Stigmata (26 page)

Redbeard grinned, and without further warning galloped straight at him, charging to Philip’s left side, as he knew he would, to give himself advantage. Philip was ready for him and took
the blow from his sword on his shield. He let him pass, then turned Leyla to face him. Redbeard was now separated from his men, just where he wanted him.

Philip took his bow from his saddle. Redbeard was fifty paces away, sword in his left hand, shield in his right. Philip brought up the bow, hoping his injured wrist would not buckle, and put an
arrow through Redbeard’s right knee. There was a look of shock on Redbeard’s face at this perfidy, before the pain coursed through him and he howled. What did he expect, a fair fight?
Were not the odds forty against one?

‘The young man you blinded had a good eye. He once hit a boar that was set to kill me at a hundred paces. Where do you think he learned to shoot like that?’

Redbeard tugged at the arrow in his leg, screaming in agony. Philip spurred Leyla forward at the gallop and Redbeard had no time to react, he was mad with pain from the arrow, which was embedded
deep in the knee joint. Philip took him on his weak side. Redbeard twisted in the saddle to bring his shield around to his sword arm, but at the last moment Philip changed the direction of the
stroke, slashing downwards at his leg. But the blow sliced into horse as well as man, and Redbeard’s palfrey shied on to its back legs, lost its footing on the trail and both horse and rider
tumbled into the bracken.

Philip jumped down from the saddle. He looked back up the trail. Redbeard’s men would kill him, of course, it was only a question of how far they would allow this single combat to
continue. He supposed that depended on how popular Redbeard was with his own men.

Redbeard’s horse was struggling to stand. Its rider’s left leg was crushed beneath it. Redbeard had the arrow still protruding from his knee, the foot below it all but severed by
Philip’s sword stroke. He had pissed himself and there was saliva in his beard. He called to his men and pointed at Philip. ‘Kill him!
Kill him!
’

His soldiers, Philip noted, were slow to react.
Not that popular then.
‘Who did it? You or one of your men?’

‘For pity’s sake! Look what you have done! You have crippled me!’

One of Redbeard’s chevaliers finally broke ranks, and galloped down the trail towards him. Philip wondered if he could finish Redbeard before the rider cut him down.

But there was no time to deliver the coup. Philip swung to face the onrushing rider, parried the sword blow with his shield but went down under the force of the charge. His ankle would not hold
him. The others were riding in now. One of the chevaliers jumped down from his horse and Philip scrambled back to his feet to face him.

Redbeard was still screaming.

This first assailant was either too confident or too arrogant; perhaps he wanted to put on a display for his fellows. He came down the slope too fast and Philip let the man’s own momentum
carry him on to his sword. It was a foolish thing to do, when he was wearing so little armour.

Now the others crowded him, but they were more cautious, having seen the fate of their brother-in-arms. One of them sliced at him with his sword, and Philip parried the blow with his shield and
then in one movement struck back with his grip on his sword reversed. The man’s hauberk deflected the blow but he supposed he had at least tickled a few of his ribs for the man grunted and
went down on one knee.

There was no time to finish him, but it had given the others something to think about. There were three more coming at him now, fanning out, wary. They could take him if they all attacked him at
once, but they knew he would kill at least one of them if they did, and none was ready to die. So they feinted and looked to each other, hoping their fellow would make the opening for them and take
the risk.

The others were content to watch from their horses, whistling and catcalling and treating it as sport, even over Redbeard’s oaths and screams. Finally one of them made a clumsy swing at
him with his sword. Philip parried the blow easily and as swiftly moved again to his left so that they could not encircle him. As the man’s swing carried him forward and off balance Philip
scythed low and took the man at his hams where his half-mail could not protect him. He went down screaming, blood spurting from the back of his legs.

The other two were less certain of themselves now. Perhaps they wished they had not been so eager to claim bragging rights for bringing down a knight; not as easy as you supposed, is it? Philip
thought. Redbeard was still shrieking,
‘Kill him, kill him!’

