“Papa will never allow it,” he said.
Gilles looked at him as though he were a half-wit.
He flushed scarlet. Of course Gilles did not intend to ask Papa. “He will be furious when he finds out,” he amended, feeling as foolish as he sounded.
“And after he yells at us, he will be relieved. You know Papa. He did not buy the ring because he wanted it—he bought it because someone else did not, and was willing to sell it cheap. Mama knows that. But she is too upset about Jeanne to listen to him, and he is too proud to tell her again.” He spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a child.
“It would be stealing.”
“They will keep fighting as long as Papa has the ring.”
Simon winced. Gilles knew exactly what arguments to use on him.
“He is going to hit her again.” Just saying it out loud made him feel sick, although all men hit their wives. It was a man’s duty, and Simon knew that. Papa did it less often than most, only when Mama was truly obstinate.
Gilles hesitated. “No.” He looked puzzled. “Something happened. Papa has changed.” The stubborn expression returned. “But they will keep arguing. Do you think their shouting will help Jeanne get better?”
Simon was tempted to accuse Gilles of not caring about Jeanne, of using her illness to win an argument. But Gilles loved their little sister as much as he did. It was just that he also wanted to win the argument, and right now, mentioning Jeanne would do that.
“The metal smith will cheat us. We do not know how much the ring is worth.”
“I do.”
“How could you?”
“I know how much everything is worth.”
Simon paused. Gilles never bragged. He cared too little about other people’s opinions to bother. “How do you know?”
“I pay attention.”
Gilles was using his patient voice again. It irritated Simon, but Gilles was right. Simon could never remember how much anything cost. Mama sent them to the market together when she could not go herself, but she gave Gilles the money. Simon was there because of his height; the merchants thought he was older than his nine years, and showed him some respect. They thought he was letting his little brother hold the coins to make Gilles feel important. Gilles played into that, closing his fist and pouting and refusing to give up the coins until they offered Simon a good price. Gilles never minded what they thought of him as long as he was satisfied with the final bargain.
“Market is one thing; jewellery is another.”
“I pay attention to their faces.”
“Where would we say we got it?” he asked, ignoring Gilles’ tone.
Gilles smiled.
He ignored that, too.
“We sell it to someone who will not ask,” Gilles said.
***
Getting the ring was harder than they thought. The wadmal bag lay in plain view in the corner of the hut. In plain view of everyone, including Mama and Papa, who never left Jeanne alone. They had to wait till the middle of the night, when Papa was snoring behind the curtain and Mama finally nodded off, sitting against the wall beside Jeanne’s pallet.
Simon held his breath as he watched Gilles crawl across to the wadmal bag. He was glad his pallet was not the one closer to it, and ashamed of being glad. It was dark in the hut, with only the moonlight through a small window lightening the gloom, but he saw Gilles reach into the bag and feel around. Then, with a little snort, Mama shook herself awake. Simon gasped before he could stop himself. Gilles yanked his hand out of the bag. He stood up, stumbling a little, as though he were still half-asleep and going outside to pee.
Mama bent over Jeanne, wiping her face with the dampened cloth. Gilles returned, giving him a tiny nod and a smile before lying down again.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He had thought he would feel relieved if Gilles got the ring without being caught, but now that they had it, he was more afraid than ever.
***
“I want to get this done quickly,” Simon said as soon as they left home the next morning.
Gilles stopped walking and faced him squarely. “Papa will forgive us for taking the ring,” he said. “But he will never forgive us for getting a bad price for it.” He started walking again, faster.
“All right, all right.” Simon ran to catch up. “But the fewer people who see us with it, the better.”
“Why, brother, do you think Papa stole the ring?”
“No! Yes.” He hung his head. “Mama thinks so.”
“Mama does not. She wants Papa to think more about the family. She knows he is no thief.” Gilles’ lips twitched.
“Mama is right,” Simon said, ignoring Gilles’ secret smile. Papa did not steal it, he thought. He grinned at Gilles.
Gilles shook his head. “Papa thinks about the family,” he said. “It is all he thinks about. Mostly he is thinking how not to think about us.”
Before he could respond, Gilles turned toward a doorway. “Here we are. Put the ring on your finger.” Gilles thrust it into his hand. “And keep your wits about you, Simon. Do not agree to anything until you see me nod.”
The ring was heavier than he expected. He closed his hand around it. What if it fell off his finger? His hands were damp and slippery. Would the metal smith see his hands sweating and be suspicious? He rubbed his empty hand on his tunic and transferred the ring to it, rubbing the other one dry as he followed Gilles into the metal smith’s.
The shop was one of two built into the undercroft of a building, with a wooden wall dividing them. There was a low, arched window at the front, beside the door, and a row of rush lights along the far stone wall which cast a thin yellow line of light unevenly across the room. A long wooden table near the window displayed samples of the metal smith’s jewellery: a silver necklace, bracelets and rings, two brooches, and a half-dozen buttons and buckles. They looked lumpy and poorly-formed compared to Papa’s ring.
