Stigmata

by Colin Falconer

  He did not answer her.

  ‘Will you still want me when we reach Montaillet, seigneur? I am just a stonemason’s daughter. You are a lord. Is this just for now? I can endure it if you tell me the truth. But a girl like myself can sometimes have ideas above her station.’

  ‘You forget, I am no longer a seigneur, I am landless, penniless and excommunicate. There is no future for me. Is this just for now? Everything in my life is just for now.’

  A wolf howled, startling her. Then another.

  She gripped Philip’s arm. ‘They sound very close.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They won’t come near the fire.’ But he sat up and drew his sword from its sheath.

  A half-moon drifted against high white clouds, throwing quick shadows. The river slipped and shivered and the light slid like mercury. He threw more logs on the fire. Something moved in the bushes.

  ‘What was that?’

  He took a brand from the fire and held it high above his head. Somewhere out there a pair of eyes glittered orange; four of them, perhaps more. ‘As long as we stay by the fire they won’t venture closer,’ he said.

  ‘Do we have enough wood to keep it fed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She heard the bell sound for matins at the chapel at Montaillet; still half the night to get through then.

  Philip stood watch, fuelling the fire, occasionally walking forward a few paces swinging the brand so that the animals retreated further into the darkness. She could hear them yowling in frustration, padding up and down along the edges of the wood.

  ‘They are hungry,’ he said.

  The moon sank behind the cliffs. And then, without warning, she heard a rush as one of them took its chance. Philip slashed at it with his sword and then wheeled in a circle slashing again. Sparks from the brand he held in his other hand flickered into the grass.

  She heard a yelp as one of the beasts tumbled away and another scampered back up the bank into the wood. He roared and ran at them, swinging the torch in a wide arc. They snarled and retreated, eyes glittering.

  Philip kicked more wood into the fire. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They won’t come back now.’

  Fabricia shivered and drew closer to the flames. ‘Can you stand the night?’ she said.

  ‘I have done it before. Besides, there are enough things I have done that help to keep me awake on the most serene of nights.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I have killed my horse. I have failed my wife and my son.’

  ‘Does calling your grief a failure make it easier to bear?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You blame yourself for so many things that are beyond your power to change. Perhaps you should weep for your boy rather than hurl insults at the Invisible – or at yourself.’

  He did not answer her for a long time. But finally he murmured: ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  *

  The wolf pack did not retreat too far. They stayed until the sun inched over the cliffs and then they vanished into the forest, leaving their dead comrade behind.

  As the sun rose Philip sank to his haunches in exhaustion, leaning on his sword, his head resting against the hilt. She put her hand on his shoulder. Like the Cathars she believed it was wrong to kill anything. But then it was easier to think that on your knees, in a church. In the dark, surrounded by hungry wolves, it was harder to keep the faith.

  LXXI

  MONTAILLET SAT ATOP a lonely knuckle of blackened limestone. Beneath the fortress walls, the ochre roofs of the town slumbered in a yellow sun. The people who lived there would shortly have a rude awakening, he thought.

  Vertiginous cliffs fell away to plummeting ravines on the north and east sides. The southern and western walls were protected by tall barbicans. It could be approached only by the road that led up from the valley.

  Philip studied it first with the eyes of a warrior, estimating its weaknesses, where he would place his catapults if he were an enemy, how he might deprive the garrison of water. The red walls that encircled the town might keep out the bandits and the wolves but they would not withstand a determined assault by an army with siege engines. He imagined Trencavel’s men would concede that soon enough. But the fortress itself looked formidable.

  It was a long, hot climb up to the town, past deserted vineyards and olive groves. Fabricia was walking better today; she said her feet pained her less. Still, it had taken all that morning for her to hobble the remaining half a league from the gorge.

  The sides of the road were a riot of thyme and wild buttercups. Some gaiety at last. They passed a mill and a watchtower. A hanged man, or the little that remained of him, swung in the wind.