Philip backed away, luring them on, waiting, waiting, and the moment one of the men raised his sword he lunged in, took him with the point just under the armpit where his hauberk offered the
least protection. The man dropped his sword and went down writhing like a baited worm. His fellow lost his taste for the fight and backed off.

Redbeard’s men had had enough of Philip’s heroics. A knight in full armour came at him down the slope, aiming to trample him with his warhorse. Philip jumped aside but had only
enough time to raise his shield to protect himself as the force of the charge knocked him off his feet and on to his back. He scrambled to his feet to face his next attacker. Another chevalier,
more lightly armed, charged through the bracken and Philip’s sword was jarred from his grip, smashing his fingers. He lost balance and a fallen log took his heels from under him.

He lay there, stunned. When he got to his feet his assailant was already on him, and aimed a blow, which Philip did not completely avoid; his mail stopped it from piercing his chest but he felt
the elastic snap of his ribs. Philip went down again, felt for his dagger in his belt, then remembered that Renaut had borrowed it the night before for his own grisly purpose.

He was helpless. Now the danger was past the rest of the chevaliers and men-at-arms crowded bravely in; it no longer seemed so urgent to finish this. After all, he was unarmed now.

‘Do we kill him now or have a little fun?’ someone said.

There was no time to answer. An arrow took the man in the neck and he went down, coughing blood. More bolts hissed through the trees, and several found their mark.

Redbeard’s men ran for their horses. Some of them made it, others did not. He saw two of the men heft Redbeard on to a horse and then ride off with their crippled commander through the
trees.

Philip had expected the ambush to be followed by a cavalry charge, but instead there was an eerie silence. He lay there listening to the last of Redbeard’s men die before finally he heard
the rustling of leaves as his rescuers headed down through the trees on foot.

He raised his head and made out the Trencavel device on their shields and tunics. There was only a handful of them, a dozen men at most, but the way the commander had used his archers had made
it seem to him – and to Redbeard’s men – like a much larger force.

The soldiers went through the forest, finishing off the wounded. One of them stopped by him, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘This one’s not wearing a cross. What should I
do?’

A young knight came over, a boy with scarce a beard. He had one green eye and one blue. ‘Spare him. He was the one they were fighting.’ He knelt down. ‘Who are you?’

Philip tried to answer but then his mouth filled with blood. He coughed and could not breathe. The world turned black.

H
E DID NOT
have a cross sewn on his surcoat, so he was not a
crosat.
Yet he wore his hair oiled back from his
forehead in the northern style.
He took on an army of them on his own,
the soldiers said.
He had already killed or wounded five of them.

So: a murderer then, like all these others. Yet he had such a peaceful expression. He looked almost – beautiful.

‘Can you do anything for him?’

All this blood in his hair, on his armour and his face. Where to begin? ‘I don’t know,’ she said. The soldiers helped her roll him on his side to remove his hauberk and his
tunic. A woman’s silver comb fell out on to the ground.

His face and neck were leathered and burned by the sun but underneath his armour his skin was pale as ivory. He smelled of wood smoke and horses and blood. She laid her hands on him and
prayed.

She had wondered when he would come into her life and now he was here she wondered –
why?
She did not know who he was but he was no stranger to her. He was the warrior she had seen
in the dream, walking beside her horse.

His eyes flickered open. ‘Alezaïs,’ he said. ‘I have missed you.’

Philip had been building mud castles in the puddles of rainwater in the courtyard. His grandmother came out in her white coif and told him to come inside. In the kitchen billows
of steam rose from the
payrola
that hung over the open fire and brushwood burned red-hot inside the dome-shaped bread oven. His grandmother sat him down to a soup of peas. It was morning and
the flagstones were cold and the new rushes on the floor scratched his feet.

He woke: just a dream, then. He called for his squire, Renaut. His wife was leaning over him and his hand moved to her breast and he smiled. She shoved him away, which was rude of her, for his
wife’s breast was one of his life’s great pleasures.

He heard a woman’s voice: ‘I believe he’s feeling better.’

