Stigmata (42 page)

‘I should never have been like you.’

‘I was right then, you have judged me. But I am not such a bad fellow. Your Holy Father in Rome would think so: I have crusaded in the Holy Land and now I am here doing his bidding once
more.’

‘What is it that you wish to confess?’

‘It is a question I have regarding the great service I have done in God’s name. Will you reassure me, then, that if I kill a heretic, it is a good thing? It is not murder because a
heretic’s soul is worth nothing.’ Gilles’s face was pink, and he was sweating profusely. ‘It is not a sin to kill any unbeliever. That is right, isn’t it? No matter
what age they are?’

‘What troubles you, seigneur?’

‘I have such dreams! And no matter how many heretics I torch or strike down, the dream comes back, night after night.’

‘What dream?’

‘This is not my first crusade, Father. I served under the banner of Christ in the Holy Land, many years ago. We raided a village, one night; there were Saracens, women and children. There
was an infant, it still had its birth grease on it. I . . .’

‘You killed the child?’ Simon said.

‘It would have grown up to be a Saracen warrior! The hand that reaches for the breast will one day hold a sword. But . . .’

‘But?’

‘But I can still hear it screaming on still nights. Why is this so, Father? I am innocent of any wrongdoing; I do not need to confess it for it is not a sin. This is what Father Ortiz told
me. So why do I still dream of it?’

‘Perhaps if I grant you absolution and give you penance, this dream will stop.’

‘Why should I do penance for something I did for the love of God?’

Simon did not know how to answer him. He put his hand on Gilles’s head. ‘I absolve you of all sin, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’ He made the sign of
the cross and hurried from the chamber.

But I am only what you would have been, should you have left the womb before your brothers. You do see that?

No, I am not like him, he thought. That man is a brute and everything he does, he does for himself. He uses piety as an excuse when what he serves is his own craving for aggrandizement. How
could he possibly make such a comparison?

Yet he could still smell the pyre. The stink of it had seeped into his skin. It was on his clothes and in his hair, the ash and grease of Elionor Bérenger and the others. Have they not
screamed in my sleep these past nights, as the child screams for Gilles de Soissons?

But I am not like him. Everything I do, I do for God. Have I not shown this in the terrible sacrifice that I made to be more holy?

He put his hands over his ears. The heretics were still screaming in the flames. He had to find a way to make them stop.

T
HERE WAS AN
alcove behind the choir in the church. It had once been the shrine of a saint. The
bons òmes
had
whitewashed it during their brief time of possession. Father Ortiz had reconsecrated it, and fixed a plain wooden crucifix there, affording a private place for contemplation of the divine while the
church was brought back to its former glory.

Simon went there and fell to his knees, hidden from the stares of the pilgrims and ruffians who had taken shelter in the nave. But their unholy hubbub intruded on his thoughts as he fumbled for
the words of prayer.

All he could think of was:
Forgive me.

He had thought she would no longer have power over him, imagined that he might still admire her beauty but only in the way he found pleasure in contemplation of the angels painted in the vault
of the cathedral of Saint-Étienne. He did not think he might still desire her, not as she was, filthy and dispirited and in rags. That was indeed too cruel a joke.

He had been with her for just a few minutes and his heart was black once more.

As the light receded in the chapel, he begged the divine for redemption.

‘Look what they have done to our church!’ a familiar voice said.

‘Father Ortiz!’
In pity’s name, was there no peace to be had anywhere?

‘It is a dismal thing to see how tenaciously these lost souls cling to the darkness. If only they would embrace Our Saviour the world would be saved and they would find peace in heaven,
rather than be damned to eternal pain and suffering. It is such a simple truth that I wonder why men do not grasp it more readily.’ Father Ortiz fell to his knees beside him. ‘For what
do you pray?’

‘I am troubled.’

‘Are you still disturbed by the burnings? You do well to understand that I do not enter lightly upon any act of violence, but Man must suffer for his sins, for that is the nature of
things. And those benighted souls we burned are the greatest sinners of all for they are tools of the Devil. If we have been chosen as the instruments of Almighty God, then we should accept our
burden stoically and with humility. If you flinch from your duty, then you are of no account to God.’