  There were just two watchmen at the gate, lounging on their pikes. One of them stepped forward and barred the way with his weapon. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Philip drew his sword and had it at the man’s throat in an instant. He grabbed his hair and brought him to his knees. Then he turned to the man’s comrade. ‘If you move even your little finger I shall cut out his gizzard and jam it up your arse, you impudent pair of turnips!’

  Neither of the men moved. One could not; the other was just too terrified. Philip controlled his temper with difficulty. ‘My name is Philip, Baron de Vercy. I have lost my horse, my armour, my faith and almost my life in your accursed country when I came here in peace, looking for succour. I will not tolerate further bad manners from anyone. If you ever talk to me or this young woman like that again I will cut out your liver and feed it back to you whole. Do I make myself clear?’

  The watchmen had no further questions as to their business in Montaillet.

  ‘You have a temper, seigneur,’ Fabricia said.

  ‘One of my many faults, my lady. I pray you will excuse it. I have not yet broken the fast and I am insulted by a third-rate bully with a pikestaff and bad teeth. I was raised in noble fashion and it offends me to be so used.’

  The town was crowded with sheep, pigs, goats and people. It smelled like a barn. ‘Seigneur, in defence of those men at the gate, you do not look like a lord and I do not look like a lady. We blend into the common herd, in our present straits.’

  ‘Sadly, you are right,’ he said. ‘Do you see your parents yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The refugees may all be inside the fortress. Come on.’

  A stone bridge led across a dry moat, and then to a wooden walkway that could be lowered and raised from the gatehouse. The courtyard of the castle was in chaos. Montaillet was preparing for war. Some knights rushed to the forge for last-minute adjustments to armour or the sharpening of a sword. Lacquered helms and shields glittered in the sunlight.

  There were refugees camped inside and outside the church. Already it stank and the siege had not yet begun. Fabricia searched the terrified faces for her mother and father.

  ‘Perhaps they did not survive the journey,’ she said. She took hold of a stranger, asked if he had seen them; a giant, she said, with fists like hams; his wife, red hair turning to grey and a proud way of walking. The man shook his head and walked away. She saw someone she knew from her village and asked again. He pointed vaguely towards the other side of the courtyard. Yes, he thought he had seen Anselm; look over there.

  A ragged tramp sitting on the steps of the church stood up and shouted her name; the tangle-haired woman beside him dropped to her knees and sobbed. Fabricia threw herself at them. The crowd around them stared cold-eyed. So little joy in this place, perhaps they resented it.

  ‘My little rabbit!’ the man yelled and picked her up and threw her in the air like a doll. Fabricia burst into tears, as did her mother. Philip hovered, thinking for a moment to join the celebration, but instead turned away. He was not a part of this; he would rejoin her later.

  A troop of Trencavel soldiers, their shields emblazoned with the Viscount’s mustard and black ensign, went past him at the double, headed for the southern wall. Someone shouted his name. Philip saw
Raimon peel away from the squadron and head towards him. ‘So, you made it! I would never have believed it. But, seigneur, you look more like a bandit than a lord. Are you well?’

  ‘Well enough for a man who has been chased around the country by fanatics, near drowned and set upon by wild animals.’

  ‘Well, you made it here, that is triumph enough! Come along with me, let me find you a glass of wine.’ He put an arm around his shoulders and led him inside the donjon.

  LXXII

  SUCH A CONTRAST in fortunes, Philip thought. One day eating wild figs and berries and lying in the river mud to scoop up water to drink; the next, reclining at his ease drinking Rhenish and gorging from a trencher of rye bread and sheep’s cheese.

  While he dined Raimon stood at the window watching the preparations for the siege. ‘You can stay here in the donjon,’ he was saying, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t have a private bed with velvet curtains. But you shall share the straw with fine company, for there will be two barons and much of the minor nobility of the Minervois with you.’

