Stigmata (44 page)

Étienne gripped the neck of his goblet as if he was throttling a small bird, his knuckles white. He took another gulp of it and spat it on the floor. ‘Dog’s piss!’ He
took hold of Philip’s arm. ‘Now look, you must act, and act quickly.’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘Do as the Count of Toulouse did when the Church threatened him. Make a big play of switching sides.’

‘To what effect?’

‘Wear the cross again, Philip.’

‘If I ride alone into the Montagne Noir with a red cross on my surcoat I will not live to see the sun set. The place is alive with bandits and Cathars. I heard fifty of de Montfort’s
men were ambushed near Cabaret.’

‘Then go back at the head of an army.’

Philip considered this strange proposal, picking at a tear in his sleeve. ‘You know of one for hire?’

‘Did you see the battle today, in the
bourg
? The ones with the white crosses sewn on their tunics are a private Catholic army paid for by the Bishop. He is talking of sending them
south to reinforce de Montfort. What if you were to lead them?’

Philip laughed at the audacity of his cousin’s suggestion. ‘Did you think of that just as we were sitting here?’

‘The Bishop and the Count have been at each other’s throats for years. Now Raymond has gone to Paris the Bishop has become even more vociferous. All you have to do is convince him
that you have seen your error and wish for redemption. When you go back to the war you don’t have to fight too hard, just make a big show of it to forestall any interdict against you, then
you can come home, put your bitch of a wife in a nunnery, throw her brothers into the moat and resume your life. As God intended!’

‘You think it will work?’

‘It worked for the Count. They say the Pope is fattening peacocks and having his jeweller make gold rings as presents for Raymond’s arrival in Italy. No one loves a prodigal son more
than a Catholic.’

Philip laughed again and clapped him on the shoulder. They tossed the wine back at the boy and ordered ale instead. They finished off several jugs and Philip ate a hock of lamb, though he
suspected it might be the kind of mutton that once barked and wagged its tail. Then they fell into the street.

Étienne took him to a tailor and bought him a new tunic and hose and a fresh linen shirt, and gave him loan of his favourite fox-lined cloak so that he might make a favourable impression
on the Bishop. They spent the night as guests of an acquaintance of Étienne’s, a wealthy wool merchant in the
bourg
.

The next morning they bade each other farewell; Philip promised to see him back in Burgundy in the spring. Then he made his way to the Bishop’s palace to make his peace with Mother
Church.

I am coming back for you. Don’t give up.

I
T WAS SAID
that the Bishop of Toulouse was not as debauched as most; he did not keep pretty boys, or women, he did not
hear matins in bed, or play dice, or try to conceal his tonsure by combing the hair from the back of his head forward to cover it. At least that was what they said.

Fulk of Marseilles had been born the son of a rich Genoese merchant, who had the good grace to die early and leave his fortune to his son, who then set to the task of squandering it. He became
an itinerant troubadour and practised womanizer, before finally abandoning the good life, and a wife and two sons, for the austerity of life as a monk at the abbey of Le Thoronet. But Fulk was not
cut from humble cloth. Ten years later he was appointed the new Bishop of Toulouse after Rome kicked out Count Raymond’s own appointee. By all accounts Fulk had applied himself to the task of
becoming the thorn in Raymond’s side with the utmost zeal.

The Bishop received him in a great carved armchair, a lay brother seated at a writing table beside him as notary. There was a white wall behind him with a black wooden cross on it. He wore a fur
of sable and the aura of perfumes and burned amber that surrounded him made Philip light-headed.

‘You wished audience with us?’ the Bishop said. Philip looked around the room. There was nowhere to sit. He imagined the insult was a calculated one, and he had no recourse but to
endure it.

‘On a spiritual matter,’ Philip said.

‘I have reports of a certain baron from Vercy in Burgundy who made war on our holy crusaders in the Montagne Noir. I hear that his lands may shortly come under interdict because of this.
Is this the spiritual matter for which you seek guidance?’

‘I think there has been a misunderstanding,
Grandeur.
It was never my intent to fight on the side of heresy. It was a personal matter of honour between myself and another man of
rich blood.’

