Stigmata

by Colin Falconer

  ‘A day. Perhaps two.’

  ‘Let us hope it is not longer.’

  LXIV

  IN THE ABBEY, in the hush of the scriptorium, it had been easier to contemplate the sin of heresy. Here in the mountains, where the bons òmes lived and worked and had done so much mischief, it was not as simple to feel the presence of holiness, and the certainty of God’s protection.

  The geography of the Toulousain was like heaven; it was flat and honest and a man might see where he was headed for there were no shadowed places. But as they headed into the Montagne Noir, and the forests and gullies crowded in and narrowed the way, Simon experienced a chill of doubt. Clusters of pines and oaks threw deep shadows over the morning. The road ahead coiled around vine-clad hills, and above them were rock-strewn gorges and brooding peaks.

  He looked back at their ragged army: scarce a dozen knights and two lumbering trebuchets, a bitter remnant of the mighty Host that had collected before Carcassonne a few weeks before. Gilles rode at the vanguard, the three eagles at the forefront of the cluster of gold crosses and gilt-edged pennants of other noble houses; blue wolves and black bears, burgundy-red stripes on virgin white, the yellow of Champagne.

  Behind the barons and the knights and the bishops came the host of lesser souls; chevaliers, sergeants and squires, then the foot soldiers and auxiliaries, crossbow-men and longbow archers, sappers and siege engineers.

  A pitiful few, or so it seemed to his untrained eye. So few fighting men, so many camp followers! He had never been to war before, had not realized how many men it took to keep even a small army in the field even for a day. Lumbering along behind them there was even a cart with an iron-banded wooden chest containing the holy relics that had been sent to bless the expedition: a finger of John, an ear bone of Paul. Behind this, a finely dressed, long-nosed lady in a wimple with a boy barely able to walk, never mind ride; for one nobleman from Picardy had chosen to bring along his wife and son to the crusade, as if it were a jousting tournament.

  And then came the long line of baggage trains: lumbering wagons loaded with weapons and supplies and armour, the rounceys and mules, sway-backed and overloaded, chased by the horse boys and muleteers with their long sticks. And still more to follow: farriers, blacksmiths, butchers, notaries, cooks, carpenters, servants, armourers.

  And at the last, following along like ducklings who have toppled carelessly into a drain, a gaggle of malcontents and leeches, the dregs of Europe: first, a tattered band of Gascon mercenaries in ramshackle armour who frightened Simon more than any heretic; some jongleurs; then a small army of pilgrims whose purpose it seemed was to sing hymns as the battle was joined and then strip the bodies for loot afterwards. Even as they marched they sang the Veni Creator Spiritus: ‘Veni Creator Spiritus, Mentes tuorum visita . . .’ He doubted a single one of them knew what the words meant.

  And at the very rear, the crowning glory of their holy expedition, a House of Venus on four wheels, the prostitutes running along behind it.

  All for the glory of God.

  He imagined the cloud of dust raised by their hooves and feet and wheels could be seen in Paris.

  And what have we so far achieved? he thought. We have butchered a handful of Trencavel’s soldiers and hanged another; we have burned a village and hunted down its inhabitants like dogs; we have lost five knights and two score of men to some minor skirmishes that seemed to serve no apparent purpose. And in all that time he himself had seen not one heretic converted or otherwise despatched to hell.

  What am I doing here? Is this really God’s intention for me?

  LXV

  ON A SUMMER morning in the Pays d’Oc it is sometimes possible to see the wind. Looking down from the caves high on the ridge down to the valley floor, Philip could make out the currents and eddies in the breeze from ripples in the dawn haze.

  His wife stood beside him, rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms, as if she were still a mortal soul. ‘What’s done is done,’ she said.

  ‘I wish I had not taken up the cross. I wish I had not left you behind.’

  ‘Every knight must go on crusade once in his life. You were doing your duty to God. I understood that.’

  ‘I should have waited. It was too soon to leave you.’

