Stigmata (17 page)

‘Young, to know so much of life. And do you have children?’

‘You know I do not.’

‘Then you cannot understand what it is to face losing one. Should you ever have a son, then you can pronounce judgement on my reason. But as you do not, I ask you to prepare the men and
the horses. Tomorrow we are riding south. We are going to find this Fabricia Bérenger and bring her back here to lay these magical hands on my boy. That’s my final word.’

I
T OCCURRED TO
him on the day of his departure that he might never see his son again. He brushed the thought aside.
I
will not fail again.
He bent down and left a kiss on the boy’s cheek. He barely stirred. ‘He must be alive when I return, do you understand?’ he said to the startled servant
girl as he left the chamber, as if she had the power to do anything about it.

Outside, the dawn had raised an ochre rim to a cold sky; light seeped into the day like a stain. Torches still burned in the sconces at the gatehouse. Feathery wisps of vapour rose from the
horses as they snorted and pranced. They would bring palfreys for resilience and stamina, the strongest geldings and mares for speed.

The stable hands brought out Philip’s chestnut Arab, a piebald mare for Renaut, and then a few cobs loaded with their modest baggage.

Renaut appeared, a cloak flung over a short coat of mail, helmet under his arm.

‘Where is the lady Giselle?’ he asked.

‘She will not leave her bedroom.’

‘You have said your farewells?’

‘She threw a chamber pot at my head as I ducked behind the door. If you call that a goodbye then yes, we have made our parting.’

There was the clink of scabbards and armour; the flash of a lance caught the first rays of sun. Whether going to war or to the chase Philip was stirred by the jangle of bridles and trappings,
the smell of the horses, and leather.

‘Why so glum, Renaut?’

‘Seigneur, I believe this to be a most grave mistake. But I shall follow you anywhere.’

‘Very well then, let us go. The sooner we depart the sooner we shall find this lady of miracles.’

The Abbaye de Montmercy

in the Montagne Noir, Pays d’Oc

A
DEAD CHILD
thrust into her face, small and grey. A withered arm. A young woman, tongue lolling, hoist in the arms of two
burly young men, perhaps her sons; another man covered with sores.
Help me, help me.
A whole world in need.

A man with wild eyes thrust her against the wall.
My wife died. You said you would heal her!
The crowd surged forward.
You said you would heal her!
Sòrre Bernadette used a
staff to drive them back. ‘Go back inside!’ she shouted at Fabricia.

‘But they need me,’ she said.

‘Go back inside!’

The porteress, Sòrre Marie, pulled her behind the gate. Sòrre Bernadette followed, and she and the porteress slammed it shut and barred it.

Bernadette leaned against the wall to catch her breath. She had lost her wimple in the struggle and her hair, dark brown but riven with streaks of grey, lay matted about her face. She replaced
the wimple and smoothed her habit. ‘Ruffian,’ she murmured.

‘I never said I could heal anyone,’ Fabricia said. ‘I have never promised anyone anything.’

‘Pay him no heed.’

‘I will wait here a while; they won’t go until I have put my hands on them.’

Bernadette took her by the arm. ‘No, Fabricia, you cannot go back out there today. Let them wait. Even the sick should learn to mind their manners.’ The sub-prioress was a long, thin
woman with a soft voice and firm resolve.

‘Did they hurt you?’ Sòrre Marie asked her.

Fabricia shook her head, no.

She followed Sòrre Bernadette back to the refectory, two steps to every one of hers. They went past the orchard, plum and pear trees bowing under the weight of fruit, two of the sisters
trying to scare birds with long rakes. Flies were frantic for the windfalls in the long grass, the air sonorous with them.

In Saint-Ybars it would soon be Midsummer Eve. Her mother would be collecting mugwort, elder, sage and wormwood to make into garlands to hang about the
ostal
as fragrance or to smudge out
any dark spirits. Last year’s garlands she would throw on the great bonfire outside the walls. The whole village would be there. Except her.

Still, if this life was not what she wanted, it was at least the one she chose. There was no help for it.

