Stigmata (20 page)

He drove his sword hard into the dirt, point down.

‘This will not stand!’ he said, pointing at them both as if they were responsible for his defeat. ‘They will rue the day they stood against Gilles de Soissons!’

A
NOTHER LONG DAY
on the road. It seemed the whole world was on their way to Lyons. It was pilgrim season, and they had
passed thousands of them, all on their way to the southern lands. Holy wars are good for business, or so the innkeepers said.

They made their way alone or in groups, singing hymns, following monks and priests, and carrying banners. Everyone was walking: beggars, minstrels, serfs out of bond, students. Only rarely did
Philip and his men encounter other horsemen: a baron or a bishop, or an ox-cart carrying timber or lead for a church roof. It was hard going nevertheless, for every league or so a flock of sheep or
cattle slowed their progress and fouled the road.

Late one afternoon, just out of Lyons, they stopped to rest. The
écuyers
unsaddled the horses, cooling their coats with willow leaves they had dipped in the river. Philip’s
body was numb from exhaustion after a week of hard riding and chafed by the heavy coat of mail. He removed a heavy gauntlet to wipe the sweat and dirt from his eyes. Renaut helped him out of his
travelling armour; he groaned with relief as he shook himself free of it, then he followed the other chevaliers down to the water’s edge to scoop handfuls of cool water over his head and
neck, drinking till his stomach felt stretched to burst.

As soon as the horses were watered they made camp; their tents, heavy baggage carts and cook fires extended a hundred paces along the bank. Night fell quickly. Philip had Renaut post sentries,
then wrapped himself in his travelling cloak and tried to sleep, listening to the crackle of dead twigs in the fire, the low murmur of the men gathered around it. The salted pork they ate for their
dinner had left him thirsty and restless.
Please God, let me be on time. Don’t let my boy die.
A screech owl cried in the wood. Werewolves and goblins walked abroad on moonless nights
like this. He touched the cross at his throat for protection.

Don’t let my little boy die.

He woke to Renaut shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

‘Seigneur, with your pardon, wake up.’

A soldier’s instinct: he was instantly awake. ‘What is it?’

Two of his men-at-arms stood there with flaming torches, a small boy between them. They were holding him by the arms, with some difficulty, for he was twisting and struggling and trying to kick
them. One of the men got tired of this and hit him with the hilt of his sword. The boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he sank to his knees.

‘Enough!’ Philip shouted. He jumped to his feet and turned to Renaut. ‘What’s going on?’

‘The sentries found him sneaking into the camp. He was trying to steal our food.’

Philip crouched down. The lad was tousle-haired and filthy, and scrawny as a tent pole. He lifted the boy’s head. ‘Who are you?’

But the boy was still senseless from the blow and couldn’t answer. So they dragged him down to the river and ducked his head into the water to revive him. The child came round, shaking his
head like a dog.

‘Who are you?’ Philip asked him again.

The boy’s eyes focused, took in Philip’s clothes, his velvet tunic and garnet ring. ‘Well, here’s a fine one,’ he said. ‘You look like the King of
France.’

‘Hit him again,’ Renaut said to the sentry.

Philip shook his head. ‘Leave him.’ He took the boy by the shoulders. ‘What is your name?’

‘Loup, sir.’

‘How did you come by such a name?’

‘My mother gave it to me. Who are you?’

‘You insolent little dog,’ Renaut said and would have slapped him with his gauntlet but Philip held him off.

‘My name is Philip, Baron of Vercy. I am the man you were trying to steal from.’

‘I’m starving. Have you got anything to eat?’

Philip looked at Renaut. ‘What shall we do with him?’

‘If it were up to me, I should cut his ear off to teach him respect and then throw him in the river.’

‘Have mercy, Renaut. He is not much older than you were when they brought you to me.’

‘I’m just hungry, seigneur. I never meant any harm.’

‘You’re a thief.’

‘Well, perhaps, seigneur. But either I’m a thief with one ear or I’m a stiff lying by the side of the road and I know which I’d rather be.’

Philip grinned despite himself. He hauled the boy up on to the bank and shoved him towards Renaut. ‘Give the wretch something to eat.’

