The Sorrow Stone Read online

  Contents

  Other books

  Copyright

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  Dear reader

  About the author

  The Sorrow Stone is available on Amazon both in ebook and print book format.

  Also by J. A. McLachlan

  Walls of Wind

  The Occasional Diamond Thief

  The Salarian Desert Game

  Crossing the Zenith

  Find these and other books by J. A. McLachlan on Amazon here:

  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00HO1IOWE

  Find out more about J. A. McLachlan’s books or contact her on her website:

  http://www.janeannmclachlan.com

  The Sorrow Stone

  Copyright © 2017 by Jane Ann McLachlan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, photocopying or recording, or translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN: 978-0-9936306-8-2

  Cover Design by Marija at Expert Subjects

  Editing by Ian Darling

  Interior Design by Chris Morgan at Dragon Realm Press

  J. A. McLachlan

  At first he did not know it was a human being. She lay crumpled on the ground like a bundle of dirty rags tossed aside by some trader. Even when Jean was close enough to see the tangled black hair, the small, bare hand, his inclination was to hurry by. A corpse could pass on the terrible fever that had razed this village.

  He had wasted his time stopping at Sainte-Blandine-de-Lugdunum. The few villagers who came to market were silent and glum, barely talking to one another let alone to a spice peddler from some distant town. He had sold one pair of woollen hose and two denier’s worth of salt all morning—barely enough to pay for his dinner and lodgings, let alone feed his family through the winter. The plague had run its course by now, otherwise Jean would have sold some of his side items: pilgrims’ badges and handkerchiefs blessed at the holy shrines of Santiago and Jerusalem. People will give up their last denier when death grins at their windows. Now, if he had been here a few weeks earlier…

  He shook his head, glancing at the inert form lying beside the road just ahead. He had known a priest who took his holy pardons, with the Pope’s sin-erasing signature, into towns where illness raged. The traders called him ‘Reaper’, but it was the last of their coins he went in for, not their souls. And what good did it do him? He handed all the profits to the church. The man was a fool. His body was found lying beside the road like this woman’s, his money pouch as heavy as a drunk’s bladder and the agony of his final convulsions frozen on his face.

  Jean would not tempt such a death. He survived by his wits, never forgetting that Death, with his sickle sharpened, followed impatiently in a man’s shadow, waiting for a momentary slip. He did not want to die on the road. It was Mathilde’s secret fear, he knew: that she would never know what had happened to him. And what if he did not die? What if he carried the fever home with him…?

  He pulled roughly on the halter of his donkey, as though the creature were to blame for his turn of mind. The animal accommodated its owner’s mood sullenly, ears angled backward, rolling its eyes at each jerk of the halter.

  Two heavy wooden barrels hung behind the bulging woven panniers strapped across its back. Several large, rough wadmal bags were tied in front of them. Despite being tightly sealed, the barrels emitted tantalizing scents. The pleasant aromas did not mollify Jean. If his donkey’s load were lighter and the money pouch at his waist heavier, he would be in better humor now. He quickened his step, leading the donkey as far from the dead woman as the narrow dirt track allowed.

  He was nearly past her when she looked up.

  The donkey snorted and stopped. Jean gaped at the woman, too startled to urge the animal forward.

  She stared straight ahead as though unaware of his presence and his stunned regard. She was barely out of girlhood, with raven hair and high cheekbones in a delicate, oval-shaped face which showed no sign of rash or fever. Not ill, then, but yet too pale, too thin. The way she lay, the way she held herself, revealed a vulnerability that repelled him. Nevertheless, he moved closer, taking in her beauty and her youth and the intensity of her need. How might he turn that need to his advantage?

  She turned her face toward him. He looked into her eyes and sucked in his breath sharply. They were so black Jean could not tell the iris from the pupil, so raw with suffering he felt the ache of it himself.

  “Solange!” he whispered, crossing himself. Sorrow. She was not merely grieving; she was grief itself.

  She raised one arm several inches, holding it out before her. Her hand was small, her fingers long and slender and tightly closed around some object. She cried out a single word. The hair on the back of Jean’s neck rose, as though she had heard the name he had given her: “Sorrow!”

  He shivered and stepped backward. Was she possessed?

  “Buy my sorrow!” she cried, with a shrill, unearthly keening that did not seem to be directed at him.

  She held out her closed left hand. “Buy it! For the love of God, buy my sorrow before I go insane!” Slowly she opened her fingers. A long black nail, slightly bent near the flattened head, lay across her small white palm.

  “Damnation!” The word burst from him.

