The Sorrow Stone

by J. A. McLachlan

  “If you speak of this again, I will send you back to your father.”

  Marie turned white, but she held her tongue.

  Celeste resumed walking.

  How had her ring come here? How was it possible? She dared not acknowledge it was hers, even to Marie; people would talk, ask questions, and sooner or later the whole story would come out. Lord Bernard would be made a laughingstock—his wife giving away his marriage ring over a peasant’s superstition. What titillating gossip that would give the gentry. Blood will out, they would say. You can marry a peasant’s granddaughter to a Lord, but she is still a peasant. He would set her aside, ring or no ring.

  Those boys must belong to the band of thieves that had robbed the peddler. Well, the metal smith had it now. She dared not claim it and she could not afford to buy it from him. Cluny, Lyon, Prevote Venissieuv, Saint-Gilles: at every step of her journey the ring mocked her, always just beyond her reach. She saw it again, sitting on the smith’s table, close enough to touch, and yet she could not.

  Just so, her mind mocked her with memories of her past—never clear and close enough to claim, never distant enough to forget.

  Behind her, the bridle slapped against the stone road as Marie ran to keep up.

  She forced herself to slow down, to appear unconcerned. When she was bound for Jerusalem, she would leave all this behind. If only the ship would come soon. She would be safe on this one, travelling with a group.

  ***

  The ship arrived the next day at mid-morning. Geoffroy saw it come in and came running for Father Jacques, who rushed down to the quay to secure them a passage. By dinner hour, he had still not returned.

  The afternoon dragged on. If even half the crowd she had seen at the quay wanted to go to Jerusalem, they would not fit onto one boat. Father Jacques was too patient, he would not push his way to the front. He had failed; the vessel was already full, as the previous one had been.

  “If there is no room on this ship, we must go to Marseilles,” she said to Lady Yvolde as they sat down to their supper. “There will be more ships there.”

  “Our pilgrimage is in God’s hands,” Lady Yvolde said. “We will wait to hear what Father Jacques tells us when he returns.”

  Celeste pushed aside her trencher of chicken and boiled onions, unable to eat.

  Monsieur Robert, having finished his, reached across the table for it.

  “I am still hungry,” Geoffroy complained.

  Monsieur Robert made a sour face. Nevertheless, he scraped a small piece of meat and most of the onions onto Geoffrey’s empty trencher. “If you are still hungry, eat the trencher,” he muttered.

  Geoffroy flushed.

  “Robert,” Lady Yvolde said.

  “It was but a jest,” Monsieur Robert said, lifting a large piece of chicken to his mouth.

  Celeste had risen to leave when Father Jacques walked in. He was not smiling. She watched him walk across the room to them, her mouth too dry to speak.

  “I have booked our passage.”

  “On the ship?” She had been so certain he had failed, she could not grasp his words. Behind her, Monsieur Robert snorted and Geoffroy laughed, breaking off abruptly when his mother looked his way.

  Father Jacques smiled. “Yes, on the ship to Jerusalem. I, too, find it difficult to believe.” He laughed. “We are going to the Holy Land.”

  “But you were not smiling—” Their passage was secured. They were leaving France, at last.

  “It is more expensive than I was told. We will have to pay two sous each.”

  “Two sous? They are robbing us!” Monsieur Robert exclaimed.

  “They are infidels!” Agnes cried.

  “For you, as well?” Lady Yvolde asked.

  “Do not concern yourself about me,” Father Jacques said. “There is a Cluniac cell here, they will pay my way.”

  “Well then,” Lady Yvolde said. “It is more than we thought to pay, but not more than we are able to. Take your supper, Father.”

  “You may have my place,” Celeste said, moving aside.

  She walked to the stairs. Two sous each. Even if she left Marie behind, she would not have enough. She entered the room and closed the door behind her. Her hands trembled as she untied her purse and poured the coins inside it onto the bed.