‘Seigneur, this is not a good idea.’

‘A bit of salted pork and some bread if he is so desperate. If he can keep it down then he’s a better man than I am and he should have it. For mercy’s sake, Renaut. I am asking
God for His good graces, should I not answer someone else’s prayer if it is in my power?’

Renaut shrugged. He grabbed the lad’s arm and dragged him up the bank to the camp. Philip smiled. Loup.
Wolf
. A good name for a scavenger. He would feed the urchin and in the
morning he would see him on his way.

The men were snoring and the fire was down to ashes. Loup huddled beside it, tearing at the salted pork with his teeth and scarcely bothering to chew. Renaut stood over him with a lighted brand.
Philip studied him: a runt with a hawk face and limbs too long for his body. He had that beaten-dog look about him, eyes that watched for any unexpected movement, head constantly twisting and
turning, ready to flinch, ready to flee.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘Don’t you have a home?’

‘I did, when my father lived. But he died and so we were headed for Paris where my mother has a cousin. She said he would look after us but she died on the road. Took a fever, she
did.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Under a tree.’

Philip nodded to Renaut and the two men-at-arms. ‘Leave us. I commend you for your duty. You did well. Thank you, Renaut.’ He squatted down beside the boy, his back warmed by the
dying embers of the fire.

‘Where are you going?’ Loup asked him.

‘The Albigeois. A place called Saint-Ybars.’

‘Why are you going there? There’s a war. Are you joining the crusade?’

‘No, we’re not crusaders. I was a crusader once in Outremer and I shall never be one again.’

‘Why then?’

‘I have a son in Burgundy. He is dying.’

‘So why aren’t you there with him?

‘Do you believe in miracles, Loup?’

‘I’ve heard of them, from the priests. But I’ve never seen one.’

‘I believe in miracles. I believe that if I pray to God hard enough He will hear me and answer my prayer for my son. That is why I am going to the Albigeois. There is a woman there who can
heal with her hands. I am going to ask her to come back with me to Burgundy and heal my son.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’

‘Can I sleep here tonight? By the fire? I promise I won’t steal anything.’

‘Very well. But I shall give you fair warning. If you do try and thieve anything my squire Renaut really will cut your ear off. For all his youth he is as protective of me as a bear with
its cub.’

The boy licked his hands for the taste of the pork grease and then lay down between two of the soldiers for the extra warmth. Philip sat for a time watching the breeze stir the ashes in the
fire, then he took off his cloak and threw it over the boy. Then he went back to sleep, wondering why he had chosen to tell his troubles to an orphan and a thief. In the morning he was sure the
little scoundrel would be gone, along with some bread and someone else’s ring.

Philip was awake with the first seeping of the light. He shook the dew off, buckled on his belt and sword. To his surprise, Loup was still asleep where he had left him. He shook
the boy awake and called for Renaut. They had the boy show them his mother’s body. He had wondered if it was a lie to engage his sympathy, but a hundred paces from the camp they found her,
just as the lad had said, stiff and cold under a chestnut tree.

The body was already foul and the foxes and crows had been at her. He told Renaut to have the men dig her a grave. No priest to see her vouchsafed to heaven, but Philip said a prayer over her
when it was done and hoped that would be enough.

When Philip mounted Leyla, Loup stood in front of him, blocking the way. ‘Take me with you,’ he said.

Philip laughed. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘You see,’ Renaut said. ‘He’s like any cur in the street. You’ve given him scraps and he thinks he deserves more.’

‘Don’t leave me here, seigneur.’

‘You’re no good to us boy. And I have my own business to attend to.’

‘I speak the
langue d’oc
. I won’t slow you down and I might be a blessing when you get among those fops and heretics.’

‘I think thirty armed men shall not be more stoutly preserved by the addition of a runt barely old enough for leggings. And I speak a little of the language. I learned it in Outremer from
southern knights.’

Loup caught the reins. ‘Then as a mercy, sir, take me with you as far as Lyons.’ Renaut shook his head, exasperated.

On an impulse, Philip reached down, grabbed Loup under the shoulders and lifted him up on to the saddle. ‘Very well, my little lord Wolf. You’re a beggar and a thief so you should
earn your living there well enough.’