‘Did this matter extend to you taking part in the defence of the fortress at Montaillet against God’s holy Host?’

‘I had lost the men-at-arms who had escorted me from Burgundy; I then almost lost my life. I did not take part in the defence of Montaillet; rather, I found myself trapped
there.’

The Bishop waved a hand dismissively in the air. ‘These are matters for the ecclesiastical courts.’

‘Indeed,
Grandeur
. I did not wish to trouble you with it. I came to you instead hoping to atone for my errors and assist your most holy purpose at the same time.’

‘Really? And how might you do that?’

‘Simon de Montfort’s holy crusade faces serious difficulty, as everyone knows.’

‘Nonsense! And it is not de Montfort’s crusade. He is merely the Holy Father’s elect to replace the Trencavels in their seat in the Minervois.’

‘Yet if Count Raymond returns from Rome exonerated, the Holy Father’s position in this will not be quite as clear and de Montfort’s situation will become tenuous.’

‘It is true that the Count of Toulouse thinks that he can play politics with Rome. But His Holiness will see through his game soon enough. This crusade should have been directed against
Raymond from the very first, for this is the seat of heresy, not Béziers, and not Carcassonne!’

Good. I have him well exercised now, Philip thought, noting a fleck of foam on the Bishop’s lower lip.

But the Bishop had not yet finished his rant. ‘Raymond joined the crusade and feigned loyalty to the Church to save his own skin. He plays a double game. Trencavel was his enemy but could
never defeat him, and so he let us do the job for him! Now he thinks that he will take over the Trencavel lands when our crusaders return home! But this will not stand. The Church knows where its
real enemy lies!’

‘Yet there have been setbacks,
Grandeur
. De Montfort is in dire need of reinforcements.’

‘It is all part of God’s grand design to allow even more northern knights to save their souls by taking the cross.’

‘But God cannot always work such miracles alone, am I right?’

‘Get to your point. Are you here to goad me or to blaspheme?’ He turned to the notary. ‘I hope you’re writing all this down.’

‘Forgive me,
Grandeur
. I meant no disrespect. Let me tell you why I am here. As I rode into the city I saw a number of men with white crosses sewn on their robes; they were in a
bloody mêlée with a band of other men, dressed in black.’

‘The White Brotherhood defends the laws of God in this city. Those they fought are a rabble paid for by Count Raymond.’

‘These Whites, who fought so bravely in the street, would be better employed in Simon de Montfort’s service, would they not?’

‘It has been suggested before. But the logistics of such a plan are not so easily achieved.’

‘Indeed. You would need a knight to organize them and lead them, one who has experience of war and, even better, experience also of the conditions of the war in the south.’

The Bishop frowned and leaned forward. ‘You?’

‘I wish to go home,
Grandeur
, and claim my life again. I have an interdict from the Church hanging over my head, even though I gave a year of my life in God’s service in the
Holy Land. If I offer this service, I hope it will again prove my loyalty to the Church and remove this ban. And serve God’s holy cause also, of course.’

‘It is an interesting proposition. I could spare a hundred men. But how will you get them out of the city? Raymond’s troops are under orders to keep them here.’

‘We would leave at night, by the unwalled suburb to the west. There are no guards there.’

‘I also have victualler’s carts and a siege engine ready for de Montfort’s employ.’

‘They would have to be left behind. I need to ride quickly to avoid the Count’s patrols.’

The Bishop shrugged. ‘A pity. Still, de Montfort would appreciate a hundred good men right now.’

‘And for this I ask only that you write to His Holiness in Rome and ask him to remove the interdict against me. I have been a fool; I see that now. If you will do this for me I will lead
your men into the Montagne Noir, as their proud general in the war against the heretics.’

The Bishop put a finger to his lower lip. It made him look wanton. ‘Very well, young man, I graciously accept your offer. Prove yourself to me, and you will live as a free man again, under
the beneficent grace of the Church. But one other thing.’

‘
Grandeur
?’

‘You will need to be scourged, for the good of your soul, you understand. I shall perform the ceremony myself at Saint-Gilles.’