  Nineteen deniers. Where would she get the rest? And another two sous for Marie, as well as money for food and lodging when they reached Jerusalem? And how would she pay for their passage home? She put a hand to her forehead, trying to think. Perhaps the ship’s captain would accept a note? She was a Lady, after all, and Lord Bernard would pay him when she returned. But she had neither her husband nor his seal to assure her debt.

  She walked to the window. The sun was setting. Streaks of orange and gold curdled the sky. The first star had come out, as hopeful and as frail in the vast, fiery sky as a child’s twig boat on an ocean. In the distance, the tall mast of a ship speared the sky.

  She must get on that ship. She touched her abdomen, but when the child moved under her palm, she yanked it away. She would not hold this child.

  A light knock came at the door. Celeste scooped the coins into her purse. “Enter,” she called. Lady Yvolde opened the door.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Lady Yvolde asked, glancing at her belly.

  “I have a headache.”

  “Another?”

  “It will pass.” What did the woman know of her headaches?

  “Four sous is a lot of money.” Lady Yvolde waited until Celeste turned to face her. “I am quite wealthy,” she said. “I can pay your passage and your maid’s.” She hesitated, looked at Celeste’s stomach. “Unless you have decided not to risk such a journey right now.”

  Celeste looked back steadily. “Every choice before me carries a risk,” she said. “I do not need your money.” Or your sympathy or your understanding. Lady Yvolde did not understand her. How could she, when Celeste did not understand herself? But she was leaving all that behind, her troubled past, her nightmares. Lady Yvolde would not buy it with her sympathy and carry it with them to Jerusalem.

  “It is not shameful to accept the help of a friend.”

  Celeste turned away. The door opened and closed behind her.

  Celeste picked up her money pouch. The peddler’s coin was inside, indistinguishable from the rest. It had not bought her happiness, but when she used it to secure passage to the Holy Land, it would buy her peace. She left, taking the back stairs to the stable yard.

  The stable was full of shadows when she entered, but the sound of rustling straw and horses neighing as the stable boy went from stall to stall feeding them reassured her.

  “I would speak to your master,” she said.

  She was standing by the stall that held her gelding, surveying the horse over the half-door, when the innkeeper arrived. She heard him approach and saw, at the edge of her vision, how he paused also to examine the horse. He had guessed why she wanted to talk with him.

  “I intend to sell my horse and pony,” she said. “I will not need them when we sail for Jerusalem.”

  He looked into the stall, pursing his lips as though he did not particularly like what he saw.

  “The horse is sound,” she said. “And the pony as well. My husband will meet me with fresh mounts when I return, or buy these back. There is no need to leave them idle in their stalls.” She shrugged as though she did not need the money, as though the sale was of no importance at all.

  “And the saddles and harnesses?”

  She let her breath out slowly, frowning slightly as if considering his request. “That depends on your price. Of course, if you do not want them, I can go elsewhere.” Please do not make me go from inn to inn like a common horse trader.

  “A sou for the two of them, and their tack.”

  “One sou?” she laughed. Was he bluffing, or was that all they were worth? She had never bought a horse, but Lord Bernard had paid much more for his warhorse. He had boasted to her of the price—four sous
. So surely these two were worth more than one sou. “If you are not more interested than that, I will sell them elsewhere.” She thought quickly. “A ship has just come in, full of pilgrims returning home. They will need mounts.”

  “Two sous, with their tack.”

  “Three sous.”

  Now he laughed. “No one will give you that.” He leaned against the stall door. “Two sous. That is a fair offer, Lady.”

  It was still too little. She must have enough for her passage back, as well. What if she were stranded in Jerusalem? Even in the Holy City, she could not eat air, she could not drink sunshine.

  She felt him watching her.

  “You have a maid, have you not? Is she going with you?”

  “No,” she said dully. She could not even consider taking Marie.

  “I need a kitchen maid.” He hesitated. “Is the girl pretty?” He said it so casually at first she did not understand.

