Stigmata (47 page)

Fabricia did not move. He grabbed her wrists, pulled off her gloves and stared at one hand, then the other, and then turned them over. ‘Where are these wounds everyone speaks
of?’

‘They’ve gone.’

‘So, it was just another story. I thought so. What about your magical healing powers? Or were they just another of your whore’s tricks?’ He slapped her again and stood up. He
nodded towards the cliff. ‘He died quicker than I had hoped. I wanted to do it myself at my own leisure. Still, honour is served.’

It was as she had dreamed. Philip was gone and now this pink-eyed monster was going to kill her too. She did not care, everyone she loved and who loved her was dead now. She would rather join
them.

‘Is it true that you heretics believe that all murder is wrong?’

‘No matter what else you say about me, I tell you, I am no heretic.’

‘Then prove it to me.’ He took a dagger from his belt, held the blade under her nose, turning it in the weak sunlight, then ran it lightly across her thumb so that she could see how
easily it sliced through her skin. ‘Take it,’ he said.

She shook her head, but he grabbed her wrist and forced it into her hand. ‘Take it! Now – kill me. Prove to me that you are no heretic. A Cathar would not do it, am I right? It would
be a blot on their soul. But you have just told me you are no heretic. Yet you have just cause, I ordered the men to build the fire that burned your mother and I have just killed your lover. You
must hate me more than any man alive. It’s true; I can see it in your eyes. So kill me and show me you are a good Christian.’ He held a finger against his neck. ‘Strike here. It
is the best spot.’

The sergeant-at-arms fidgeted on his horse. ‘Seigneur . . .’

Gilles held up a hand to silence him. ‘If you cut the vein,’ he said to Fabricia, ‘there will be nothing anyone can do. It will be the perfect revenge. You want that,
don’t you?’

His eyes never left hers. He smiled and pointed again to his neck, goading her.

A part of her really wondered if she could do it. Perhaps he wonders too; that is what he is waiting for, a merest flicker of my eyes as I prepare to strike, and that will be his warning. As
soon as I move he will grab my wrist and break it.

‘You are thinking my men will kill you if you harm me,’ he said, ‘and you are right, they will. But with them it will be quick. My way, if you let me live, it will be slow.
That is your choice.’

Philip would not hesitate, she thought.
Do it, do it.
Was she weak, or was she strong? It would serve nothing, change nothing, to kill him.

Do it now,
she heard Philip whisper
.

She dropped the knife into the snow.

‘I am disappointed,’ he said. ‘I thought that you would at least try, if only for your lover’s sake. He was your lover, wasn’t he? That’s why he came back for
you. You, a common little slut he could have bought for two pennies anywhere. What a fool he turned out to be.’

He picked up the knife and put it back in his belt. ‘You should have done it while you had the chance. Things will go very badly for you now. Very badly indeed.’

P
HILIP OPENED HIS
eyes to a sky the colour of grey quartz. He tried to move his head and groaned at the pain in his skull.
Snow drifted on to his face. He put out his tongue to catch one or two flakes, felt the ice crystals in his beard. ‘Fabricia?’ he said. He remembered leading her horse by the bridle.
What had happened then?

He tried to sit up and saw the arrow sticking out of his chest. He gasped and grabbed the shaft lodged in the chain mail he wore under his cloak. He snapped off the end of the feathered bolt and
threw it aside.

‘
Fabricia?
’

He felt his gorge rise and he turned to the side and retched. He found himself staring into an abyss. He struck out a hand to pull himself back.

He lay there, fighting back the bile. He did not dare to move. He was lying on a small ledge in a sheer rock wall. The wind stirred the ice, throwing tiny shards of it into his face.

How long have I been here? How far did I fall?
He bent both his legs at the knees, testing them. Then he took a deep breath and felt a sharp pain in his back. He supposed his body was too
cold to hurt badly. The real pain would come when he was warm again.

If I live to be warm again.

Well, he could not lie here much longer, he would freeze to death. He had to try and get to his feet, climb back up the cliff. He could not do that wearing his coat of mail. It had saved his
life for the last time.

