Stigmata (40 page)

‘We should hear what they have to say,’ Navarese said. ‘We do not have the men to repel another assault.’

‘They do not have enough men to make one,’ Anselm said. ‘Anyone can see how their numbers have diminished since the end of the summer.’

‘You are a mason, not a soldier. How would you know what their army is capable of?’ Navarese turned to Raimon. ‘Why do you listen to him?’

‘I agree with the captain,’ Belot said. ‘Let us hear what they have to say. After all, they say this is a war against heresy, not against us.’

‘Of course it is a war against us!’ Anselm shouted. ‘Look what they did at Béziers, at Carcassonne!’

‘Why don’t we offer them the heretics in return for the peace?’ Belot said. ‘See what they say to that.’

Anselm lunged at him and Navarese had to step in between them. Raimon jumped to his feet. ‘Gentlemen!’

‘There are no heretics!’ Anselm shouted. ‘There are only we Albigeois and the invaders! How can you speak such filth! The Cathars have been our neighbours all our lives and
what harm have they done us? And you would betray them?’

‘You are only saying this because your wife herself is a heretic,’ Belot sneered.

‘There will be no betrayal,’ Raimon said. ‘Either we are all saved or none of us.’

The
donjon
shook as another rock thundered into the wall. Someone, somewhere, was screaming. ‘If that wall comes down, we are lost,’ Navarese said.

‘What about the Baron de Vercy?’ Anselm said. ‘Any news?’

Raimon shook his head.

‘He is dead,’ Belot said. ‘Or if he did get through the crusader lines, which I very much doubt, then he is back in Burgundy by now, feasting from his own table and counting
himself the luckiest man alive.’

‘We have to parlay,’ Navarese repeated.

‘Very well,’ Raimon told them. ‘A third of the garrison is dead from sickness or from the battle. Another third is sick with the fever. We have slaughtered all the animals and
we are running out of fresh meat. We have little choice in this. Let us hear what the
crosatz
have to say.’

The sun was pitched at such a height that it was shining through a high window and straight into Fabricia’s face; the light was like nails piercing her eyes. Her mother
was calling her to get out of bed and help with the morning cook fire.

At least it sounded like her mother but she was wearing a black hood so it could not be her. Pèire was right there beside her. Don’t forget the cross, someone said. It was Father
Marty. He had a pronged tail, like the Devil.

She is dying, someone else said.

They gave her water and afterwards she went into the forest to pick herbs. There was a meadow with daisies but people kept standing in her way, giving her things to mend for them: an arm, a
liver, a leg. She tried to push through them.

A wolf showed her the deep gash in its neck from a sword slash and asked her to put her hands there. But when she reached out, the wolf turned into a soldier and tried to throttle her. She
opened her eyes to get away from him. Dust motes, each of them as large as a rock, floated around her and when they landed the floor shook.

She was so tired. She had to sleep. Philip was holding her hand. He had an arrow in his chest. ‘When are you coming back?’ she said.

‘I am never coming back,’ he told her.

‘Fabricia,’ Anselm said. She felt him stroke her face. ‘You’ve been very sick,’ he said.

‘Are you here?’

‘I am here.’

‘Are you a dream?’

‘No dream,’ he said. She waited for him to turn into a devil or a snake or spikes but he did not. She slept again.

When she woke up she watched a shadow come out of one of the bodies lying beside her. It went to join the others gathered in the corner. They were scratching their heads and wondering where to
go. Someone carried out their bodies and they followed. She wanted to go with them but her flesh was too heavy and would not let her.

Her father said: ‘She is burning up. It is like sitting next to the hearth
.’

When she woke again it was as if she was lying in grease, everything soaked and stinking. She asked for water and a man in a black robe gave her a cup and said: ‘You look much
better.’ She was hungry. She felt for the cross at her throat and remembered it was gone.

‘Philip,’ she said.

S
IMON RODE OUT
of the camp with Father Ortiz. De Montfort stood outside his pavilion with his hands on his hips and watched
them go. Gilles did not even bother to get out of his bed. He had been sleeping badly. Simon often heard him moaning and shouting things at night. He has troubled dreams, Father Ortiz had told him.
If the commander at Montaillet knew the state of our alliance! Simon thought.

