cried, wringing her hands.

  Celeste closed her eyes briefly, striving for patience. “Why should I make confession?”

  “The others—they are talking about it. About you not making confession. They say God will not bless a pilgrimage if the pilgrims are not—”

  “Not what?” Celeste demanded, narrowing her eyes. How dare they criticize her, while they whined and fretted about nothing!

  “‘Pure in their intent.’ It is not me, Lady Celeste! It is the others who say it!”

  “Who? Not Lady Yvolde?”

  “No! She would never. It is Monsieur Robert. But the others listen to him.”

  The sour-faced cousin. He complained more than the boy and slowed them down more than the silly maid. “Why should I care what he says?” Celeste said, disgusted.

  “What will become of us, Lady?” Marie cried, wringing her silly hands. “Lord Bernard will not take you back now, and if Father Jacques asks us to leave—” The rest was drowned in weeping.

  “What has Father Jacques said?” Celeste demanded.

  Marie stopped crying with a hiccup. “They have not spoken to him yet. But they will. Do not wait for them to speak to him, Lady Celeste.”

  Father Jacques would not leave a Lady stranded in some town along their route because she did not make confession. But he had warned her to take this pilgrimage seriously, as a holy undertaking.

  “What have I to confess?” she wondered, regretting her words at once. She had a good deal worth confessing, and Marie knew it. “Never mind!”

  “I confessed to sloth,” Marie said, her distress subsiding into hiccups. “Sometimes when the cock crows (hiccup), I wish he would not, quite yet. And to envy (hiccup).”

  “Envy?”

  “Agnes has a ribbon,” Marie mumbled. “A beautiful (hiccup) red ribbon. She weaves it into her hair—”

  “Who is Agnes?”

  Marie looked at her wide-eyed, as though she could not believe Celeste did not know. She forgot to hiccup.

  Celeste flushed. Agnes would be the maid who had the boy and the sour-faced man acting equally foolishly.

  She looked across the campfire where Agnes stood. A bright red ribbon was braided through her thick, brown hair. Her linen kirtle was a darker red, and was cut nearly as full as her mistress’s. She noticed them watching her and turned, flouncing the skirts of her kirtle.

  Celeste became aware of her own dull black kirtle. She had had to leave Lyon before her new one was finished. She glanced at Marie’s, so short it no longer covered her ankles, although Marie had let it down until there was no hem at all. She must have grown while they were at the abbey.

  She looked up from examining Marie’s kirtle. Marie’s cheeks were scarlet. A tear stood on her lashes. Across the campfire, Agnes laughed.

  Celeste raised her chin haughtily and stared at Agnes until the girl remembered her station and bowed her head. Her eyes made a mockery of the subservient gesture.

  “Come with me,” Celeste ordered. She walked over to the bundle of her belongings and opened the basket, reaching for the cloth bag which held her hair things. After a moment of searching through it, she held up a long silk ribbon.

  “It is blue, not red,” she said to Marie. “It will match your eyes and look nicer in your yellow hair than a red one would.”

  Marie stared with her mouth open, not daring to take the proffered ribbon. Growing impatient, Celeste let it go. Marie caught it before it touched the ground.

  “Now you have your own ribbon,” Celeste said. “Did your confession accomplish as much?”

  Marie did not answer. She stood gawking at the shiny blue ribbon in her hands.

  Celeste closed her basket. Unfortunately, however, Marie was right. She should at least appear to be a pilgrim, and pilgrims made confession. She walked resolutely across to the priest.

  “Father, will you hear my confession?” she said, before she could change her mind. Lady Yvolde’s thin-lipped cousin was sitting beside the monk. Celeste saw the surprise on his face before a false s
mile covered it.

  The young priest led her a little distance from the others, and stopped just out of hearing, where the men-at-arms could still see them. Celeste knelt in front of him and folded her hands.

  “Confiteor deo omnipotent,” he began.

  When it was her turn, Celeste said, “Mea culpa,” and stopped. She could not remember anything before she had met the peddler, and she was not going to reveal their bargain. Nor had she any intention of disclosing the trail of lies and half-truths that had brought her here, including those she had told him.

  “Mea culpa…” Everyone was guilty. Only babes were innocent.

  He lay in her arms, his pale little face still. Prince of the drowsy, dying day—

  Her head began to pound.

  “I have been impatient with my maid,” she said quickly. She had slapped Marie. No, that was not a sin, it was a necessity. Everyone punished their servants; how else would they learn?

  “I have not gone to confession for—” Three? No, it was more than three weeks now since she had seen the peddler, and who knew how long before that? “—two months.” The pounding in her temples distracted her. “I was ill,” she said.

  Was that enough for one confession? She looked up. He stood before her quietly, his hands clasped above her head, waiting.

  She closed her eyes. What else could she confess to? Not a lie, but not—

  “Have you been an obedient wife to your husband?”

  His words shocked her. No priest had ever said such a thing to her. She wanted to slap him for his daring. Instead she found herself saying, “I do not know, Father.”

  She felt his hand on her bent head, heard him forgive her everything. “…In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  She was angry and at the same time strangely comforted as she rose to her feet.