  “Two sous, eight, with the girl,” he said, in a low, husky voice that made Celeste shiver.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Two sous, ten.”

  She opened her mouth to refuse, and shut it again. She must get on that ship. And why should she not sell the girl? Marie was useless as a maid.

  Be gentle with Marie, Pierre’s voice whispered in her head. She is devoted to you.

  She frowned. It was the old Celeste Marie loved. They all loved that weak and pious girl, but what help had they been? She had had to save herself, and she would do so now. Of course she would sell Marie. If she had thought of it earlier, she might have been able to keep her horse.

  “Is she the pretty one?” he asked again.

  No, she started to say, but then she saw his expression. He thought Agnes was her maid. “Yes,” she said.

  He leaned toward her, leering. “We are agreed, then?” he said. There was a cruel eagerness in his voice.

  The shadows in the barn had lengthened, concealing her face from him. No, she wanted to say. What would he do to Marie, when he found he had been tricked? But then the tiny movement, the bubble of life, fluttered within her. She must get to Jerusalem. She could not afford to be weak and sentimental.

  “We are agreed.”

  ***

  She returned by the back stairs, climbing them slowly. The room was empty. She threw her bag onto the table and went to the window.

  The vibrant streaks of sunset that she had seen earlier were gone, replaced by the darker shades of dusk. She could still see the mast of the ship, its sails bound tightly against the evening wind. Was it the one that would take her away from here?

  She turned at a noise behind her and saw Marie looking at her, her eyes full of questions.

  Celeste looked away. “I have sold the horses.”

  “The horses? Blackie and Honey?”

  Celeste straightened and met Marie’s gaze coolly. “I did what I had to do.”

  “Lady Yvolde would have given you the money. I heard her!”

  Celeste looked at Marie.

  “I was not listening! I just… I just heard!”

  “It is done.” All this fuss about a pony. If Marie knew the whole of it… Well, she would tell her at the last moment, and leave quickly. She did not look forward to that moment. The thought of it made her voice sharp: “I am a Lady, not a beggar. It is for me to do what I will with what is mine.”

  “You are not even sorry. You loved Honey, once. Now you are not even sad to part with her.” Marie turned and ran from the room.

  The girl’s bad matters would not be her concern soon enough. And she was not sad: Marie was right. Perhaps the peddler’s coin had bought something, after all.

  The breeze, cool from the river, blew in through the window. She turned, shivering. She should close the shutters, light a candle. Yet she stood looking out, straining to see the tall mast of the ship that would take her away. She could no longer make it out against the dark sky. Instead, when the clouds parted the moon appeared, low and swollen and blood red, a malformed thing, like a child born too early. She gave a low cry and pulled the shutters closed.

  ***

  Celeste kept the gelding to a trot on the town streets. This morning, when Marie asked whether they might go for a last ride she had almost refused, but now she was glad she had changed her mind. The early morning air was crisp. She pulled her cape around her and lifted the hood over her head. The horse was warm against her legs, its gait even and brisk.

  “Lady Celeste,” Marie said, riding up beside her. “I saw the boy.” She lowered her voice: “The one with your—the ring. I think he is following us.”

  Celeste looked around.

  “He has turned down another street.”

  “Then he is not following us, if it was he. You are imagining things.”

  Marie opened her mouth to speak

  “I told you it is not my ring,” Celeste said sharply.

  Marie closed her mouth.

  Horses’ hooves clattered against the cobblestones of an intersecting road. Celeste reined in her gelding and looked toward the noise as they came into view.

  A large black war horse emerged a hundred yards ahead from a street on the right, followed by three other stallions, powerful beasts but smaller than the warhorse.

  Beside her, Marie gasped.

  She shaded her eyes and stared at the riders cantering toward her. The sun was behind them, blinding her, turning them into shadow figures, dark and menacing. She could not make out their faces, but she would know that horse anywhere. She sliced the reins sideways, wrenching her horse’s head to the left, and dug her heels into its flanks. The gelding plunged down the side street. Her hood fell back from her head.