  ‘I’ve known worse.’

  ‘The straw or the company?’ He shook his head. ‘What happened to that fine horse of yours?’

  Philip shook his head.

  ‘A pity. One of the finest Arabs I ever saw. And your armour?’

  ‘I had to swim a river. It is a task made more difficult with a suit of iron mail, even one made in Toledo. So there was no choice but to leave it as a parting gift to the men who chased me.’

  ‘How quickly a man’s luck can change. My circumstances have altered somewhat also since we last met at the caves. One day I was captain of a score of chevaliers harassing the crosatz, the next I am seneschal of a castle and charged with stopping the crusader invasion of the Pays d’Oc.’

  ‘A day is a long time in any war. How did you come by such a rapid promotion?’

  ‘The previous seneschal fled after they told him what had happened at Béziers. They caught him and hanged him from the tower – you may have noticed him on your way here. His good looks are not what they were. But tell me, you are a seasoned warrior, what do you think of Montaillet? Can we withstand an assault from the crosatz’ army, do you think?’

  ‘You have two weak points,’ Philip said. ‘You draw your water from a well on the southern side. Is that your only source?’

  ‘That is a military secret, seigneur, which I should be foolish to divulge to a man whose loyalty is suspect.’

  ‘You do not have to answer. But you asked my soldier’s opinion.’

  ‘What is the other weakness?’

  ‘It is not the fortress itself; it is what is inside it. You will have to surrender the suburbs, probably on the first day, and then you will have even more people and animals inside these walls. If the siege is prolonged you cannot feed them all. And they bring with them the prospect of disease.’

  ‘You are right, but it will not be a prolonged siege. Autumn is coming. These crosatz will serve out their forty days of war for the Pope, get their dispensation to heaven and go home. They will not wish to spend the winter here. If they don’t have a quick victory as they did at Béziers and Carcassonne, they will soon tire of us. Besides, these people need not be a burden. We’ll eat their sheep and their cows and teach the women and children to work the mangonels.’

  He heard angry voices from below. He joined Raimon at the window. A tonsured priest stood on the church steps haranguing the crowd. It seemed the people were not happy with his sermon. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘The priest from the village. He has been beseeching them all to return to God’s good favour by throwing open the gates to the crosatz to prove there is no heresy here. But no one believes that; they all know what happened at Béziers. Besides, this is not about religion. These crosatz have insulted our honour and taken our land. Even the Catholics hate them now. They could have Moses himself leading the army and we would still slam the doors on him.’

  ‘How do you intend to stop them?’

  ‘This won’t be like Béziers or Carcassonne. For one thing, they have only a small part of their army here. And besides, storming a castle on a plain is one thing, but we have mountains and cliffs at our back. See those fellows?’ He pointed to a band of routiers, Spanish by the look of them, on the south wall. They were well armed for mercenaries, with good French coats of mail, but the bright red or green scarves around their throats and the gold rings in their ears marked them out as for-hire professionals. Their leader, a handsome brute with tight black curls and a tattered leather jerkin, was laughing as he greased the strings of his bow. Philip had fought with such men before. They would cut out a man’s tongue and that same night burst into tears when they talked about their mothers. Mad or godless, the lot of them.

  ‘The leader’s name is Martín Navarese. They are well paid and they are not going to surrender because they know what will happen to them if they do. The rest of the garrison are all liegemen of the Trencavels or barons who have been dispossessed by the war and have nothing left to lose. Believe me, Montaillet will not be another Béziers.’

  He stopped and listened. Even over the shouts of the preacher and the hecklers from below, they both heard what sounded like distant thunder. The crosatz were getting closer. ‘I should persuade you to stay if I could. We could use a seasoned warrior like you.’

  ‘What good is a knight without armour?’

  ‘I can provide you with hauberk and helm easily enough.’

  ‘Good armour is expensive.’

  ‘The seneschal will not be needing his any more. Think of it as your wages for your good service to us.’

