The Lode Stone

by Jane Ann McLachlan

  When the meat platters were cleared and the cheese and sweets brought in—figs and dates and mixed-fruit pastries, no marzapane on such short notice—I could wait no longer. “Did Lord Charles send you with a message for me?” I demanded.

  He looked at me, insulted. “I am not my brother’s message boy.”

  “You are not a man free to dine with an unmarried woman, but here you are.”

  “You suspect my intentions?”

  “I have not seen you in over a year. Of course I wonder why you are here.” I chose a pasty with seeming nonchalance and took a bite out of it. Warm sweet berries filled my mouth.

  His frown turned to a look of contrition. “I have not been as good a friend as I was before. And you are right, I have come for a reason: to warn you.”

  I put my pasty down. “Warn me of what?”

  Roland leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “There is a man says he comes from Lyon, that he rode with King Philip on crusade. When his lord was killed he joined Lord Barnard’s men and fought beside them. He has been telling people in the village and town what became of their men.”

  “Jean de Lyon? A man with a wooden leg?”

  “You have heard of him then.”

  “I had not heard that. Do you believe his story? That he was there?”

  “I have not seen him or heard him speak. I cannot say if I believe him.”

  “And what is your warning?”

  “Stay away from him, Melisende.”

  “I have not seen you for over a year. You have a countess to take your orders now.”

  “I am giving you advice, not an order. Charles has never heard of such a man. No one marching under another lord joined our father’s company.”

  “Then he is a liar.” I thought of his crooked smile and was sorry.

  “Charles is afraid of him.”

  “Afraid of him? He is poor and homeless.”

  Roland shrugged. “Something has my brother spooked. He has sworn to have the man whipped and his tongue cut out for lying.”

  I felt suddenly ill. “You cannot be serious. Surely enough has been done to him already.” But I saw that he was serious. “I will speak to Lord Charles.”

  “Melisende, I am warning you. Do not go near this man and do not talk to Charles about him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Pride of Men

  “Heed Lord Roland’s warning,” Elise advised me, combing out my hair that night. But all I could think was that I had sent the man out of my woods where he might have been safe, into Lord Charles’ hands. Whatever happened to him would be partly my fault.

  Perhaps you remember when you, too, had little. His words haunted me. Had I forgotten so quickly what it was like to be hungry and afraid my children and I would be thrown out on the street? Lord Charles had brought me to that. The man I was about to marry had first shown me what it would feel like to have nothing.

  And today I had scorned a homeless old man for being impertinent, as others had scorned me then. I remembered my mother telling me many of our neighbors had quietly given her a coin they could ill-afford to give, to help us in that time. And here I was with so much, unwilling to give a poor vagabond even a spot on my land to camp on.

  Shame had sat heavy inside me through dinner, souring the food in my belly. Lord Roland’s warning had only made it worse. It was too late to do anything when he left, but I went to the stable and ordered Lucien to have my horse saddled at first light and be ready to ride out with me.

  “Do you wish to ask him about your husband?”

  I pulled my head back, tearing a few strands caught in the comb, and turned to look up at Elise. She could not possibly know what I was planning but she had an uncanny ability to divine my feelings at times. She was wrong this time, though.

  “I know how my husband died,” I said. “He died forsaking his wife and child.”

  He died because he thought we would rather have Lord Charles’ money than have him back. He died insulting me in the worst possible manner and I would not forgive him to my dying day. I trembled with fury in my chair.

  Elise placed her hand on the top of my head to hold my hair against the pull of the comb—and to settle me, I suspected—and continued combing my hair out in silence. The smooth, even strokes relaxed me. My trembling ceased.

  “Then you have no need to seek this stranger out,” Elise said soothingly.

  “I do.” I straightened my back and pulling away from her comb. “Because I remember when I, too, had little.”

  ***

  Dawn was just lightening the sky as I rode out followed by Lucien. The streets were nearly empty so I urged my horse to a canter. What if I was too late? If Jean de Lyon had moved on I would have trouble finding him. I had ordered him to be gone by dawn. I kicked my horse into a gallop.

  I intended to offer him work. Not at the quarry, a man with a wooden leg would have trouble navigating the uneven stony ground there. It would have to be at my manor where I could protect him. Lord Charles would not invade my home to drag a man under my protection off to his dungeon or wherever he intended to do his wicked deed. I did not know why Jean had lied to the villagers, nor did I excuse him. But if Lord Charles did try to take him I would look at him in a way that would remind him I knew the lie he had told.

  We reached the woods and I galloped in. He had had a horse, this Jean de Lyon, which meant he could leave his camp site quickly. It also meant he was not as poor as he made out.

  He had not said he had nothing, he said little, my mind argued in his defense.

  It was very effective, that phrase he had used. Here I was, racing to his defense, a man who had lied to others and manipulated me into an evening of guilt. That and his crooked smile and charming eyes were all I knew about him. I had seen charming eyes before and they had never moved me to foolishness like this.