  ‘I would have died birthing our son whether you were there or not. Perhaps better you did not hear my screams. It is not a legacy I would have wanted to leave you. Find peace, darling Philip. And joy, too, if you can. You were faithful to me in my life, more than most noble husbands. I do not expect you to live as a monk now.’

  ‘I would trade everything I have to make things different.’

  ‘Some things are written by fate,’ Renaut said. ‘You cannot change another man’s destiny, any more than you can change your own.’ His beautiful dark eyes had been given back to him in heaven. ‘Look at you, seigneur. You have given everything you have, but still nothing is different. Your brothers have moved into your castle already, for the Pope has made you excommunicate and anyway they think you are dead. Already they are looking for a new husband for their sister.’

  ‘You are smiling. Why is this amusing to you, Renaut?’

  ‘Because it’s what you wanted all along.’

  ‘I only wanted to save my son.’

  ‘And you did your best, Papa,’ his little boy said. He looked so plump, and his cheeks were pink; how he had been before he got sick.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Philip said.

  Down in the valley, the fog had begun to clear.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Fabricia asked him.

  He turned around, guiltily; he had not heard her behind him. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘What kind of knight lets a girl creep up behind and surprise him?’ she said, smiling. ‘Is there someone else here?’

  ‘Only ghosts,’ he said. ‘How are Bruna and Father Marty?’

  ‘Bruna has just this moment made her way to heaven. She made a gentle passing.’

  ‘I have a grave prepared for her. I’ll carry her there.’

  He made to go back into the cave but she put a hand on his arm and stopped him. ‘Do you hear that?’ She frowned and scanned the horizon. ‘There’s a storm on its way.’ But the morning promised a fine day, only mare’s tails high in a water-blue sky.

  ‘It’s not a storm,’ Philip said. ‘What you can hear is a siege engine. They must be dragging up a trebuchet from Carcassonne. No doubt they are headed for Montaillet.’ He pointed to what appeared to be a dust storm, far down the valley. ‘There they are.’

  ‘There must be thousands of them,’ she said.

  ‘Only a few will be warriors. Still, soon they will send out raiders and scavengers. We should not stay here.’

  ‘We can’t move Father Marty.’

  ‘I could build a stretcher from tree limbs and drag it with us, behind Leyla. It will be slow but it will be better than remaining here. It won’t be too hard for them to find us.’

  ‘How long will it take to make such a thing?’

  ‘It depends what has been left behind that I can use.’ He nodded towards the cave and the litter of poor belongings on the sandy floor. ‘I need some blankets, and some rope or twine. And some green branches. I could have it finished by the end of the day.’

  ‘Father Marty might not survive that long.’

  ‘But if he does we will be prepared.’

  He carried Bruna to the grave that he had prepared for her, and then went to work. Later that afternoon he dragged the stretcher he had built to the mouth of the cave to show her; he had tied two stout tree limbs together to form a frame, with smaller tree limbs lashed across it to strengthen it. He had used some pieces of rope he had found to secure blankets to it. ‘Not a king’s feather bed,’ he said, ‘but I think it will do well enough.’

  ‘So you do not spend all your time in the castle eating lark’s tongues and chasing the serving women?’

  ‘I have my uses.’

  The distant storm had fallen silent; the cros
atz must have encamped for the night. In the forest, the hum of the cicadas rose to a crescendo and the sky turned the colour of mulberries.

  ‘You said you dreamed of me.’

  ‘A dream can mean many things.’

  ‘True. But then you saved my life.’

  ‘You might have recovered anyway, seigneur. I certainly did not risk my life for you, as you are doing for me now.’

  ‘Raimon thinks it is madness. But I could not leave you behind.’ Without warning he bent to kiss her but she turned her face away.

  ‘I am sure that in the castle the servant girls let the seigneur do as he wishes, but I am no serving girl.’

  He had never planned to seduce her. He had surprised himself with his own clumsiness. What was he doing? He could have her if he wanted; yes, just like a serving girl, a strong man alone with a woman like this did not need a by your leave. To be rebuffed in such a manner offended his honour and he drew back. ‘My pardon, madam,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  He turned and walked away.

