Stigmata (25 page)

He slumped to his knees.

He would never understand God’s purpose. Why should He allow victory to torturers and let a boy like Renaut suffer such obscene violation? Where was the reason behind it, the mercy?

‘Alezaïs,’ he said.

He remembered her standing by the gate the morning he had left for the crusade. She would have never asked him not to go, she understood where his duty lay. Already she was slipping from him. He
could no longer conjure the smell of her skin, nor hear her laugh when he closed his eyes, as once he had been able to do. Everything that mattered to him was slipping away, even memory.

Alezaïs, be there in heaven for me. Wait for me.

Wait for me while I do what? he thought. For my wife and for my sickly son and for my squire there is heaven; for me there is a drear castle, full of ghosts and duty. Duty to whom? To the
children that Giselle may yet carry in my name? Not to Giselle, surely. If I do not go back she will not be very sad.

The castle and the fief will fall to her brothers, who will be very happy of it. She might cry some false tears, but what might she miss of him? He had been largely indifferent to her and she
would be better off without him. She was still young and her family would find her a better husband who might treat her better.

Yet he could not do what Renaut had done. Despite what he had said to Godfroi, he believed as his sergeant did that heaven was shut up to those who took the path of self-destruction. But there
were other ways of foreshortening a life; men were hunting him down at this very moment and it would be a simple enough matter just to stop running from them.

And why not? Was he supposed to still have faith in life, and in God, when God Himself had turned His back on him? If God was all powerful, why would He stand aside and let evil have its way
like this? This unholy God had taken everything he loved, and everything he believed.

Very well. You may bend me, but I will not break. I shall defy you, God. I shall spit in your eye.

He climbed on to the altar and tore the cross from the wall. He picked it up with both hands and brought it crashing down on the stone slabs. The first time it would not break but the second
time it snapped, just below its mid-point, leaving the cross and its victim in two pieces on the floor.

‘Damn you, God!’

Godfroi ran in, the men crowding the doorway of the burned church behind him. They stared at this madman and then at the cross that lay at his feet. Their eyes went wide.

‘Seigneur, are you all right?’

‘Get the horses ready,’ he said.

‘We are riding back to Vercy?’

‘No, we are going to find that devil with the red beard and I am going to settle with him.’

‘But, seigneur! We are just five. There are at least four score of them.’

‘I only want him. You can kill the rest if you wish.’

He stared them down. They backed out.

After they were gone he sank to his knees and wept for the way the world should be; a world where honour was rewarded and God was merciful; a world where children did not die before they were
breeched and wives lived to be mothers and grandmothers and men did not put out other men’s eyes and leave them abandoned and in torment. That was what he believed in, but the world was not
like that.

He took out his sword and held the hilt against his forehead. ‘I swear by my father’s soul that I will avenge you, Renaut. I will find the man who did this to you and I will take
vengeance for you and for this crime.’

At that moment he heard the door crash shut and something slammed hard against it – a timber wedge, he supposed. Then he heard Godfroi ride away, the last of his men-at-arms with him.

P
HILIP THREW HIMSELF
against the door. It did not budge. He tried to kick it down though he knew it was wasted effort.
Finally he sat down on his haunches, his back against the cold stone wall.

He closed his eyes, imagined Godfroi dismounting in the courtyard at Vercy, he and his ragged band, the stable boys staring wide-eyed. There would be much play over their wounds. Godfroi would
go down on one knee when the lady Giselle appeared.
I am sorry, my lady. He was murdered in an ambush by brigands. We scarce got away with our own lives.

She would howl, for appearance’s sake, but life would go fair for her from then on. Godfroi and the others would sleep uneasy in their straw by the fire for a time, starting every time
they heard the watchman at the gates, unsure if Philip might yet return. But they would likely think they had gambled well.

But they could not be sure it would turn out this way. Godfroi must know that if it became known what he had done, it would not go well for him.