She went back to her work in the kitchen, scrubbing the floors, helping the other sisters scour the pots. Some of them smiled and bobbed their heads, as if she were the abbess.
From others she received only dark looks.
About time. So you’ve decided to join us, at last? They’re finally on to your little game, huh?

The small copper bell that hung from the rafters in the oratory summoned them to morning mass and chapter. Fabricia tossed the pot she was scrubbing back into the trough, grateful for the rest.
She joined the other sisters as they made their way across the cloister to the chapel.

The statue of Our Lady, in her blue robe, watched over them from a niche high in the south wall.

As the office began, Fabricia spoke the litany but her attention was focused inwards on her own private entreaties. When she closed her eyes she saw the dead child that had been thrust at her
that morning outside the gates. She supposed she should be accustomed to such horrors, she had seen enough of them since that day she had so thoughtlessly touched Bernart outside the
portal
of Saint-Ybars.

Please, My Lady, make this stop. Give this burden to someone worthier, a saint, a monk accustomed to meditation, to the selfless life.

There was suddenly a strange taste in her mouth, as if she had been eating chalk. She heard a buzzing, the familiar bee-swarm aura that accompanied her madness, and Mary stepped from her
pedestal, as she had that first time in Saint-Étienne. The stone flags moved beneath Fabricia’s knees, and she let out a small gasp, thinking the chapel was about to topple. A greasy
sweat erupted on her skin and her stomach rebelled. She steadied herself on the wooden prie-dieu.

She stared up, into the vault. A demon in a black robe grappled there with an angel. As they struggled, the demon lost his footing and they tumbled together to the floor of the chapel. The
demon’s head split open on the flagstones like one of the ripe plums in the orchard. His head lolled towards her; she made out a trim beard, grizzled with grey. He had the tonsure of a monk.
I am coming for you,
he said and then the angel’s wings closed over him and he died.

Fabricia stood up and screamed.

The vision disappeared. She almost lost her balance, put out a hand to try and keep herself from falling. Bernadette was there to catch her. She was only vaguely aware of the shouts of the other
novices around her in the choir stall and the cold stare of the sacristan before she fainted.

She lay on her pallet in her cell, Sòrre Bernadette leaning over her. ‘Fabricia,’ she whispered. She tried to sit up, but Bernadette eased her back on to the
bed. ‘You must rest now.’

‘Did you see the angel fall?’

‘What angel, Fabricia?’

Then she remembered: just a dream.

‘What angel?’ Bernadette repeated.

Fabricia closed her eyes. Bernadette left her to rest.

The pain behind her eyes began then. After a short time even moving her head was a torture. Half the world was taken away; she could see only one side of the door, one side of the tiny window,
one side of her own body. When it was like this, lying in her cell with the shutters closed was the only cure for the pain.

The next morning Sòrre Bernadette came to fetch her. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘A little.’

‘The abbess wants to see you.’

It was difficult to stand. She staggered against the wall. The chapel, the dorter where they slept, the kitchen and the refectory were all grouped around an open courtyard of beaten earth.
Bernadette took her arm and helped her down the stairs and across the quadrangle to the chapter house.

The abbess was a short, stout woman, peasant stock, with brute, angry eyes. Fabricia always sensed that what the abbess loved most about God was His wrath. The wooden cross at her breast swung
with the force of her pent-up energy, like a diviner’s rod.

‘You did not attend offices yesterday or last night.’

‘I was unwell, Reverend Mother.’

‘Well, so you say. Are you feeling better this morning?’

‘A little.’

‘I noticed you are limping. And you are still wearing your woollen mittens though it is no longer cold, even at prime. Show me your hands.’

Fabricia removed her gloves. She was shocked at what she saw. The palms and the backs of her hands were caked with blood. As she opened her fist, it dripped on to her habit. Sòrre
Bernadette’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh, Fabricia!’

The abbess shook her head, unimpressed. ‘Look at this. What have you done to yourself now?’

‘I did not do this.’

‘Then who did? The Devil?’ She reached across the trestle table between them and yanked her hand closer. Fabricia let out a whimper of pain. ‘No wonder you feel faint.
Prisoners are tortured with more restraint. How do you stand it?’

