“The donkey was stolen by thieves!”
“They stole the donkey and left that ring?” The scorn in her voice infuriated him.
“They did not find the ring! It was in that wadmal bag. They thought the bag was empty.” He had never seen her so unreasonable. She was frightened for Jeanne and exhausted, but so was he. She should know that, and not push him too far.
“What else are you hiding from me?” She bent and grabbed the bag from the floor and shook it over the table.
The nail fell out. It clattered loudly against the wood, rolling sideways until the ring stopped it. Mathilde drew her breath in sharply. In the silence that followed, they both stared at the nail.
Mathilde lifted her hands to cover her face. Her shoulders began to shake.
“Mathilde—” Jean reached toward her.
Her face was still buried in her hands but she sensed his gesture and flinched away.
“Mathilde,” he said again, pleading.
“You bought someone’s sorrow. You brought it home to us.” Her voice, behind her hands, was unfamiliar to him. He wished she would shout again.
“It is only a superstition,” he said, hearing the tremor of doubt in his own voice.
She dropped her hands. “Is Jeanne’s illness a superstition? Look at her. And the thieves, were they a superstition?”
He looked away from her, wanting to deny it but unable to. He had been warned. He had dreamed of Jeanne’s death, and he had ignored it, convinced himself it was but a fever-dream.
“I did not mean to buy it.” He had laughed at the woman, had started to pass her by—
“She gave you her ring so you would take the nail.”
She knew him that well? He flushed and could not answer her. The nail and the ring lay on the table side by side, condemning him. He should have given them back. He should have searched and searched however long it took until he found the woman and made her take them, held her finger and forced the ring back onto it if he had to. Mathilde must know he would never harm Jeanne, never! “Mathilde—”
She looked at him as though he were a stranger. “You sold Jeanne’s life for a gold ring.”
“No!” He leaped up and slapped her, hard.
The minute his hand touched her cheek he regretted it.
“Mathilde—” His faltering apology was drowned out by a strangled cry behind him. Simon and Gilles stood in the doorway.
Gilles looked from his father to the ring.
Simon stood with his mouth half-open, staring from Jean to Mathilde. He cried out again, a frightened, choking sound, and turned and ran away.
They clattered into Saint-Gilles down a stone road so wide four horses could ride abreast. “A good Roman road,” Lady Yvolde said, cantering her horse alongside Celeste’s.
“Will it take us to the sea?” She had heard that the Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon like the blue sky fallen down to Earth; that when the wind blew, a million stars shone in its waves, leading Christians to the Holy Land as the Star of Bethlehem led the wise men to his birth.
“Saint-Gilles is not on the Mediterranean,” Lady Yvolde replied. “It was built a few miles inland on the Petite Rhone, to shelter its harbour from storms.”
“Will we not board our ship here, then?”
“Oh yes. The river is wide and deep enough for the great sea-faring vessels. Ships from all parts of the Mediterranean have been visiting Saint-Gilles since it was built.”
The streets were as crowded as Cluny during its festival, with many people dressed in pilgrim’s garb. Was she really here, about to board a ship for Jerusalem? Celeste saw the same excitement in the faces of the pilgrims around her that lifted her own heart. Was it the pull of the Holy Land? Did it draw Christian souls to it, like a lodestone? She wanted to kick her horse into a gallop and race toward the quay, but the streets were busy and Father Jacques kept them to a courteous trot.
The buildings on either side were dark and narrow, with Roman arches and tall wooden doors reinforced with iron frames and bars. Occasionally, through open doors, she caught sight of inner courtyards. A few were light and airy, open to the sun; others were protected by massive, arched stone ceilings. Narrow, cobbled side roads between the rows of houses meandered off the wide main streets.
A Roman settlement: heavy and dark and pagan. The further into its center she rode, the more it closed in on her, dispelling her earlier excitement. How many hopeful pilgrims passed through this dark city to die in the jaws of the sea? She felt an urgent desire to board the boat at once, before she lost her courage. She pulled her cloak around her. A pilgrim’s cloak. A pilgrim bound for the Holy Land. Had not Christianity dispelled the darkness of the pagan Roman Empire? She need not fear the darkness of this town, for she was travelling toward the light.