‘Thank you, seigneur. I shan’t be any trouble.’

‘No good can come of this,’ Renaut said.

Lyons, July 1209

J
UST THEIR LUCK
to reach Lyons on a market day, Philip thought. They could lose half a day’s ride just getting from
one side of this damned city to the other.

The streets were clogged, the toll gates chaos, and there was scarcely space in the main square for all the ox and donkey carts. The market was a grey sea of sheep’s backs and the noise
was an assault after the quiet of the road: water-carriers ringing bells, apprentices bumping their barrels over the cobblestones, honking geese, the scream of a bear from a bear-baiting pit and
the single deafening braying of a mule. Over it all Philip heard the sound of a jongleur’s lute, and the ripple of laughter from his audience.

The King’s fleur-de-lis was everywhere, the city in a rage of patriotic fervour for the war, as if the Pays d’Oc were an infidel invader.

A priest was already at work outside the church, holding a golden cross aloft, enthusiastic crowds pressing around him. ‘. . . they desecrate the churches and use them for foul orgies of
the flesh . . . they worship the Devil openly. They are no longer human but servants of Satan! Even these so-called noblemen, these lords of Trencavel and Foix and Toulouse! We have tolerated these
devils too long in our midst. For you do not have to bow down to Satan to crucify Our Lord all over again! Just to harbour such people, to give succour to them, is enough. If you are not for God
then you must be against him! But if you join with us in our holy pilgrimage against these devils then you will earn a place in heaven and all sins will be remitted for you have proved your love
for God!’

Renaut and Philip stopped their horses to listen. ‘They said the same to us before we went to Outremer,’ Philip said.

‘There are plenty of new converts here, seigneur.’

‘They said the world would come to an end if we did not do something against the Mohammedan, but the only world that ended was mine. I find I do not care so much for heaven now.’

‘Seigneur, you should not speak that way!’

Philip twisted in the saddle and looked at the boy. ‘Did you hear what I said? Do you think me a heretic?’

‘My father – when he was alive, God keep him – would say to me that if a man could be left his peace by making the sign of the cross, then he should do it. And he said if
tomorrow someone else came along and said that it should be not a cross but a circle then a circle it was. Is that a heretic, sir?’

Philip laughed. ‘Your father was a practical man.’

‘He was a tinker, sir, and could turn his hand to anything.’

‘And to any religion, too. But this is Lyons, young sir. I have kept my bargain with you. Now be on your way and good luck to you.’

Loup clambered down from the back of the great warhorse, but still clung to one stirrup. ‘Won’t you take me with you, seigneur? I could be useful.’

‘What for?’ Renaut said. ‘As somewhere to store the lice? Be gone with you. My master has shown you kindness enough.’

Philip spurred his horse away and the boy was soon lost to the jostling crowds.

While his men-at-arms availed themselves of some watered-down beer in one of the inns near the main square, Philip found a church and went inside. For all his supposed lack of
religion, he was not at all godless, for all his bluster. Wasn’t the point of his journey to beg a mercy from God?

Massive iron candlesticks lit the gloom of the church like daylight. The saints painted on the pillars looked almost cheerful.

He found a statue of the Virgin, fell to his knees and whispered: ‘
Ave Maria, gratia plena . . .
’ Then he said a prayer, as he always did, for his son. Perhaps he did not
believe in popes or crusades any more. But he still believed in miracles and he hoped that belief alone might be enough.

There were ragged lines to the confessional, so many people crammed into the church there was hardly time for each to whisper a
confiteor
and slip their mite into the priest’s hand
before it was time for the next furtive sinner. Holy wars were indeed good for business, just as the innkeepers said.

There was a commotion as he left the church. Some burgher, in his fur jacket and silks, was waving his scented handkerchief in the air and looked set to faint. Two of his retainers held a little
ruffian between them, and one of them held aloft a velvet purse.

‘It’s here, sire!’ he shouted. ‘We have him fast!’

Philip ran down the steps and put himself between the burgher and his men. Their surprise changed quickly to alarm. It was immediately apparent to them that Philip was a knight and not a man to
tangle with.