There were still corpses lying among the ruins of the
bourg
from the attack on that first day of the siege, many just charred skeletons now. Others, from their more recent assault, had
bloated and turned blue, their vitals scattered over the peninsula by scavengers. The vultures watched him with disdain.

The defenders of Montaillet lined the walls and the barbican to watch their approach. The Trencavel standards whipped in the wind atop the blackened gatehouse. The main gate creaked open.

Three men rode out under the Trencavel gold and black ensign. Surely that could not be their leader? He looked so young.

They pulled up a dozen paces from them. The man at their head – no more than a boy, really – raised his hand. He had one blue eye and one green, Simon noticed. Remarkable.

‘I am Raimon Perella,’ he said. ‘I am the seneschal of Montaillet.’

‘I am Father Diego Ortiz. This is Father Simon Jorda.’

‘Why is de Montfort not here?’

‘He sent us to parlay on his behalf, for this is not a military affair, but an ecclesiastical one.’

‘Really? We are here to talk religion? Then why do you not throw holy bibles at us from your siege engines, instead of rocks?’

‘We wish to offer you mercy.’

‘I was going to offer you the same. You look cold in your tents and it will snow soon. If you leave here now I shall promise not to ride after you and cut you down like the dogs you
are.’

Father Ortiz smiled. ‘Now you know that will not happen. In a few days our trebuchet will bring down your walls and you will surely beg
our
mercy then. We are here for God’s
holy purpose. Why did you shut your gates against us?’

‘If you are here on God’s business why did you bring an army with you?’

‘We are here to stamp out heresy.’

‘Heresy? There are no heretics in Montaillet. We are all good Christians.’

‘If that is so, give us entrance to your fortress and we will all say a mass together and then leave you in peace.’

‘And if we don’t?’

‘Simon de Montfort wants this castle. He has more siege engines on the way from Carcassonne in order to secure it. Do not misjudge his determination to have his way. But if you make
accommodation with him he will be merciful for he is here on the Pope’s business. If you are all good Catholics, as you say you are, what do you have to fear?’

Simon saw the young man’s hesitation. You only have to hold out a few more days, he thought. If only you knew!

He looked up at the barbican and saw a woman with red hair.

‘What terms do you seek?’

‘You will all be allowed to leave with any of those possessions you can carry with you. No one will be harmed. It is the fortress de Montfort desires, not your lives.’

‘How can we trust you?’

‘I am a man of God.’

‘Exactly. There were men of God at Béziers.’

‘These men here had nothing to do with Béziers.’

More hesitation. ‘Where should we go?’ Raimon Perella said, as if thinking aloud. ‘Winter is closing in.’

‘You might go to Narbonne. They gave their fealty to the Church and all live in peace there. As may have been your happy prospect if you had not closed your gates to us.’

‘You swear no one will be harmed?’

‘You have my word as a man of God.’

‘Very well. I will put your proposition to the good people of Montaillet.’

‘You have until dawn tomorrow, but if we have no word by then, de Montfort has vowed that the bombardment shall recommence.’

They rode back to their lines. Simon waited until they were out of earshot, then he threw back his hood and shouted: ‘You lied to him! That was not the agreement we were vouchsafed to
make!’

‘Do not think to harangue me, Brother Jorda. You heard what he said. All inside Montaillet are good Christians, and if this is true, they shall go free.’

‘You did not mention the oath that they must take first.’

‘Did I not? You must be mistaken, for I am sure that I did.’

He rode on ahead. Simon looked back at Montaillet, and for a moment a voice whispered to him:
Go back and warn them.
But he was sure it must be the voice of the Devil and so he ignored
it.

Yet he had no sleep that night. It seemed to him that for all his piety, he was becoming something he did not like.

F
ATHER
O
RTIZ APPEARED
to be in great pain this morning. He dipped a crust of bread in his wine and
winced at the ache in his leg. He had the rheumatics, he said. He struggled to shift his position but when Simon tried to help him stand he pushed him away. ‘I have a little stiffness in the
joints, I am not infirm!’