“Until you undo what you have done, you have no future.”
This was what the Gypsy meant! The hot light of Jerusalem would bleach away her dark past. She would leave the infant there, in the cradle of Christianity, to be raised in the light of the Holy Land. She sat taller on her horse and smiled as Father Jacques led them to the pilgrim’s hostel, where they would rest and take refreshment while he secured their passage.
Celeste watched him walk off with the two henchmen, wishing she could go with them. They waited. The boy wanted to ride closer to the ships, explore the town, walk along the quay, go to find Father Jacques and bring them a report. Lady Yvolde bade him stay where he was a dozen times, each one as patient as the last.
She had rested until she was exhausted by the time Father Jacques returned. A ship leaving tomorrow for Jerusalem was already full, but another was expected within a week.
A week, she thought. And then it must unload its wares and passengers, and be readied again for voyage. “Can they not be bribed?”
“They have already been, beyond capacity,” Father Jacques replied. “Have patience, Lady Celeste. Jerusalem will still be there when we arrive.”
Celeste flushed. Patience! Anything could happen in a week. Thieves could steal their passage money, a storm could blow in, delaying or damaging the second ship. The peddler had headed south and Lord Bernard had come looking for her—unlikely as it may be, she lived in fear of either of them suddenly appearing. Or someone might discover she was pregnant. Father Jacques would not take her with him if he knew she was with child. She wanted to scream when she heard patient Lady Yvolde ask the hostel keeper about rooms. He told them many of the pilgrims would be sleeping on the boat to Jerusalem, to secure their place. There would be two rooms available shortly, one for the women and the other for the men.
Celeste sat on a bench by the open door gazing in the direction of the port and inwardly seething. Monsieur Robert left to find a barber to pull his sore tooth, taking Father Jacques for spiritual support. Marie asked if she might walk about the town with Agnes. Lady Yvolde’s son, Geoffroy, had offered to accompany them.
“You do not like Agnes,” Celeste said. “And Geoffroy made you cry.”
“Agnes is much nicer today.”
“You are too forgiving. She does not want to be alone with Geoffroy, that is why she is being pleasant now.”
Marie giggled. “I would not either.”
“Go, then, if you wish.”
Left on her own, Celeste watched the fortunate pilgrims leaving the hostel. If only they had travelled faster, they would be among this group. She stood up. Who would notice one more person boarding the crowded ship?
She would be on her own among them, with no one to protect her.
But they were Christian pilgrims, after all. She hurried across the room to her bundle of things, lying where the servant had dropped it.
The port was farther than Celeste had thought. Her feet hurt and she was beginning to wonder if she was making a mistake when the road curved over a slight rise and the port lay in front of her. She stopped and stared down at it.
She had thought the streets crowded. The open port was a mass of people of
various skin shades and all styles of clothing. A steady babble of French, Latin, German, Arabic and other foreign tongues she did not know rose from the harbour in an unintelligible cacophony. Beyond the milling crowd, ships of all sizes were moored along the wide river as far as she could see. Many had their sails furled, while others bobbed on the sparkling water, their white sails snapping in the sun.
She searched the docks eagerly. Which was the blessed ship that would take her away from France, away from her moonlit past, into the sunlight of Jerusalem? There! That one, with the crowd of pilgrims in front of it. So many—would there be room for all of them? She rushed down the street, pushing her way through the press of people toward the docks. She was glad she had once again hidden her purse underneath her kirtle. Crowds like this were thick with thieves and scoundrels.
It had not been difficult to find the ship to Jerusalem, but getting close to it was another matter. Lady or not, no one made way for her. The closer she got, the thicker the crowd became, until she was jammed among them so tightly she could not take a step without everyone around her moving also. Her ears were assaulted by voices calling, shouting, crying, laughing, singing and chattering in every language on Earth. She could see nothing beyond the bodies pressing against hers, holding her upright, moving her forward with them through no volition of her own.