At first he thought the shop was unattended. The fire was cold and a spider web stretched from the water wheel to the anvil. Simon was startled when a figure emerged from the shadows at the back and came toward them. The metal smith was a short, swarthy man with dark eyes and black, curly hair. His tunic and hose were so dark he looked like a shade himself, and he rattled slightly as he walked.
Simon bit his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering.
Gilles shut the door behind them and walked toward the man, but Simon stayed where he was, just inside the door.
The man stopped a few feet away and studied them, particularly Simon.
He stared back. Several silver chains hung about the smith’s neck; the source of the rattling noise he had heard. The metal smith gestured Simon over.
Behind his back, Simon slipped the ring onto his finger. It slid on easily, but when he pulled it, his knuckle held it as though it were made to fit his finger. He splayed his hand across his stomach, hooking his thumb in his belt as he had seen Papa do. The ruby caught the light from the window and shone as bright as fire.
The metal smith glanced at it, then quickly up at Simon again, his haughty expression replaced by one of interest. He motioned Simon to a small table in the middle of the room.
“How can I help you, young sir?” he asked.
So this was why Gilles told him to wear the ring into the store instead of carrying it as he had wanted to.
“I wish to sell my ring.” He took it off and set it on the table in front of the metal smith.
“May I?” the metal smith asked. At Simon’s nod he lifted it and examined it closely, twisting it in the light to observe the cut of the stone and even biting the band delicately as though he knew the taste of gold.
“It is gold,” Simon said stiffly, as Gilles had coached him on the way here. “The stone is a ruby.”
The metal smith replaced the ring on the table between them. Even Simon could see that he wanted it. He sat down on a stool beside the table, motioning Simon to sit down also. Gilles pulled a stool over beside
Simon’s and made a show of climbing onto it. Simon was embarrassed for Gilles, who looked like a six-year-old even though he was eight, until he realized that Gilles was doing it intentionally. It was all a game to Gilles, he thought: a stupid, dangerous game.
Simon tried not to fidget while the metal smith took his time examining the ring. Why did he not suggest a price? What if he thought it was stolen and called the bailiff? How would they prove it was not? He looked over his shoulder at the door. What if someone came in and saw them? Gilles kicked him underneath the table.
“There are other metal smiths, if you do not like it,” Simon said, as casually as he could, to make up for glancing at the door. Gilles had told him to say that, too. But he was supposed to wait until the metal smith named a price. Did he sound foolish, saying it ahead of time?
“I will have to break it down,” the metal smith said. He looked at Simon sharply.
He knew it was stolen. But Gilles had said it was not. Simon opened his mouth to say it was not stolen. No, that would make him even more suspicious. “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. He wanted badly to check the door again.
Gilles turned to Simon. “Why should it be broken? They make good rings in Lyon.”
Simon had no idea what Gilles was talking about, but the metal smith asked, “It comes from Lyon?”
Simon nodded.
The jeweller smiled. “Two sous,” he said.
Simon bit his tongue to keep from gasping. They were being offered a fortune!
Before he could answer, Gilles’ hand shot out and grabbed the ring. “I do not want to sell it! You said I could have it when I was old enough to wear it,” Gilles cried in his little-boy voice.
Simon looked at the metal smith and grimaced, the way Gilles had taught him to do at the market.
“Two sous, six deniers.” The metal smith turned from Simon to Gilles, “For two sous you can buy anything you want, boy.”
“I am six,” Gilles said, dropping two years from his age. “Six is not very much. Ten is better.”
“Are you going to let him lose you a sale?” the metal smith demanded of Simon.
Simon swallowed. He did not think he had the nerve to start again with another metal smith. But Gilles would not care. Gilles would have them bargain for a week before he was satisfied. Simon nearly groaned at the thought.
Gilles glared at him. “You promised me.”
He hesitated. Gilles could do nothing about it if he agreed.
Under the table, Gilles kicked him again.
But Gilles was right about Papa. He would never forgive them for letting someone cheat them.
He sighed. “He is my brother.”
“Two sous, eight deniers. Not a denier more.”
“Gilles,” Simon said, bending down as though talking to a child. “Think about it. I could buy a smaller ring that would fit you now.” Please, let us get this over with.
The shop door opened. A Lady entered, followed by her maid carrying a horse’s bridle.
“Can you repair the hoop on my horse’s bridle?” the Lady asked the metal smith as she walked toward them. “It is worn near breaking.” She motioned to her maid to carry the bridle around the table to the metal smith, paying no attention to him or Gilles.
“Next door,” the metal smith said, waving toward the adjoining wall between the shops as though he were swishing away a fly. “This is a jewellery shop. Saddles and bridles next door.” He dropped the ring onto the table, pushing it toward them. Simon’s eyes widened. The smith was as nervous as he was.
The Lady glanced at the table in passing. Her eyes widened. Her face, already pale-complexioned, turned paler. At once she looked away, first toward the door she had come in through, then at her maid, then the metal smith.
Simon held his breath. It was not stolen. Papa and Gilles both said so.
Gilles reached for the ring.