First he took off his heavy leather gauntlets, then he reached down to his belt and felt for his dagger. His fingers closed around the handle; they were almost frozen, he could hardly feel them.
He flexed them; they felt numb and he blew on them to try and warm them. They would need to be nimble; if he dropped the knife, there would be no way out.

He moved slowly and deliberately, first cutting open his surcoat so that he could reach the ties to the hauberk. It was hard enough to get it on and off standing in the bedchamber of his castle
with his steward and another servant to help him; doing it here, flat on his back, seemed an impossible task.

He sat up slowly, his head spinning, and found a crack in the rock. He hooked the fingers of his left hand into it and clung on till the dizziness had passed.

He reached behind him with the knife, found the bottom strap with his left hand and sawed at it with the blade of the knife.

There was another cord at the nape of the neck and he sliced through it. Now there was just one more tie, in the middle of his back, and he knew that would be the hardest to cut. But as he
reached behind his frozen fingers caught on the torn edge of the surcoat and he dropped the knife. Oh, God’s blood!

He thought it was over for him. He heard the dagger clatter on to the rock. He fumbled blindly for it, sure that it had slipped over the edge.

No, it was still there.

His fingers closed thankfully around the handle. ‘If you drop it this time, you’re a dead man,’ he told himself.

He found the tie in the middle of his back, sawed through it with exaggerated care.

Now to try and get the hauberk off.

The wind gusted and he waited until it eased. He breathed on his fingers before reaching up again for his handhold in the cliff, closing his eyes against a wave of vertigo.
Keep your eyes on
the ledge. Don’t look to the side.

He placed the dagger between his knees next to his sword.

He tried to wriggle out of the hauberk but it was too tight and too heavy. He would have to stand up to do it. He found another handhold on the cliff face and pulled himself forward so that he
could turn towards the rock and steady himself on his left knee. Then he hauled himself up to his feet, so that his face was against the rock.

From here he found he could reach up and touch the very lip of the cliff. He must have fallen only a little more than his own height, toppling backwards on to a fracture in the rock; this lip of
limestone and the encroachment of
garrigue
must have prevented him rolling further.

He braced his forehead against the frozen stone and lifted his right hand to his left shoulder, tugging at his armour. He could not pull too hard in case he lost his balance. He wrestled with
the sleeve, freeing it by inches. If he could get one arm out then the other would be easier.

The wind bit into him.

Once the chain mail was off he would have to act quickly; as heavy and cumbersome as it was, it at least afforded him some protection from the cold.

He pulled his left arm free, then started to work the right shoulder. His fingers slipped on the icy rock and he almost fell. He clawed for another handhold.

Be patient, Philip.

Finally he manoeuvred his other arm free and the coat of mail fell at his feet. Immediately he felt much lighter and much colder. He would have to move quickly now or he would soon freeze to
death.

Bracing himself against the rock he hooked his toe into his sword belt, brought it up with his boot to knee height and then grabbed it one-handed. He looped sword and belt over his shoulder.

It was not far to climb but the icy rock and the shivering of his limbs would make it more difficult. He reached up, found a handhold and pulled. The world started to spin. No good. He lowered
himself down again on to the ledge.

‘Fabricia!’

No answer. Was she dead?

He inched along the ledge searching for another handhold. He slid his fingers into a crack in the rock, scooped out the snow and braced himself for another effort. He jammed his boot into the
rock and hauled. The fingers of his left hand found another fracture.

He pulled himself upwards, saw the tops of trees, and a skein of smoke from higher up the valley. But then he felt his fingers slipping, and he yelled as his shinbone cracked on the rock.
God’s bones!

He was going to fall.

W
HAT MUST
I do?
Simon prayed, on his knees.
I can no longer depend upon those things I once believed in.
Everything that was solid has melted away.

He heard shouting from above, the ring of hooves on the cobblestones as a squadron of horsemen galloped into the citadel. He supposed this was Gilles at last returned. He steeled himself.