‘Could we not seek to persuade these heretics rather than do them to death in such a manner?’

‘If a wound is septic do you not apply the hot iron before the infection spreads to the rest of the body? This is why the heretic must be rooted out, Brother Jorda, for by refusing to
abjure, he imperils everyone. He endangers our institutions and our towns, our King, our Vicar in Rome, everything that stands between us and savagery. Remember, we stand sentinel over men’s
minds. We must destroy everything that comes from the Devil and delays the glorious moment of Christ’s final return.’

‘But what would you do in their place, Father? Would you not hope for mercy?’

‘Mercy? No! Were I ever taken by the infidel I should beg to be torn limb from limb and have my eyes gouged out. I should wallow in my own blood so that I could wear a martyr’s crown
in heaven!’ He put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Brother Jorda, you must not persist with such thoughts. You have been charged with the task of saving this land from the Devil! As a
priest of the Holy Church you will answer one day not only for your own sins but for all those who look to you for their salvation. You have been chosen to be a shepherd of souls. Will you let
wolves run wild in your flock or will you stand your watch over them?’

‘I have dedicated my life to Christ, Father Ortiz.’

‘Many feign to love the divine but they do not have the stomach for true devotion. Remember how Our Lord threw the moneychangers out of the Temple? It is good to spend time on your knees,
but to love God, a monk should know when to stand firm as well!’ Father Ortiz sighed. ‘Look at the crack in the wall up there. I believe it was our own war machines that did that. We
shall need to find a stonemason for the repairs.’

‘We had one right here, but you let him go.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Bérenger, Anselm Bérenger. He worked for many years on the restoration of the Église de Saint-Antoine in Toulouse. His wife was hereticated and was among those we
burned.’

‘I know that name. His daughter is here in our prison, is she not? The hysteric who sees visions and mutilates her own flesh?’

‘The same.’

‘God works in mysterious ways, Brother Jorda. Take an escort in the morning and fetch him back. We will put him to work. His wage will be his daughter’s life.’

A
CHILL AND DRENCHING
rain sapped the spirits and froze the bones. Anselm pulled the hood of his cloak over his face, the
bitter deluge dripping from its peak. He shivered uncontrollably.

It was a world so dominated by rain it seemed to him that even the rocks were leaking water, though it was just springs appearing from the base of the cliffs. He heard rocks crashing on to the
road, sent toppling from their pinnacles by the movement of the mud beneath.

They passed several dead trees that had been blasted apart by lightning.

He could barely see a hundred paces through the veil of rain. He recited the paternoster over and over in his head.

After the surrender, Trencavel’s soldiers had headed to Cabaret. But what was there for an honest stonemason? A winter of starvation and snow and another siege when the
crosatz
moved up the valley. The Spanish routiers had gone their own way, God alone knew where, probably to mate with she-wolves in the mountains. He had joined the burghers and townspeople going back down
the mountain. That little rogue Loup had to lead him by the hand, else he would have just stayed there outside the gates of Montaillet, howling for them to let his daughter go.

Apparently they were all headed to Narbonne, which was untouched so far by the war, and where the winter would be milder. It was a long and bedraggled line, a few foot-carts,
many of the women staggering from exhaustion, some cradling silent children in their arms. The infants just look through you, he thought, as if their souls have already been despatched to heaven,
leaving their bodies behind. He felt affinity with them. His wife was dead, his daughter in prison, his house was rubble. What was the point to survival now? Living was just a habit you got
yourself into.

He saw a rock by the side of the path and sat down. He watched his toes sink into the mud. Rain dripped from his nose. He thought about his wife’s bread, steaming from the oven, and her
hot soup, with beans and mutton and cabbage. He watched the steam curl off the surface, and held his hands around it to warm himself.

‘Papa Bérenger,’ Loup said. ‘What are you doing?’ The lad shook him by the shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I just want to sit a while,’ he said.