Yet it must seem a risk worth taking. If they had stayed with him they faced certain doom. If life was more important to them than honour, then he had given them no choice.

He looked around for a way out of this dark little box where they had abandoned him. There was a hole in the roof but he doubted that he could reach it. There was, though, a circular opaque
window, set in lead, right above the altar, and he wondered if he might climb through that.

When the crusaders had fired the church, several of the roof beams had fallen in. The blackened timbers were still warm to the touch. He dragged one to the wall and hefted it upright, wedging it
just below the window.

He needed something to smash the glass. He supposed the iron upright of the crucifix would do as well as anything. If God wished to save his soul, then He might as well furnish him with some
practical help.

Balancing on the beam was difficult. He straddled it and eased his way up and along it until he was within striking distance of the clouded glass. The timber creaked and bent beneath him. A
dangerous fall if it gave way, the height of two men to the floor, but there was no choice.

It took three swings of the broken iron cross before the window smashed. But his moment of triumph was short-lived; there was a loud crack and the timber gave way underneath him and he fell.

The floor below the window was beaten earth or perhaps the injury might have been worse. Even so, as he hit the ground, he felt his right ankle turn underneath him. He lay there stunned. God in
heaven, please don’t let it be broken.

He sat up and felt down his leg for broken or exposed bone. No, it seemed all right. He flexed his knee, gingerly testing it. He climbed back to his feet, supporting himself on the wall; it was
painful, but he could stand. He limped over to the corner of the church, hauled another timber from the blackened tangle of beams and dragged it back to the altar. He hefted it against the wall and
then worked it higher until it was again under the high window.

He climbed again, holding the iron cross in his right hand, and smashed out the remains of the glass. The hole was small and he was a big man.

He thrust his two arms through it and took a grip on the outside wall. As he pulled himself forward the timber beam slipped and crashed on to the floor of the church. He scrambled for a foothold
on the rough wall, working himself forward so that his head and shoulders were through the hole. For a moment he was jammed there, locked by the width of his own shoulders.

He wiggled through, by inches, until first one arm, then the other, were free. He looked down.

It had not seemed so far to the ground when he was standing below. Now it seemed a very long fall indeed. If he had almost broken his ankle falling feet first from the beam, how much more
dangerous to fall head first? He twisted himself around in the hole so that he could grip the stone with his knees, tearing his clothes, then his skin, on a stubborn piece of glass that yet
remained in the window’s frame.

He now hung upside down out of the window. There was a stringy patch of grass below. No hidden rocks, he hoped. All he could do was throw out his arms to break his fall, as best he could. He
took a deep breath and braced himself. He relaxed his knees and calves and felt himself fall.

He smashed both his shins on the window frame as he came out, his wrists jarred as they took the fall, his head hit the ground hard and he blacked out.

Philip opened his eyes. He was lying face down in the dirt. How long had he been there? He moved his hands, then his arms, first one, then the other; then his feet and his legs,
waiting for the pain. Nothing that was too bad. Encouraged, he eased himself over on to his back, spitting the dirt out of his mouth. He felt a loose tooth with his tongue. If that was the worst of
it, he could count himself lucky.

He brought up his hands to his face, stared at them. No bones protruding. He could barely move his left wrist, and when he did there was a sharp stabbing pain. He remembered he had extended the
left further than the right as he fell, protecting his sword arm.

Now to try and sit up.

His head felt three times its normal size, and once he was upright a wave of nausea made him groan. Instantly his body was bathed in a cold sweat and he retched between his knees. When the spasm
had passed he sat quite still for a long time, recovering his strength.

He heard a noise, looked up and saw Leyla. They had tied her to a tree. Her ears pricked up and she strained against the rope to try and reach him.

‘Hello, old girl. So they didn’t take you as well? Still some honour left in them, then.’

He put a hand to the back of his head. The wound from Redbeard’s axe had opened up again. Supporting himself with his good hand against the church wall he got himself to his feet, and
rested there until the swimming in his head had stopped.