The sun shone down on the quay, its heat searing, its brightness hurting her eyes despite the wide brim of her hat. No breeze could reach through the crowd to cool her. Her legs shook with exhaustion, her feet ached, her head pounded, she sweated in the tight embrace of bodies. The crowd began to spin. She blinked and shook her head, but the spinning continued, faster and faster. She was going to throw up. She swallowed, spinning, spinning in the heat, falling into darkness…
She came to groggily, still upright in the press of people. The man beside her was slapping her face gently, calling for those around them to give her air, as if there was any leeway for them to move aside. He blew vigorously into her face—she did not know whether the movement of air or his foul breath had revived her. She raised her head, pulling away. Her legs felt unsteady under her, but she had not thrown up.
“We are almost there,” he said encouragingly. “The gangplank is only three or four paces ahead.”
Celeste looked where he was pointing. The ship was indeed close, rising over the heads of the crowd. She smiled, raised her hand to wipe her damp brow…
Her pack! It was gone. She must have dropped it when she fainted. She searched the ground. “My things! I have lost my pack, a bundle tied in a black cloak. It is gone!”
Over her head the man called for those behind them to look for a black bundle, fallen to the ground. An anxious minute later someone yelled, “Here!” Her pack was hoisted aloft and passed, head over head, up to her. She clutched it with a cry of relief and a half-dozen heartfelt “Merci”s.
The crowd thinned as they inched forward. At last the gangplank was in sight. Two swarthy bare-chested men stood in front of it, wearing the wide-legged pants of Saracen. Celeste gasped. A Saracen ship! She was placing her life in the hands of infidels. And she was travelling alone, with no companions to look out for her. The man who had helped her earlier was already climbing the gangplank, having dropped his pouch of coins into the chest at the Saracens’ feet.
“Your money,” one of the Saracen sailors said, holding out his hand.
“It is… it is under my kirtle.”
Those close enough to hear laughed. Celeste blushed.
“No money, no passage.” The sailor frowned, looking over her head to those waiting with their money ready.
Scarlet with embarrassment, Celeste bent down and cautiously raised her kirtle, exposing her thin summer undershift. The men near enough to see whistled and laughed. The Saracen grinned broadly, enjoying her discomfort.
She fumbled to untie her money pouch without exposing her swollen stomach, her haste causing more laughter before she was able to drop her skirts and hand over the pouch.
The sailor, still grinning, opened it. His grin faded. “What is this?” he demanded, stirring the coins with his finger. “You sought to cheat us?”
“No!” Celeste drew back. “There are over twenty deniers there. Surely that is enough for a single passage?”
The sailor dropped her pouch into the chest. “You are short a sou. That is for our trouble. Be gone!”
“What do you mean? I am going to Jerusalem. Let me board!”
The Saracen growled something in his language and took a step toward her. Celeste backed up, frightened, stumbling against those behind her.
“Give me back my money! I will find another ship,” she cried fighting to keep her voice steady.
Behind her, calls of “Give her her money!” were drowned out by others advising the sailors to “Get on with it! We want to board!”
The Saracen, his face ugly with anger, raised his staff. Celeste threw up her arms, shielding her face.
“Halt!” Two armed men pushed their way fiercely toward her, followed by a priest.
“On danger of your immortal soul, do not lay a hand on her, a Christian Lady on pilgrimage!” Father Jacques shouted over the grumbling of the crowd. He drew the sign of the cross in the air above Celeste.
Two more sailors appeared at the top of the gangway, but the crowd rallied, calling “Shame!” and “Infidel!” to the sailors. With a grimace of rage the Saracen reached into his chest and threw Celeste’s money pouch toward her. Lady Yvolde’s henchmen, swords raised in one hand, each grabbed one of Celeste’s arms in the other and quick-marched her away.
Lady Yvolde was waiting at the door of the hostel when they rode up. Without a word she helped Celeste up the stairs to the room that had been prepared for them. Celeste could not stop shaking.