  Another woman had tried this on him a year ago. She was so poor she had not gone to market, just run out from her tiny mud hovel while he was passing by. She was dirty and scrawny with an ugly, puckered scar across her left cheek that stretched up to her eyebrow and she was missing several teeth. The nail that woman offered him was old and rusted, thin to the point of breaking. It had been pounded back into shape many times and she had not risked trying to do so again.

  “Buy my sorrow,” she had cried, just like this girl lying beside the road, and she had held out her worthless little nail. As if he ought to give a flea’s cuss about their suffering. Everyone suffered. Only a fool would take on someone else’s as well as his own. And only a fool would believe she could escape her grief by selling a nail from her child’s coffin to a peddler!

  The world was full of fools and he had run into more than his share, peddling his wares from Saint-Gilles to Cluny and back again, year after year.

  “Take my sorrow from me!” the girl cried again.

  Did she think his h
esitation showed weakness? In two strides he could step full weight on her hand, maybe break the wrist and a couple of fingers. Show her who was weak.

  But this nail was well-made and new, though bent a little at the end from the extraction. He could straighten it and it would be worth something… He caught the glint of gold on her finger and leaned forward to look more closely at her hand. The palm and pads of her fingers were soft, well-cared for: evidence of an easy life.

  “Turn your hand over.”

  He had to hold his breath when she did, to keep from shouting. A ruby nearly the size of his fingernail glittered blood-red against the white skin of her fingers.

  “I can end your suffering,” he said softly, bending nearer to her. “I will buy your sorrow.” He looked around. There was no one on the road. The shrubs and brush on either side might conceal any number of observers, but the carefree twitter of birds among the branches reassured him. He squinted against the noonday sun, looking back the way he had come.

  The Abbey of Sainte Blandine was several hundred yards behind them, enclosed in a high stone wall with an iron arch reaching over the wooden front gates. One of the gates hung half open.

  He was about to turn back to the girl when a nun hurried through the open gate toward them, the folds of her habit flapping around her portly frame. Jean gritted his teeth against the expletive that rose in his throat. He looked back down at the girl.

  She had raised herself to a sitting position. A streak of dirt across her wet cheek enhanced its youthful curve. A light flush had brightened her face and her wide, dark eyes focused on him. The firm swell of her breasts was visible beneath her black kirtle. By god, she was beautiful! If only the nun were not coming. A little time with her and his day would be perfect.

  He held out a coin in his left hand, stretching the other toward her, too, palm up. “I want the ring as well.”

  She stared at him.

  “The ring.” Jean gave a small jerk of his head. “Hurry, someone is coming!”

  She twisted around to look at the abbey. When she turned back she looked frightened. So the nun was indeed coming for her, as Jean had feared.

  He stepped closer and crouched down in front of her. “We can do this,” he whispered, “if we do it quickly. She will never know.” A thought struck him. “And if she does, she is under a vow of silence, heh?”

  Her expression told him he was right again. He extended his left hand toward her until the coin almost touched her empty hand. “Give me your sorrow.”

  With a groan she thrust the nail into his hand. He watched her twist the ring, trying not to smile in anticipation. It stuck at her knuckle. She twisted it harder, her face tense with the effort.

  Jean glanced up. The scarlet-faced nun was running now, holding the skirts of her habit up to her ankles. Jean grabbed the girl’s wrist, pushed her other hand aside, and ripped the ring from her finger.

  She gasped and held the bruised finger to her lips, like a child.

  Jean dropped the nail and the ring into the pouch on his belt.

  “Guard this coin.” He pressed it into her hand. “It has bought your sorrow.” As though he believed such nonsense. But lucky for him that she did.

  “Let me help you to your feet,” he said, more loudly than necessary. He cupped his left hand under her elbow. The other he closed over the little hand that clutched his coin. “Are you feeling better now?” He raised her to her feet just as the good sister panted to a stop before them.

  The nun placed her arm firmly around the grieving young woman. She slumped against the nun, shrinking away from him, but her fist stayed closed around his coin.

  “Can I help you with her, Sister?” Jean asked. It made him appear weak to help a woman with her tasks, even a bride of God; but considering the fortune that had come his way, some show of humility was called for. Perhaps it would appease Sainte Blandine, if she were watching over her abbey.

  The nun shook her head and started back toward the abbey. Jean watched them go, grinning to himself.

  A girl burst through the open gate and raced toward the others, holding her black shift halfway up to her knees. Her face was plump and rounded with youth, her figure small and wiry. The dress she held so high was a simpler cut, less wasteful of material than either of the others. She was clearly a servant but very young, not yet out of childhood.

  She did not notice Jean. Her frightened gaze was on the nun and her charge. As soon as she reached them, she slipped her arm around the young woman’s waist and assisted the silent nun in drawing her back inside the walls of the abbey.

  When they were almost at the gate, the young woman looked back over her shoulder: a searing, inhuman gaze. Her lips parted.