They had left him his sword and armour. Honour or self-preservation, he wondered? Without armour and a weapon he might forget his vengeance and ride after them. Instead, they had left him fully
equipped to go after Redbeard and bring about his own certain death.

He staggered over to Leyla, leaned his forehead against her neck, felt an answering pressure. ‘Are you ready for one more fight?’ he whispered.

He spent the best part of the next hour sitting under the tree, polishing his armour as best he could, preparing himself for what was to come. He did not want to go to his death looking ragged.
When he was satisfied, he eased himself back into the saddle. He took a swift accounting of his readiness; his left arm was in agony and he could not put pressure on his right ankle in the stirrup.
He would have to rely on Leyla to know what to do in a close combat, but she had got him through scrapes before.

‘One last time,’ he whispered to her.

The worst of it was the pounding in his head. He retched twice more before they had left the hamlet. His vision was blurred and just staying in the saddle was a struggle, but he was sure his
head would clear when the time came. It always had before.

T
HEIR PENNANTS AND
shields sported the three blue eagles of Soissons. None of them were really dressed for battle; some
only wore half-armour. And there were fewer than two score of them, for Redbeard had split his force to hunt for him. Philip allowed himself a grim smile. From a hundred to one to forty to one:
much better odds.

Redbeard rode at the front, his visor up, easy to recognize.

Philip watched from above, through the trees. Redbeard’s men followed a narrow path through the forest, riding single file through the Spanish chestnuts and pines. Such arrogance, for this
was excellent territory for ambush. Luckily for them this ambush consisted of just one man.

He thought he would feel more afraid than this on his day to die. Other times, with outcomes less certain, he had not felt as steadfast. Perhaps it was just that traitor hope that undid a man.
Now that Philip knew what the outcome would be, he felt only a kind of serenity.

Death always won but you did not have to give him the satisfaction of ordering you around. Philip was content that he had chosen his own time and his own place to meet him.

When the column had passed he walked his horse down through the trees and as he reached the path he draw his sword. The sound of steel on steel was unmistakable in the hush of the forest and the
last man whirled around in his saddle, startled.

‘Was it me you were looking for?’ Philip said.

The man drew his sword, and shouted a warning to the others, expecting a trap.

‘Don’t concern yourself, soldier, you face an army of one,’ Philip said. ‘Now tell that bitch with the red beard to hook up his skirts and run because I am going to
fillet him like a rabbit.’

A rider galloped back through the ranks, his horse pushing the other chevaliers and their mounts aside. Redbeard rode at the vanguard with a handful of fellow knights. ‘There you are, you
pig-ugly bitch,’ Philip said.

Redbeard grinned. He could not believe his luck. He must have thought Philip had fled back to Burgundy by now, and perhaps that was why he was wearing only a leather jerkin and no mail. He drew
his sword. Philip noted that he was left-handed.

Redbeard glanced up at the trees on either side. ‘You have set a trap for us?’

‘If it was a trap, would I tell you?’

‘Where’s the rest of them? Do not tell me they have run off like frightened rabbits. Are these the sort of men they breed in Burgundy?’

‘I am about to show you the sort of men they breed in Burgundy, if you will stand still long enough.’

‘You think you can defeat two score men?’

‘I do not aim to defeat two score men. Just you. I shall do it for Renaut. Do you remember him? He was the young man whose eyes you put out for having the temerity to fight you.’

‘I put out his eyes for being a heretic.’

‘He was a Catholic and devout.’

‘He fought against men who proudly wear God’s cross, so that makes him a heretic. He screamed like a girl. You should have heard him. Enough to wake the dead.’

Philip spurred his horse forward, incensed, but then reined in. That was not the plan. Do not let him goad you, he thought. Fight from anger, his father had once told him, and you will always
lose. It takes a clear head to win a combat. ‘Well, you’ll know how well the dead sleep, soon enough.’