“There, there. You are safe now,” Lady Yvolde said, steering Celeste into a chair. Marie ran in with a bowl of water, her mouth open.
“Leave it and go, child,” Lady Yvolde said gently, cutting off Marie’s questions. She picked up the cloth and washed Celeste’s face and neck. Celeste closed her eyes. How could she have taken such a risk? Had she taken risks with Etienne? Was that why he died? She began to weep.
Lady Yvolde unpinned Celeste’s hair and began to brush it, long, slow strokes. “Have you a clean kirtle in your pack?” she asked. Celeste nodded squeezing back the last of her tears. Lady Yvolde handed Celeste the basin and a towel, and went to get the kirtle.
“I have some yellow lace,” Lady Yvolde offered, looking into her pack. “It would look pretty at the neck of your kirtle.”
She opened her mouth to refuse, but Lady Yvolde had draped the lace around the neck of the clean black kirtle. It did look pretty.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice quivering. She dipped her hands into the water and rinsed her face, drying it on the towel, then pulled her sleeves back to wash her arms as well.
“Your husband is indulgent, to let you travel without him,” Lady Yvolde said, sewing the yellow lace at the neck of Celeste’s kirtle.
Celeste looked up. “As is yours,” she replied. She patted her skin dry with the cloth. Her clothes were stiff with sweat and dust and she did not feel any cleaner than before she had washed.
“My husband died two years ago. We were happy together. I am blessed in my grief.”
Celeste looked away, clenching her hands inside the cloth she had dried them on. “Grief is not a blessing.”
“The ability to grieve is a blessing. And having loved someone: that is a blessing. The way grief keeps his memory alive: that, too, is a blessing. Grief keeps our hearts tender.”
“The heart’s journey is toward happiness, not grief. So you said.”
“Yes, I did.” Lady Yvolde smiled. “Sorrow is a stop along the way. It gives us time to notice other people, to understand and help them if we can.”
“We cannot help anyone.” Celeste replaced the towel on the table. Her hands were still shaking. “We cannot help even ourselves.�
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“Do you not find it comforting to have someone understand what you are feeling?”
For a moment Celeste longed once again to unburden herself to this woman. She opened her mouth—
And closed it again. She was responsible for a child’s life, whether she wanted the burden of it or not. She had been weak and tender-hearted once, and that child was dead. “No,” she said.
Marie came into the room and dropped into a shaky curtsy. “Supper is ready, Ladies. Do you want Agnes and me to bring it up to you?” She looked at Celeste. Her eyes teared over.
“I will come down,” Celeste said, calmly.
Lady Yvolde knotted and bit off her thread. She offered the kirtle with its yellow lace to Marie, to help her mistress change into it.
“Oh, how pretty the lace is,” Marie exclaimed.
“Go tell the hostel keeper to set aside space for us at the table,” Celeste commanded, taking the kirtle from Marie.
When Marie was gone, Celeste turned to Lady Yvolde. “You need not wait for me.” She could not remove her kirtle and shift in front of Lady Yvolde. Her swollen womb was becoming apparent; only the generous folds of her kirtle protected her from detection.
“It is no inconvenience,” Lady Yvolde replied. “It would be unseemly to rush ahead of you to supper.” She rose and went to her bag to replace her needle and thread.
Celeste quickly pulled off her sweaty, travel-stained kirtle and shift, keeping her back to Lady Yvolde. She groped behind her for the clean shift she had laid on the bed, found it and slipped it over her head. She was not used to putting on her own kirtle and struggled with the folds of cloth until she found the sleeve openings. She pulled it quickly down over her shift and turned to find Lady Yvolde watching her.
“You will not be able to hide your condition much longer,” she said.
“We must do it,” Gilles said.
Simon frowned. Gilles had begun speaking that way when Jeanne got sick and their mother was too distracted to worry about them. He had always insisted on his way, but before he had been stubborn. Now he sounded like he thought he was in charge. Simon was the oldest; it was not up to Gilles to make decisions for them.
The Sorrow Stone Page 24