  ‘And I’ll need a good horse to ride out on at the end.’

  ‘You strike a hard bargain. Very well, but it won’t be a fine Arab like the one you had before.’

  ‘As long as it has four legs.’

  ‘Before you make up your mind, think about what you’re doing, seigneur. You could still get out of this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘This is not your fight.’

  ‘I may be a northerner, but I am excommunicate. I cannot go back.’

  ‘What red-blooded fellow has not upset the Church from time to time? You could make your peace with the Archbishop. Besides, until now you have been fighting on your own account. Explain the circumstances of your little misunderstanding, promise to make a pilgrimage and donate a little land to the see and they will forgive you soon enough. But once they’ve witnessed you on these walls standing against them, you become a heretic and they will give you no quarter.’

  ‘So be it. It is a matter of honour now.’

  ‘Ah. Paratge. Well, that I understand. But remember, it is not easy to be faidit – dispossessed. Ask the men who share your straw tonight; they had castles once too.’

  ‘I am decided. Show me this armour; I may have to take it to the forge to have it buffed and polished. I should not make my final stand looking worn or shabby.’

  Raimon grinned. ‘Well, I have done my duty and given you fair warning, seigneur. I did not think a man who would ride alone against forty would be easily dissuaded from a fight. I am glad you have decided to stay. I would rather have you on my side than theirs.’

  *

  It was a large family, five or six small children, all squatted on the ground under the eaves. An urchin, hovering close by, snatched half a loaf of bread from one of the children and ran. Philip put out an arm and caught him by the ear. He took the bread from him and handed it back to its owner while the little wretch squirmed and fought him.

  The man drew his knife. ‘I’ll cut off his fucking nose!’

  ‘If you do I shall have to cut off yours. Now address me as lord, thank me and go back to your family. I will take care of this.’

  Scowling, the man touched his forelock, mumbled, ‘Yes, seigneur,’ and walked away.

  Philip turned to the urchin. ‘Why do you do this, Loup? You must be the worst thief in the world, you’re always getting caught.’

  The
boy aimed a kick at him. ‘What do you care? You abandoned me!’

  ‘I did not abandon you. I helped you from charity, you ingrate. I am not your father and I am not your kinsman.’

  ‘I fucking hate you!’

  Philip shook his head. There was nothing to be done with the lad. ‘Where is the woman, Guilhemeta?’

  The boy nodded towards the church.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s sick.’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  He released the lad, who led him grudgingly up the steps and into the church. Guilhemeta lay against the wall in the nave, pale and sweating. People stepped over her as if she wasn’t there, just another bundle of rags without hope.

  ‘How long has she been like this?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  ‘Wait here, I’ll get you food and I’ll get you help. And don’t go stealing anything. You should try and keep your nose. It’s the only thing on you that knows how to run.’

  LXXIII

  ‘GOOD PEOPLE OF Montaillet. The crusaders are coming to rid us of foul heresy! We should throw our gates open to them, or we will burn as they did in Béziers! It is our moment of Judgement! If we fail in our duty to God we shall know His holy wrath! Stay inside these walls and we ally ourselves with the Devil. But if we open the gates and let God’s Host in, we will have nothing to fear! They only wish us to give up to them those who worship the Devil and scorn the one and true Holy Church!’

  Someone threw a cabbage. There was a scuffle at the front between an onlooker and one of the priest’s bully boys. Soldiers waded into the crowd. It was no time for a riot when they were all preparing for war.

  ‘My brother-in-law is a crezen and so is my cousin! I’ll not let some Frenchman come here and butcher them!’

  ‘They’ve come here to loot us. They’ll rape our women and take our money no matter what we do!’

  Fabricia stood with her father at the back of the crowd. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘They’re right,’ he said. ‘If we let a wolf into our house we are the fools, not the wolf. I don’t want to listen to this idiot any more.’