‘If you stop you’ll never get up again. Now come on.’ He grabbed his arm.

Anselm pulled away. ‘I’ll catch up.’

Loup shook his head. ‘You know you won’t.’

‘And what if I don’t? I should have taken the
consolamentum
with my wife when I had the chance, then we could have stepped into paradise side by side.’

‘Only a priest can send you to heaven.’

‘Well, we’d be together in hell, then. I was a coward, I let her die alone. I let them take her. I thought that if I stayed alive I could protect Fabricia, but now look, even
she’s in prison. I’m useless.’

‘We have to keep going.’

‘Why? Why do you want to survive so much, boy?’

‘Because I have promised myself that one day I will have a soft bed and a great horse. The bed has red velvet curtains and the horse has one white patch over its eye. This I dream of and I
will not let this dream go!’ He hauled again on Anselm’s arm and forced him back on to his feet. ‘Come on. By tonight the rain will stop and I will steal some food for us and
everything will be all right again. You’ll see.’

Simon set off as the angelus peeled over the valley from the church at Montaillet. Gilles had given him an escort of men-at-arms, and they had found him a cob to ride barely
taller than himself, but tame and compliant enough.

He and his entourage made their way down the valley in the rain, following the road to Saint-Ybars. The forest was black and mostly silent, though from time to time he heard a crashing in the
undergrowth, a boar perhaps, or goblins.

At one point they stopped at a thicket deep in the wood and the captain of the guard clambered off his horse to study the tracks.

Simon went into the wood to relieve himself. He saw a shrine carved in the heart of a large tree. There was a small black figure in the shrine, a pagan idol, with dugs like a wolf and a swollen
belly. There was a crushed mess of flowers at her feet.

He picked up the idol and thought to smash it on the ground, but it was carved from hard black wood. It would take a fire to destroy it, as did all things evil.

He threw it as far as he could, deep into the woods. He did not hear it land.

He found the stonemason among a small group of bedraggled men and women struggling through the forest. They all looked up fearfully at their approach.

Simon reined in his horse. ‘Anselm Bérenger. Do you remember me?’ He pulled back the cowl of his robe from his face.

Anselm looked up at him, then at his crusader escort. ‘Why have you come after us? You said you would let us go if we took the oath.’

‘We need a stonemason.’

Anselm fell on his knees in the mud. A small boy at his side tried to drag him to his feet.

‘What is wrong with him?’ Simon said to the urchin.

‘He is just hungry, Father.’

‘Why can’t you people just leave me alone?’ Anselm said.

‘I have been charged to bring you back to Montaillet. We have a horse here for you. Tonight you will be snug beside a warm fire and there will be hot broth and wine to revive
you.’

‘Come on, Papa,’ the boy said. ‘Get up!’

‘I have made a bargain for you with Father Ortiz. Repair the church for him and your daughter goes free.’

The boy hauled Anselm to his feet. One of the soldiers brought up the spare horse.

‘Get on the horse,’ Simon said

‘You mean it? You will not hurt her if I do this for you?’

‘You have my word.’

‘What about him?’ Anselm said pointing to the boy.

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s my . . . nephew. He has to come with me.’

Simon shrugged. ‘Very well, put him on the horse with you.’

Anselm clambered into the saddle and hauled Loup up after him. They turned back towards Montaillet. The other refugees watched him go. He could see the look in their faces. How they hated him
right then: a warm fire and hot broth!

They continued their long, cold walk down the mountain to Narbonne.

Fabricia was too frightened to sleep, whenever she did the rats bit small pieces of flesh from her toes. Besides, there was not enough straw and the rock floor of the cell was
cold. There was not even a hole or pail for her bodily functions. They left her in constant darkness, chained to the wall, unable to tell night from day.

It was like being buried alive. She wanted only to die.

Whenever she closed her eyes, if only for a moment, she experienced vivid, restless dreams that sent her limbs twitching in fright, bleeding in and out of her present torment so that she could
no longer distinguish reality from dream.