  ‘Wait.’ She ran after him, caught his arm and held it. ‘You do not understand my meaning.’

  ‘Do you know who I am, girl? And you, just a workman’s daughter.’

  ‘He’s a master stonemason.’

  ‘The same thing. I am of noble blood and that I should even think . . .’ He shook his arm free. ‘We should leave at first light. If someone tells the crosatz about these caves there could be a raiding party up here tomorrow.’

  And he stalked back inside the cave and left her standing there.

  *

  That night she lay awake, listening to water dripping somewhere in the cave. A mosquito buzzed about her head, the racket of the insects in the forest outside the cave was almost deafening. Father Marty’s breath rattled in his chest. He was taking a long time to die.

  A full moon trembled in the sky. She looked for Philip, a dark silhouette on the other side of the cave.

  Why should she not hold him for a while? The Church would call her wanton; Father Vital would call it sin. But what did Father Marty say? It is only a sin if you do not enjoy it. He said that if you made your confession before you died all your sins were forgiven anyway, so what did it matter what you did? Tomorrow they would leave the shelter of these caves, and she could scarce credit that they would survive the perils between here and Montaillet.

  But if they did survive, she did not want just one kiss from him, she wanted a multitude. If she made herself thirsty tonight she would find herself in the desert without . . . what was it he called it? An oasis.

  He was right in what he had said; he was a baron and she was common, a nothing. If he really wanted her, he could just take her, she could not stop him. What she had done in rebuffing him was a deadly insult.

  She thought about the woman she had seen in the doorway of the sacristy of the great cathedral in Toulouse. I should like to know how that feels before I die, she thought. I should like to know the simple pleasures of having a husband, what it is like to be touched by a man who does not find my bloodied hands repulsive, or backs away from me as if I am bewitched.

  She slipped out of her blanket and padded silently across the sand to where Philip lay. He was awake. He heard her and rolled towards her.

  It was hot inside the cave. The night was steaming.

  She slipped off her tunic. ‘Hold me,’ she said.

  LXVI

  A HARD DAY’S journeying; barely a league covered through the thick forest, Philip walking Leyla by the bridle, Father Marty groaning at each bump, each rock, each tree root. They stopped every hundred paces so that he could rest. After noon, they found a small cave to hide in and abandoned their effort.

  Philip carried Father Marty inside and laid him on some blankets. Fabricia gave him water. If not for the tumour there would be scarce be anything left of him, she thought.

  He had been slipping in and out of consciousness, but the water revived him a little. ‘So I shall die a heretic,’ he said. ‘What a strange life. Hereticated, towed behind a horse, saved by a woman that I slandered.’ He glanced up at Philip. ‘One grows impatient waiting for death, eh?’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Oh, I shall. A man may only expire at the rate he is allowed. But it is clear I cannot get the flesh off my bones fast enough for some.’ His smile seeped into the gloom. ‘It smells of wild animals. You are sure there are no bears in here?’

  Philip muttered something and went outside. Father Marty looked at Fabricia. ‘It is so easy to goad him. What is wrong with him? I am dying. A dying man should be allowed to have a little fun.’ His hand clutched hers, bony as a crow’s. ‘Bear witness that I have led a good and blessed life. A few misdemeanours. I am sure when I sneak into heaven by the back gate God will be too busy kicking out the cardinals and the Jews to notice me.’ He gasped at a spasm of pain. ‘It is hard to fix your mind on the next world when you are not finished with this one. I wonder if heaven is anything like as good as they say it is? May I have some more water?’

  Fabricia held the leather drinking bottle to his lips.

  ‘Do you know the crosatz hanged my brother? The bayle. Well, you probably didn’t like him. But he was family. He told them the secret way into Saint-Ybars and out of gratitude for his good service to them they hanged him. I warned him. I said, the crosatz have a churchman giving them counsel; you should never trust a churchman. I should know!’ A dry laugh that ended in a fit of coughing. ‘A candle, please. Is it me, or does it grow darker?’