  Jean was seized by a sudden urge to return the ring. He took a step toward her. His left hand hovered uneasily over his money pouch. Why had she given it up so easily?

  Demons bribe men with gifts!

  Jean shivered. He took another step toward her.

  The nun’s arm tightened around the young woman’s shoulders, pulling her forward again.

  And what would he have said, anyway? He had already accepted the ring; it was too late to alter his destiny now.

  Celeste staggered in the nun’s arms. Her stomach heaved. She held her breath, horrified, until the nausea eased. What was happening to her?

  The ground swayed beneath her. The nun’s arms held her, barely keeping her from falling. She gulped for air and the sensation passed, leaving a dark stillness.

  Celeste had never known a silence like this. It was nearly palpable, a heavy weight within her, like an overfull belly after a long fast. She clung to the nun, but was numb to her touch. Only the silence was real to her, the turmoil of emotion stilled at last.

  She had contemplated another type of silence, the silence that was a mortal sin. She had longed to succumb to it; and she might have, had it not been for the demons. She had seen them lurking in every corner, red-eyed and red-fanged, enticing her and repelling her simultaneously. Only the silver cross the nuns had given her, which burned at her neck whenever the demons appeared, had prevented her from throwing herself, with some violent act, into their eager embrace. With her free hand she touched her chest, feeling the little cross under her shift.

  This silence was better. She focused on it, yearning into its oblivion. Whatever its source, she welcomed it. But how long would it last? That worry, a tiny irritation at the edge of the silence, was the sole mar upon her blessed numbness.

  Not the sole mar. Something else. A prickling sensation at her back. She twisted in the nun’s arms, looking back.

  A peddler stood by the road watching her. She looked at him, surprised then alarmed by the intensity of his stare. Something had happened between them, something unthinkable. Her lips parted but she had no breath to scream. He took a step toward her. She felt herself wavering on the edge of chaos. She swayed backward, her knees beginning to give.

  The nun’s arm tightened around her, strong and merciful. She stumbled, but the nun caught her, supported her, turned her once again toward the quiet abbey. She clutched the nun’s arm, and felt something in her hand, small, round, and hard. She tightened her fist around it.

  Another figure appeared, running through the abbey gates toward them: a peasant girl. She skidded into an awkward curtsy then threw her skinny arm around Celeste.

  The young arm was warm across her back, just below the nun’s firmer support. Celeste let them hold her. The girl murmured something, to which Celeste was deaf. She focused only on the silence, holding on to it. She was safe within this shroud of silence. She must not even think about losing it. If she did, the thought would gnaw at her like a splinter until it ruptured her newfound tranquility. She stumbled between the two people supporting her, giving herself up to them.

  They led her through the iron gates of the abbey, which hung open. Once inside, the child supported her while the nun shut and bolted the gates behind them. The haste with which she did so impressed upon
Celeste how disturbed she must have been over going outside the convent to fetch her back.

  What was she doing here? Celeste opened her hand and stared at the coin in her palm. The peddler’s face came back to her—who was he? Why had he given her his coin? Everything that had happened before he pressed his sweaty denier into her palm and helped her up from the side of the road was a blur. She looked about the abbey, seeking something she could recognize.

  A stone pathway led from the gate to the abbey church. Weeds swayed defiantly between the wide, flat stones, and the grounds beyond had a weary and unkempt look. Palmiers lined either side of the path, their huge fronds sweeping the ground as the late summer breeze moved through them.

  The nun and the young girl helped her along the pathway toward the church. They passed two nuns returning from the low building to the main cloister, carrying platters with scraps from the midday meal and half-empty jugs of mead. Several others crossed their path, leading a line of small children toward the vegetable garden. They all looked exhausted, shoulders drooping, eyes cast down in pale faces. Why were they doing the work of servants with only children to help them? None of them glanced at Celeste or the nun and the servant girl supporting her. The feeling of being invisible pleased her.

  As they approached the church, the late afternoon sun directly behind Celeste lit up the large front doors. They were made of thick oak, adorned with life-sized carvings of Sainte Blandine, who shone as though alive in the ray of light. On the left door the saint offered a basket of food to a beggar; on the right she knelt in prayer before a shrine.

  The nun and the little maid led Celeste to the right, where a long stone building ran perpendicular to the church nave. They entered at a small wooden door and passed through to a large inner courtyard, surrounded on three sides by cloisters. The high stone vault of the cloisters arched out from the stone walls of the abbatial buildings, with the church serving as the fourth side of the quadrangle. Beyond the tall columns supporting the cloisters was a well-tended garden of herbs and flowers. Their sweet fragrance enticed Celeste as the nun and the girl led her along the cloister to the open door of a small guest room.