Philip’s fingers went to his throat, found the copper and garnet crucifix that Fabricia had given him. It had worked itself loose from his cambric undershirt. He tucked it away again, out
of sight.

He went down on one knee and kissed the fat amber ring on the Bishop’s finger.

‘Whatever you think best,
Grandeur
,’ he said.

S
OME YEARS WINTER
came slowly to the mountains, Anselm had discovered; it seeped into cracks, silent as frost. But the
night he arrived back at Montaillet it came with a rush, glacial winds howling through the pines, followed by a gale of sleet and snow.

The next morning when he woke the entire valley was blanketed in white and the air was so cold it scarified the throat like a razor. Hardened drifts of snow had even found their way into the
south transept of the church, where the wall had been damaged during the siege.

He stared up at the roof. There was a long crack in the vault left by a missile stone. ‘Not much I can do to repair it in the winter,’ he told Simon. ‘But you’ll not want
that to get worse. I can make a temporary repair with some trusses so that it doesn’t come down, but I’ll need labourers.’

‘You think it might? Come down, I mean.’

‘I won’t know until I can get up there and have a closer look.’

Simon looked around the church. ‘Look what these heretics have done! They even took the saints from the corbels. This is all that is left.’ He pointed to the two stone angels
standing guard either side of the apse.

‘Don’t worry, Father. I’ll give you a new church.’ He turned his attention to the priest. ‘How is my daughter?’

‘She has not been harmed.’

‘Can I see her?’

‘I will ask Father Ortiz.’

‘She won’t last long in that rathole where you put her, not in this weather.’

‘Finish your work and she will be released.’

‘My work will take months. I cannot even start on the roof until spring. You will let my poor daughter rot in there until then?’

‘It is up to Father Ortiz,’ Simon told him.

‘She is innocent of any wrongdoing.’

‘She claims miracles for herself.’

‘She says she has seen the Virgin and sometimes she prays for people. Where is the harm in it?’

‘It beggars belief that the Virgin would reveal herself to a mason’s daughter and not to a man of learning and spiritual understanding who could use such a vision for the betterment
of all. Paul suffered his own revelation on the road to Damascus and from this came the enlightenment of a great man and the foundation of our Holy Church; if the Lord had instead revealed himself
to a shepherdess what good would have come of it?’

‘Let her go, for pity’s sake.’

‘I promise you I will talk to Father Ortiz for you, Anselm. It is all I can do. Now be about your work. I will make labourers available to you from among the pilgrims.’

Anselm watched him walk away. Once he had considered Father Jorda a good man. But it seemed to him now that the monk’s heart was rotting inside him, like an apple going bad from the
inside.

Simon climbed the worn stone staircase to the barbican. Stray flakes of snow whipped from a crouching sky, dissolving into freezing wetness on his bearskin cloak. The wind
moaned over the walls and the frost burned his ears.

Far below him he could make out the intricate patterns in the snow left by a small animal. Long fingers of ice hung from the beech trees.

The heretics said that all the beauty of the world was an illusion, that the Devil had created it for the same purpose that he had created physical beauty, to seduce the soul and tempt it to
cling to impermanence.

They had persuaded Gilles to stay and garrison the fortress over the winter but the news from elsewhere in the Pays d’Oc was grim. Many of the castles de Montfort had gained during the
summer had rebelled. Fifty of his men had been ambushed on the road to Cabaret and sent back to him without their noses, lips and eyes. They were an island of Christianity now, surrounded by
Cathars and the goblins that lived in these polluted forests. He thought about Fabricia, shivering in her dungeon. What Anselm had said was right; she would not survive down there for long in this
weather. Father Ortiz had promised to release her and he had gone back on his word.

He was shaken from his bitter reverie by a trumpet sounding the alarm at the main gate. Hooves rang on the frozen road and he heard the jangle of harness. Simon ran to the barbican, thinking
they were under attack, but the men who approached wore white crosses on their shoulders and led rounceys loaded with supplies. Some good news, at last.

Well, not quite. As soon as the riders were in the citadel and dismounted, the trouble began. Gilles marched across the frozen puddles, his sword drawn. ‘What is this dog doing in my
castle?’ he shouted.