The winter was close now. The mist rolled down the valley like a malevolent presence. Sleet dripped from the canvas of their pavilion.

Simon was startled by the blast of a trumpet very close. This morning the men were showing their first eagerness for many weeks; they had been assured they had passed their last night huddled in
leaking tents. You have won a famous victory for Christ, de Montfort had told them.

‘Why are you sombre?’ Father Ortiz said. ‘This is a day of rejoicing. They are opening the gates to us. God has granted us yet another miracle.’

‘Is it a miracle, Father Ortiz, when you lie?’

‘What is it you wish to say to me, Brother Jorda?’

‘You told their commander, Raimon Perella, that they would not be harmed.’

‘Providing they swear an oath of fealty to the Church and creed.’

‘You neglected to inform him of that condition. They will not all do that, will they? They are not all faithful to the Church.’

Father Ortiz brought the flat of his hand down hard on the trestle table. ‘If they cannot profess allegiance to God’s Church, then they are not worthy of your poor tears! Why should
you concern yourself over the godless? Should God condemn me if such people are deceived? I do not understand you, Brother Jorda. We are at God’s work here, and you talk to me like a
lawyer!’

‘They made their peace with us because you deceived them.’

‘If these people knowingly harbour those who would harm God, then they harm our Church and must be brought to heel by whatever means we can devise! They protect those who spit on the
cross, they call sodomites and blasphemers and Devil-worshippers their neighbours! But I shall be merciful to them and grant them their lives though if I were just they should all burn this day
with the heretics, who are God’s enemies!’

Simon knew it was useless to argue further, he had already said too much. And besides, perhaps Father Ortiz was right; in the battle between good and evil a priest of God could not always
observe the niceties. They were, as he had said, at war with Satan and could not afford to be too delicate.

He left the tent. The world was damp and dripping. A spatter of rain stung his face. Men in full armour ran at the double; knights called for their horses; there was the clash of steel as pikes
and swords and lances were made ready. The handful of pilgrims who yet remained with them had gathered to sing the
Veni Sancte Spiritus.
What a ragged bunch they were, all huddled dripping
beneath a tall wooden cross.

De Montfort had left, at first light, to further his quest to be everywhere in the Pays d’Oc at once. Now the truce was concluded he found he had business elsewhere. Once he was gone
Gilles rediscovered his enthusiasm for defending Christ. At his orders ragged boys were sent to gather faggots to start building the bonfire for the ungodly, the very moment the gates swung
open.

Fabricia stood with her father on the battlements, watching the crusaders break their camp and approach the gates. Raimon, his few ragged knights and chevaliers on horseback
beside him, waited in the citadel. The mercenaries and foot soldiers stood rank by rank behind, the gatekeepers awaiting his signal. When they see how few of us there are left, she thought, they
will regret the cheap bargain they made.

‘Is it really over?’ she said.

‘Let us hope so,’ Anselm said. ‘But I have made my confession to the priest, just in case.’

‘They have guaranteed us all safe passage.’

‘When it is done, I will believe it.’

She looked down at the church steps, at the desolate huddle of burghers and shepherds clutching their miserable bundles, the rich hardly distinguished from the poor after a season in this hell.
She saw the
bons òmes
standing a little apart in their black hoods, her mother among them.

Anselm took her hand. Raimon gave the signal. The gates creaked open.

Once inside the gates, Simon fell on his knees in thanks, clutching the wooden crucifix at his throat between his fingers. He looked up at the barbican. He saw a woman with
startling red hair and vivid green eyes. He heard a voice, his own voice, from long ago: ‘
Fabricia Bérenger, I think of you day and night. I can think of nothing else. I am on
fire.
’

Hell, he thought, need not be stoked with coals and flaming sulphur. It can be chill and rain-soaked; regret and self-loathing can serve as well as any devil’s pitchfork and a torn mind
can be just as excruciating as torn flesh.

‘H
USBAND.’