Had he seen the Lady look at it? Get it away quickly, Simon thought. But Gilles did not appear to be in any hurry.
“My Lady’s ring!” the maid cried.
Gilles’ fingers wrapped around it. “I would rather keep this one,” he said in his child’s voice.
What was he talking about?
Gilles’ foot nudged him under the table, very gently
“You promised.” Gilles’ voice sounded now as though he were about to cry.
Simon had always admired that skill, but this time he was numb with fear. “Papa bought it for me, to do with as I wish.” He mumbled the words, taking his cue from Gilles but convinced that they were fooling no one. Gilles had said it was not stolen.
“You have My Lady’s ring,” the maid repeated.
“It is not,” the Lady said. She backed away from the table.
“Show it,” the maid insisted, grabbing Gilles’ wrist. The bridle dangled from her other hand. “Open your hand.” She shook Gilles’ wrist.
“It is my brother’s ring.” Gilles’ fist tightened around the ring.
Simon received another kick under the table. “Papa bought it for me in Lyon,” he said dully. They would be arrested. They would have their left hands cut off. He blinked rapidly, trying not to cry.
“Lyon? That is near where it was lost,” the maid said triumphantly. “How did you come by it?” she demanded of the metal smith.
“Me? It is not mine! I have nothing to do with it,” he cried. “They brought it here, with their lies—”
“It is not my ring,” the Lady interrupted. “Let the boy go, Marie. You are mistaken.” She backed halfway to the door.
Simon stared at her. Everyone but Gilles was staring at her.
She turned her back to them. “Come, Marie.” She reached the door and yanked it open.
“But—”
“Now!” She swept through the door without looking back. The maid glared at Gilles. She dropped his wrist and scrambled after her mistress.
“Get out!” the metal smith roared at them, as soon as the door shut behind the women. “And by God, learn your lesson from this.”
Simon leaped up ready to dash for the door, but Gilles remained sitting on his stool.
“My Papa bought this ring,” he said, staring at the metal smith. “He can prove it.”
The metal smith snorted.
“Call the bailiff,” Gilles said.
Was he mad? Had he completely lost his wits? Simon trembled on his toes, ready to run.
The metal smith looked from Gilles to Simon.
Gilles was mad! This whole escapade was doomed; he had argued against it from the start, and if he were not mad as well, he would be out the door and half-way home by now. Let Gilles get his hand cut off for his stubbornness.
Gilles was his little brother.
Simon took a deep breath and drew himself up as tall as he could. “Call the bailiff if you doubt us.”
***
They walked across town without speaking. Simon shook with anger and relief and was afraid of what he might say if he opened his mouth. He had grown too big to fight with Gilles; it would be unfair. But if he said half of what he was thinking, Gilles would tackle him and he would fight back, fair or not. He clenched his hands into fists at his side.
The walk calmed him, especially as Gilles had to trot to keep up, and tried to conceal it. When they were almost home, he stopped walking. Gilles stopped beside him.
“It was her ring,” he said. He looked straight at Gilles, daring him to refute it.
“Yes,” Gilles said. “I wonder why she denied it?”
Simon shrugged. He had just wanted Gilles to know he knew.
No, he had wanted to be sure.
He started walking.
No. He had wanted Gilles to deny it.
***
Their parents’ raised voices could be heard through the window before they opened the door.
“What have you done with it?”
“Nothing!”
“You have hidden it, so I could not insist that you take it back, along with t
he nail.”
“I cannot take them back. I told you that. I have no way of finding her.”
“You brought her sorrow on us. You must take it back to her!”
“That is foolish talk! You sound like—”
Gilles pushed the door open noisily. The voices stopped.
Simon hesitated outside, but Gilles reached back and grabbed his arm and dragged him in. “Tell them,” he ordered.
Mama and Papa looked at him.
“We—” his voice cracked. He licked his lips and swallowed and looked at Gilles. It was Gilles, he wanted to say. It was. But he had gone along, and he was older. A year and a half was older.
Gilles raised his hand and dropped the ring onto the table. “We tried to sell it.”
Mama stared at the ring.
“Tried?” Papa said. His voice caught, as though he was afraid.
Papa was never afraid.
From her bed, Jeanne whimpered, a weak, sickly sound, nothing like the way she could carry on when she was well. Mama rushed over to her.
“The metal smith would not take it,” Gilles explained.
Papa looked at Gilles and back at the ring.
His eyes were wide, as the Lady’s had been. His face was pale and grim.
Papa was afraid.
“It is your ring. I know it!”
“How could it be my ring? I lost it in Sainte-Blandine. There are many rings with rubies in them.” Celeste walked quickly down the road to the pilgrim’s hostel. Marie, with her shorter legs, had to run to keep up.
“If you had seen it, you would know.”
Celeste turned sharply, raising her hand. “I saw it. It is not mine. If you say so again I will box your ears.”
Marie skidded to a stop. She covered her ears with her hands, the horse’s bridle straddling her head. “You are not yourself, My Lady,” she protested.
The Sorrow Stone Page 25