So many people! They had left him lying in the great hall. He looked around for Godfroi or Renaut or the cook. He did not know any of these people. Perhaps Lady Giselle had got rid of his
household while he was away. He saw the soldier with no feet and hands. The arrow was still in his chest. ‘Rest,’ he told him. ‘The best thing for it.’

He shouted out: ‘What about some quiet in here?’ But it came out as just a croak. He thought to try calling out again, but then he forgot. He closed his eyes.

A saint looked up from his ledger.
So what sins have you, Master Philip?

I have none, they were remitted when I took up the banner of Christ. I am promised paradise.
The saint had a little fork beard and black curls. He was wearing a turban
. Not in this
heaven,
he laughed.

Redbeard was there, slashing his tail like a lizard. He had Renaut’s eyes and rolled them like dice from his hand. Philip gasped and tried to grab him. ‘Rest,’ someone said to
him and then there was a cool cloth on his forehead. Someone else asked him if he wanted to confess.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it will take too long and I am too tired.’

Besides, he was proud of his sins. He would like to discuss them in person with his Maker, man to man. Look, here’s my list. Now let’s see yours.

He opened his eyes. There was a woman leaning over him. ‘I fell on my head trying to get out of a church,’ he told her.

‘We all do,’ she said, which he thought was a curious thing to say, but perhaps he just dreamed it.

He heard the woman say: ‘He has taken a blow to the head, perhaps more than one. He has injured his ankle and his left wrist. But the worst is his ribs. Something is broken inside and he
is breathing his own blood.’

‘Will he die?’

‘Perhaps. As God wills.’

She gave him something bitter to drink. He spat it out.

He was tired from keeping count of everyone in his dreams. Thirty-seven. No, three more; forty now. They were sitting in front of the hearth on benches, drying their boots and gaiters before the
fire. The smell of wet leather and wool mingled with the stink of dung and clay and rotten straw on the floor.

‘Just rest,’ Godfroi whispered, disguised as a beautiful woman with red hair.

His squire, Renaut, said: ‘It’s not your time, seigneur. You have to go back.’

‘Back where?’ he said, and then his son was there, playing with his sword.

‘Put that down,’ he said, ‘you’re not old enough.’

And the knight with the green and the blue eye laughed and said: ‘Well, I was old enough to save your miserable skin.’

‘He is burning up,’ a woman said. He thought of little Renaut, how cold he was. Best to die by ice or by fire? The end was the same. He asked in Latin, and in Arabic, for water and
he felt her raise his head and as she trickled the water between his lips her hair tickled his face, and he could smell lavender.

‘F
ABRICIA
B
ÉRENGER
,’
HE
said.

She was tending another of the sick when she heard him say her name. She turned around and found him watching her. He had huge brown eyes and a look so direct that it unsettled her. ‘How
do you know my name?’

‘It is you, isn’t it?’

She nodded.

‘You are the reason . . . I came to the Pays d’Oc.’

‘I do not understand you, seigneur.’

‘A wise woman told me you . . . were a great healer. My son was sick. I thought you might save him. But he’s . . . but he’s dead now. It seems you saved me instead.’

‘God saved you. All I did was pray for you.’

‘Then God bewilders . . . me. Why would He save me?’

‘It is not for us to know God’s mind.’ She put a hand to his forehead. ‘You have lost the fever. Your breathing is better.’ She held his head and gave him a sip of
water.

‘Where am I?’ he said.

‘This place is called Simoussin.’

‘What is it? Is it a castle?’

‘A cave. A cave – and a cathedral.’

‘How did . . . I get here?’

‘The Viscount’s soldiers found you. They said you attacked the entire Host single-handed.’

‘Is this another dream?’ He looked around. There were hundreds of people in the cavern, seated on the ground, lying down, eating, talking. Yet everything seemed orderly. The shouts
and laughter of children echoed around the vaulted roof.

As Fabricia had said, a cavern and a cathedral. ‘I had chosen my day to die. Why am . . . I here?’

‘No one chooses their day to die. It is chosen for them.’

‘Did the knight with the red beard escape also?’