  Fabricia lit a taper from the small store they had brought with them.

  ‘But my brother said, they are Catholics like us, they will reward me. Well, they rewarded him with heaven, didn’t they? Only not quite the way he had hoped.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I shall be glad to be free of this pain.’ He shuddered from head to foot and a tear worked itself from the corner of his eye. ‘Here, take this,’ he said. There was a crucifix around his neck; it was of an unusual provenance and design, gilded copper inlaid with garnets. ‘I want you to have it,’ he said and pressed it into her palm.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fabricia said, thinking he meant it as payment for her kindnesses.

  ‘I have another brother, in Barcelona. He is a burgher there, and well regarded. Should you need to flee the Pays d’Oc, you should go there. He is not hard to find, just say his name.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Give him this crucifix. He will know it came from me. Tell him you did me a great service. He will repay you. He is a good man – it runs in the family.’ He gave a dry laugh but this led to another fit of coughing. It went on and on and his face turned purple and he could not breathe. She thought that was the end of him.

  But the priest was in no hurry for heaven. He held on another few hours, until just before dawn. Philip and Fabricia were asleep when he died.

  *

  ‘What is this business?’ Gilles growled. ‘Winter will soon be upon us and we have yet to kill all the heretics. And de Montfort says that even if we kill every single one of them here, there are more on the other side of the Toulousain.’

  Simon was shocked at his ignorance, even after all these months in the Pays d’Oc. ‘Half of the Albigeois is hereticated, seigneur. We may only convert a few at a time.’

  They were in the Norman’s silk pavilion. They had made only slow progress during the day and the noble lord was growing impatient. ‘Convert? Why would we want to convert them? Do we try and convert the Saracens?’

  ‘To kill every heretic would be to kill half of the Pays d’Oc.’

  ‘So be it. But we don’t have that much time to do it.’

  Simon thought to laugh but then saw the great lord did not intend it as jest. ‘Not all these people are converted to the heresy. Some are just misguided.’

  ‘Why do you always contend this point with me, Father Jorda? I am here at the bidding of your own Pontiff. I swear I do not understand churchmen. Is this not a Christian land? Then ei
ther these godless wretches are with the Church or they stand against it. Is that not true, Father Ortiz?’

  They both turned to the monk for his support.

  ‘Please, Father Ortiz, remind the great lord that we are here to bring the south back to God, not to butcher everyone.’

  ‘Father Jorda, are we not of the one true religion? Do these heretics not despoil our churches and tempt others away from God? Does the Pope himself say it is not a sin if we kill on a crusade?’

  ‘You mean you agree with our noble lord on this? But I thought we came to preach, not to slaughter.’

  ‘The time for preaching is over.’

  A wolf howled somewhere in the mountains. Gilles went to the doorway of the tent and peered into the darkness, as if he might see the beast from where he stood. ‘I don’t like it here,’ he said. He had small hands, and was constantly rubbing them together. They said he had a condition which made him sweat more than other men, even in the cold. ‘There are caves up there; they say the heretics use them for their orgies and for worshipping the Devil. We shall send some men to find them. What shall we do to the Devil-worshippers when we turn them out, Father Jorda? Would you like to preach to them for a time before I burn them?’ When Simon did not answer, he turned to Father Ortiz. ‘Father Ortiz, you shall take the head of the column tomorrow. I think I shall go with my chevaliers to the caves, instead of dawdling along with this siege engine and the donkeys. Perhaps I shall bring back a heretic for Father Jorda to convert. It will give him something to pass the time. What do you say, Father?’

  LXVII

  THE CAW OF a crow startled her.

  They were resting in a thicket from the heat of the midday. Fabricia had fallen asleep almost straight away, but for moments, no more. When she woke Philip was sprawled beside her, eyes closed.

  She stood up. Something drew her deeper into the forest, through the thick stands of beech and oak. The hum of insects was incessant, a pulsing rhythm that unsettled her. She stumbled on a tree branch.