  These thoughts and more ran through my mind but I kept my horse to a gallop despite them. I would be careful, I promised myself. He would have to sleep in the stable, and I would warn Lucien to watch him. My children would not be allowed anywhere near him.

  This thought gave me pause. I almost reined in my horse. Then I remembered his voice murmuring a prayer with his head covered and his hands raised in reverence and I could not believe he was dangerous.

  The trail that led to the river was narrow and crossed with tree roots. I had to slow down. Just as well, I would prefer not to arrive panting like a woman in labor. I listened for the sound of his voice, thinking if he prayed in the evening he might pray at dawn also, but the woods were silent. Nor could I smell any smoke from his campfire. For the first time I wished a man had not followed my orders so promptly.

  My concern was justified when I broke through the last trees and saw the space where he had been was empty. I pulled my horse to a stop and looked around. His camp was swept clean of any debris as though no one had ever been there. My guard trotted into the clearing and looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  “There was a... someone camping here I wished to speak to,” I said, well aware of how strange my behavior appeared and how little my words explained. “Is there any way to tell where he has gone?”

  Lucien had been with me for almost two years now. I had treated him well and paid him fairly. Without question or objection he dismounted and walked around the clearing examining the ground and the lower branches of the trees. There were only two ways out of this clearing—the trail we had galloped in on or across the river onto Lord Charles’ land.

  “He crossed the river here, Madame.” Lucien stopped at a muddy patch by the river and pointed. “Not long ago. If you look you will see the river bed has been disturbed, the water is murky. If we had come even a little later there would be no sign at all.” His tone was admiring. “There was only one horse.” He added as he swung back up into his saddle.

  “I would like to catch up to him.” I looked warily at the river. “If we can.”

  “Your skirts will get wet,” he warned me. “But
it is shallow enough not to be dangerous. Follow me exactly, Madame.” He turned his horse and did not look back as I hitched up my skirts, exposing my legs, and urged my horse after his.

  He cantered back and forth on the other side until he picked up Jean’s horse’s tracks, and then it was only time until we made Jean out ahead of us. He looked back when the sound of our horses reached him. I thought for a moment he might try to elude us but he reined in his horse and waited.

  He sat easily on his horse despite his missing lower leg. The mare stood still beneath him. Its nostrils flared nervously as we approached, Lucien riding a stallion. Jean moved but a finger on the reins and his mount quieted.

  We stopped before him, his eyes and those of my guard both on me, waiting to hear what I had to say. He sat straight in his saddle, a vigorous man still; the beard and his wounds had made him seem older. I saw in his wary eyes that he would accept no pity from me.

  “I need someone to teach my son to ride.” The words were out before I realized what I was saying. I was horrified. Had I not promised myself to keep my children away from this man?

  “Your daughter?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No one teaches Alys anything.” Beside me Lucien snorted in amusement. He had occasionally been asked to escort Alys and Guarin and their nurse places.

  “A word now and then and she will teach herself if she wants to learn,” I amended. “I meant my son, Guarin.”

  “Why not his father?”

  “His father is dead. Will you or not?”

  “How old is the boy?” There was a tension in his face that the question did not warrant. It made me overlook his rudeness.

  “Five and a half years.”

  Jean nodded slowly, a smile creeping into his eyes that he did not mean me to see. “And he cannot ride yet?”

  “Not as anyone else would call it riding,” Lucien drawled.

  “He does not understand horses.” It sounded strange, fanciful perhaps, but I could think of no other way to explain the immediate affinity I had felt the first time my father lifted me onto a horse. An affinity totally lacking in my over-confident son. “He needs someone patient.”

  “You would trust your child to a stranger?” Was he angry? How dare he?

  “Not for one moment.” I snapped my fingers. “My guard will be watching.” I took a breath. “But I think you know something of patience and skills hard-learned.” I let myself glance at his leg as I said this. Not in pity, more as proof that I had reason to think he could do this.

  “I cannot teach a lad who does not obey me.” He glanced at my guard.

  I turned to Lucien. “You will not comment on the lessons. And treat Jean de Lyon with respect in front of the children.” I sighed. “If only for the size of the task he is undertaking.”

  This last made Lucien chuckle. “Oui, Madame,” he agreed.

  I turned back to Jean. “You will sleep in the stable and eat in the kitchen. If my son learns to ride well, I will pay you besides.” Not charity, a fair exchange. This wheedling tired me. I wanted to warn him that he was in danger, that I could protect him, but I could say none of that in front of Lucien. Lucien would protect me with his life if it came to that, but he was first Lord Roland’s man. For all I knew, Lucien still reported back to him. Jean would not have accepted my warning or my help anyway. May the Saints preserve us from the foolish pride of men!

  “Yes,” he said.

  I felt unreasonably relieved. “You start now.”

  I turned my horse, suddenly eager to get this strange man away from here. I was all too aware that the sun was well up on a fine day for hunting and we were on Charles’ land.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Riding Master

  He had a son! Melisende must have been pregnant when he left on crusade. The timing was right.

  Something had changed her mind from ordering him off her land to inviting him to live in her stable. She was always mercurial in her moods. It smelled of charity but he had caught no hint of pity in her face and the offer to meet his son was more than he could resist.