He heard him running down the stone steps and turned in time to see the baron burst into the crypt, dripping melted snow on to the flagstones, pink eyes aflame. He had the look of a man after
sex or after killing. ‘On your knees again, priest? Be careful, you’ll wear them out.’

‘You left very suddenly during the night, seigneur. We all wondered what was amiss.’

‘I had important business to attend to.’

‘You caused much alarm with your departure.’

‘I imagine I caused you more alarm than others.’ Gilles sniffed the air. ‘It still stinks of that monk down here. But then you churchmen reek every bit as much when
you’re alive. Is that why you burn so much incense?’ He fell on to one knee. ‘Father, hear my confession.’

‘You insult me, then you ask for my absolution?’

‘It’s your job. Just get on with it.’

‘I do not have my stole.’ Buy yourself time, Simon thought. Find out what happened tonight. ‘I shall have to fetch it.’

But Gilles sprang up again, putting a hand on Simon’s chest to stop him leaving. ‘You will not need your stole, Father, it is not that kind of confession. I do not need your
absolution for I am sure I have done something of which God would heartily approve. The Pope himself says that killing heretics is no sin, so to what should I confess? But I shall tell you what I
have done anyway. You are a priest, and you will like to hear of it.’

‘I am listening, seigneur.’

‘I accuse myself of killing Philip de Vercy. Not by my hand, you understand, but I gave the order for it to be done. I was in all ways merciful for the end was quicker than he
deserved.’

‘It is a sin to kill another Christian, both in heaven and on earth.’

‘He was no Christian, although he purported to be.’

‘He was commander of the crusaders sent us by the Bishop of Toulouse!’

‘He was a traitor to the Bishop and to God. I found him helping a heretic to escape. Is that the action of a Christian knight?’

‘You have proof of his heresy? Because if you don’t, you will be damned before God and before the King of France. Philip de Vercy was not yet excommunicate so you had no right to do
such a thing!’

‘Your monk did not dwell on such legal niceties at Saint-Ybars. He said for me to kill everyone there and let God decide who was heretic and who was faithful. Do you remember? But I
believe you have rushed too quickly to judgement. Let me tell you what else I have done, then you may be better persuaded.’

He pushed Simon back against the altar.

‘The Bérenger woman. Did you see the scars on her hands? They say that from time to time she had holes there, like Christ after he was crucified. Do you believe these stories,
Father?’

‘I do not know what I believe.’

‘They even say she made miracles, that she could heal the sick. Do you believe that also?’

‘Some said she could perform miracles. She always denied it.’

Gilles’s eyes went to the tapers guttering black smoke on the altar, the wax sputtering as they burned down. ‘What were you praying for?’

‘A man’s prayers are for his own conscience.’

‘Let me guess. I wonder if you were not praying for your own soul? I know what you did, priest! I know you went to the prison and bribed my guard, I know you released Father Ortiz’s
prisoner and that you conspired with Philip de Vercy to do it. I know you arranged for two horses to be ready for him to escape. All I do not know is why.’

Simon said nothing. So he had killed Philip; but what he done with Fabricia?

‘What kind of a priest are you? I have wondered about you from the beginning. There is something about you that troubles me but I cannot work out what it is. Will you tell me?’

‘What did you do to the Bérenger girl?’

‘Ah, her! Did you see what her father did to the monk? That was the Devil’s work if ever I saw it. A man can be consigned to hell for self-harm, but imagine how it must go for a man
who murders another at the same time. And a priest into the bargain! What is the punishment for that, do you think? Is there a worse place than hell, with even sterner tortures, for such a
man?’

‘What did you do with her?’

‘What should a Christian knight do with a sorceress, the spawn of a man like that? She should pay for the sins of the father, do you not think?’

Seeing the look on Simon’s face, he leaned forward and whispered in the priest’s ear exactly what he had done, to the closest detail.

Philip scrambled for a foothold, taking the strain on his arms. His fingers were numb and almost useless. He could not hold on much longer, he felt the strength in his arms
failing him.

He looked down, found a crack in the rock, jammed his boot in there. His knee was bent now; it would give him just enough leverage to swing up again.