  Peasants scattered right and left in front of her as she galloped down the narrow street. A resounding clamour of horse’s hooves followed her. She bent low over her horse’s neck. She had almost escaped. He must not stop her now. Where could she run? Where could she hide from him? At the end of the street she pulled her horse sharply sideways into another street.

  Directly in their path was a handcart, piled high with fruit and vegetables. The vendor, hearing them almost upon him, dropped the hand pull and scrambled aside. Celeste pulled hard on the reins.

  The ring on the left of the bridle snapped, flinging the rein loose. The right rein, still attached, yanked the horse’s head sideways. It lunged blindly, slamming sideways into the cart, throwing Celeste forward and tearing the second rein from her grasp as she fell.

  The gelding screamed and reared, hooves flailing the air directly above her. She tried to roll away. The movement sent unbearable pain searing down her back.

  A thin shadow leaned over her. Someone grabbed the dangling rein and pulled the gelding’s head hard to the left.

  “Calme-toi, calme-toi,” a boy’s voice said.

  The horse’s hooves pounded down, barely missing her. It reared again, but it was no longer directly above her, and its hooves did not thrash the air so wildly.

  “Ça va, mon grand, ça va,” the voice said soothingly, pulling the horse’s head further sideways, forcing it down well away from her. “Eh, bien,” the boy said quietly. The horse snorted and shook its head, but did not rear again.

  She closed her eyes and lay still. The pain in her back was excruciating.

  “Lady Celeste?” Raimond’s voice brought her back. “Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Are you hurt, Celeste?” He grasped her arms.

  She stared at his hand, the tanned, strong hand she had dreamed of.

  She felt something warm and sticky between her legs. A sharp cramp twisted across her abdomen. “Oh!” she cried.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  Blood, hot and wet between her thighs. She screamed.

  Raimond scooped her into his arms and stood looking around—

  She could not feel his arms, she could not feel anything, only the blood. She screamed, long, piercing shrieks, over and over, clutching her abdomen, holding him, holding him in—

 
“Where are you staying?”

  “At the inn,” Marie cried.

  “Take me there.”

  She could barely hear them. She was so cold. She felt herself falling into darkness, fighting it. Someone was screaming.

  Her shift was damp against her legs. Who was that screaming, her cries ragged and shrill?

  She was so cold, so cold. All she could hear was the screaming, deep inside her now, screaming and dying, inside her—

  She is on to her knees beside the bed, staring down at her bloodied fingers. Raimond’s strong hand reaches out of the darkness, grasping her hand. “You have not told, have you?” he whispers fiercely.

  She pulls away, but he holds onto her. “No,” she gasps.

  “Good.” The larger hand releases hers, leaving behind a gift that burns her hand.

  It lies, long and thin and hard, scorching her palm. She closes her fingers, blocking it from sight, holding it so tightly her fingernails dig into the flesh of her palm. Blood oozes between her fingers and drips onto the floor. The sight fascinates and horrifies her. She wipes her fist across her nightgown, leaving a scarlet smear on the white fabric. She stumbles up and races from the room, down the stairs, his soft laughter behind her.

  They are all awake, waiting for her. Their eyes stare at her out of the darkness, condemning her as she stands petrified at the bottom of the stairs. Murderer! Murderer! Their low, insidious chant echoes in the castle’s great hall…

  ***

  “I have killed him! Murdered him!” Celeste bolted up.

  “You are dreaming, Lady. You have never hurt anyone.”

  Celeste opened her eyes. She could still see the nightmare figures staring at her from the corners of the room, their eyes accusing her where she sat in the bed. She cringed against the mattress, choking out a sob.

  “What is it, My Lady?” Marie dabbed gently at Celeste’s forehead with a damp cloth.

  Celeste brushed it away and tried to get up. A fierce jolt of pain in her arm made her cry out. She fell back onto her pillow.