‘Sometimes it is worse than others.’

The abbess looked up at Bernadette. ‘Do you know how she does this? Is she stealing knives from the kitchen?’

‘I searched her cell, as you ordered me to do. We found nothing. She is a gentle soul, Reverend Mother, I think you misjudge her.’

‘I have been abbess here for twenty years, I have not been wrong about a novice yet. She has hidden a knife somewhere.’ She sighed. ‘One of the nuns told me there was a riot at
the gate yesterday morning.’

Fabricia shook her head. ‘It was not a riot, Reverend Mother, just some poor people looking for healing.’

‘It’s true what she says,’ Sòrre Bernadette said. ‘A few shepherds and their wives, a little too eager. That’s all. These poor people come every day for
healing.’

‘Do you really think you can do miracles, Fabricia. Do you?’

‘Other people say these things about me. For myself, I don’t know what to think.’

‘That’s a blasphemy!’

‘I make no claim to anything.’

‘Can you tell me what happened in the chapel yesterday morning?’

Fabricia shook her head. She looked down at her hands. Look at these wounds! Now she was aware of them, they had begun to hurt her, and badly. She gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on
what the abbess was saying.

‘You have the whole abbey in continual uproar. Are you mocking us?’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘Why would I not think it? Sòrre Bernadette, this girl’s wounds are deep. They need dressing. You must take her to the infirmarian.’

Fabricia stood up to go.

‘Wait. I haven’t finished with you yet.’

She sat down again.

‘What am I to do with you? I knew, when you came here, that you were causing trouble in your village. But then a lot of the young women who enter our holy refuge do not have pasts of which
anyone is proud. Not every novice is drawn by a fierce devotion to the divine, we know that. But you go too far. Bad enough that you try and draw attention to yourself continually in this . . .
this bizarre manner. But now you are upsetting the other novices. You distract them from their duties and their prayers. After yesterday morning’s spectacle some of them even think that you
have a devil in you. Did you know that?’

Fabricia watched a droplet of watery blood track down her hand. It hung suspended, on the tip of her little finger, and then dripped on to the flagstone.

‘I suspect that you are a malingerer, at heart.’

Sòrre Bernadette started to protest but the abbess silenced her with a glance.

‘I have tamed many young women in my time here; the lazy, the stubborn, the disobedient, the wilful. It has been done patiently and with serenity, over many years. But I have never known
anyone like you. What is doubly intolerable is that you attract all these unfortunates to our doors . . . that you make us . . .
famous.
This is not to be borne. Yesterday there were a score
of cripples at our gate. Tomorrow there may be a hundred. How many more will come?’

‘I don’t ask them to come.’

‘Who do you think you are? This laying on of hands is to stop forthwith. Do you understand me?’

‘But she helps so many people, Reverend Mother!’

‘Sòrre Bernadette, you are far too gullible. She is making a fool of you and you cannot see it.’ She turned back to Fabricia. ‘It is to stop. Now. Do you
understand?’

‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’

‘Good. Now get out of my sight. Both of you.’

T
HE ABBESS ENFORCED
a strict Rule. Instead of the soft bed and bearskin rugs she had had in Saint-Ybars, they had given her
a hard plank bed with a thin covering of straw.

The bell woke them in the middle of the night for the service of matins. She had already come to hate the sound of that bell. Still groggy with sleep, she pulled her black habit over her chemise
and got out of bed, her feet freezing on the cold stone as she searched in the dark for her wooden clogs. Then she went down the stairs and across the icy cloister to mumble through the psalms in
the gloomy choir stall with the other novices. When she first arrived her breath formed white clouds on the air even as she sang the offertory, and she could not even feel her fingers touch
together when she prayed. She had to break a skin of ice on the trough in the cloister just to wash. What would it be like here in winter?

A few hours’ sleep. Then the bell again, for prime. They broke their fast with dry rye bread and water, mixed with a little wine. Nothing more, as most of what they produced – the
fruit from the orchard, the grapes from the vineyard, the milk and butter from the cow – was sold in the village or bartered for milled grain and firewood.