  Not to mention being near her. His heart had lifted just at the sight of her yesterday, filling him with a joy he had not felt in years. He had slipped into an easy banter with her before he had caught himself. It must not happen again. He must act like the stranger she thought he was, for her sake and the children’s.

  He unsaddled his horse and settled it into the stable, tossing his kit and roll into a corner, all the while thinking of the boy. Guarin, she had called him. A good strong name. He should not be growing up without a father.

  Why had Charles taken so long to keep his vow? And would he be a father to Simon’s children? That had not been in their bargain. He had not thought of Alys needing a father. She had a fine mother and they would be taken care of when Charles married Melisende, but a boy needed a father. He had only come here to see that Charles had kept his promise, but how could he leave until he was certain Guarin—he smiled as he framed his son’s name in his thoughts—would be well.

  He washed his hands and face in a bucket of water before offering it to his horse to drink. Fine smells were coming from the manor. The other stable hands must have gone to their dinner already. Before he could go to join them the stable door opened and Melisende walked in.

  She was as beautiful as he remembered. No, more so, for she was a woman now with a woman’s assurance and strength in her face, in her walk, in her every movement. The slim hips had widened into a woman’s sway, the shy young smile into an air of self-confidence. Her voice, which was ever pleasing, was now commanding but pleasant, with an undertone of humor. Her expression was more serious and now and then he had caught an expression of sorrow in her eyes which hurt him, but served to make her all the more appealing. Every man who saw her must want to soothe away that sadness. He had left a girl ripening into loveliness and returned to find this magnificent beauty.

  He watched her walk toward him, entranced. How could he bear to leave her again? It was a selfish thought. He had come back less of a man and she had grown into more of a woman, one worthy of a prince let alone a lord.

  But what if she still remembered him? What if she loved him still? What if he told her who he really was—

  “Before you meet my children, there is one thing I want to discuss with you,” she said, stopping a few feet from him. “I have heard that you told some of the villagers you were a crusader. Is this true?”

  She was still thinking of him! She wanted to know, as the others did, what had happened to the husband she loved. He looked aside, afraid she might see the truth in his eyes.

  “I see by your hesitation that it is. But I know your story is false. There was no man named Jean who joined my future husband’s company.” She held up her hand before Simon could speak. “No, do not deny it now. I do not care one way or the other. What I want, what I insist upon, is that you do not mention the word ‘crusade’ to my children. To anyone in my household. No stories of the glory of a holy battle to inflame my tender son, no exalting the red cross on a white tunic, and no lies about his father. You are here to teach him to ride; nothing else. Are we agreed?”

  The glory of battle? He shook his head slowly. “There is no glory in battle, Madame. It brings forth heroes and butchers and they all wear the same uniforms.”

  She appeared surprised for a moment, then shook her head. “Fine. Good. We agree then.”

  “You do not want to know about your—”

  “I know how my husband died. Lord Charles told me, and he was there. My husband sold us for the price of a horse. Collateral spoils.”

  He stood still, shocked.

  Sold them? Sold his family? How could she think such a thing? He had bought them safety. He had sacrificed his last hope of returning to secure them a home. Home—the place where you are safe—and she would be safe as Lord Charles’ wife. How could she not understand what he had done for her? And what it had cost him.

  “Your husband—”
<
br />   “Jean de Lyon”—He had dreamed of that voice, longed for it the entire time he was in Acre, but never had he dreamed to hear such coldness in it—“You and I have finished this conversation. We will never have it again.”

  And with that she walked out.

  ***

  “Jean de Lyon, this is young Guarin.” The large soldier—Lucien, she had called him—stood at the stable door with a small boy by his side. “Master Guarin, this is your new riding master.”

  “He has a wooden leg.” The boy stared, fascinated.

  He was a handsome, sturdy lad with his own straight brown hair and Melisende’s direct blue eyes. He was small, but so had Simon been small until he was eight and then shot upward like an arrow loosed. The boy’s voice sounded neither shy nor arrogant but held a mixture of curiosity and confidence. Simon felt a surge of pride. “It is a very convenient place to keep a stick of wood,” he said easily, “should I need to beat good manners into one of my students.”

  The boy squinted at him suspiciously, sensing they might be pulling a joke on him. “You cannot teach me to ride.” He stepped back out of the reach of Simon’s leg, just in case.

  “You do not think I can ride.”

  The boy nodded.

  “What will convince you otherwise?”

  A frown wrinkled the boy’s eyebrows. He looked around the stable yard. “Take M’sieur Lucien’s stallion and jump him over that wall.”

  It was quite a high stone wall circling the courtyard. Simon considered the stallion he had seen the man riding yesterday. It had been strong and tall enough to leap a wall that high. He glanced at Lucien, raising an eyebrow.

  Lucien looked unhappy at the idea but he nodded curtly.

  “Do you think you can learn to ride?” Simon asked Guarin. “I do not want to waste my time teaching a boy who cannot learn.”