Stigmata (50 page)

They ran into the cellar to look for food. They were disappointed; there were only some stale loaves of bread, a little honey and scarcely any meat. Then Martín heard screams. Someone had
found the porteress’s body. He sent two men to deal with it.

He led the rest into the chapel. Was this all the gold they had? One of the nuns was ringing the chapel bell, sounding the alarm. Martín sent two more men to silence her and went out, the
rest following. Hardly any food, little gold. He wouldn’t mind betting the women were all ugly too.

‘There must be one good enough for fucking,’ Juan said.

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Martín said. ‘Why do you think they’re nuns?’

P
HILIP WATCHED THE
two men leave the chapel. There must be something about killing nuns that makes even a professional
nervous, he thought. One of them looked back as if he had forgotten something. ‘From what I hear, they are not really nuns,’ he said to his comrade. ‘Most of them are heretics.
Killing heretics is not a sin.’

In Paris you would be hanged, drawn and quartered for killing a nun; in heaven the punishment would be infinitely worse. These two clods had followed orders and now they were racked with
guilt.

Well, they wouldn’t have to suffer their consciences too much longer. He swung out from behind the pillar and killed the first with a single strike, slicing upwards with the edge of the
sword at the man’s neck. The other stared at him, so astonished that he did not react, a spectator at his own despatch. When it was done Philip turned and listened. He could hear shouts from
the cellar and the stables. How many of them were there?

There had been fifty under Navarese’s command at Montaillet. They had lost half their number during the siege. How many had survived outside the fortress, or had deserted?

He dragged the two bodies inside the church. He saw the nun they had murdered, still shocked at the ease with which some men killed defenceless women. ‘No one will mourn you,’ he
told the dead Spaniard before dropping him on the flagstones.

He ran across the courtyard to the cellar.

‘There’s no fucking fresh meat,’ he heard one of the routiers saying. ‘Just some salted pork.’

‘Is this all they have to get them through winter?’

‘There’s some honey and goat’s cheese. And garlic. We could grow fat on garlic!’ The man rummaging among the hessian sacks did not hear him. He looked around only at the
last moment, perhaps thinking it was one of his comrades come to help. Philip again went for the neck, one swift downward slash, bloody and quick.

But his accomplice was on the other side of the cellar and could not be despatched so easily. Philip had to leap over the vegetables lying about the floor and by the time he reached him the man
had drawn his sword and shouted the alarm.

The routier slashed at him. Philip easily sidestepped the stroke and brought up his own sword in a low swinging arc that lay the man open. He clutched at his belly and Philip slashed again with
his sword and moments later the man lay dead on the floor.

He ran up the steps. He could hear screams coming from the stables.

Until now surprise had lent him the advantage. But if there were many more of Martín’s mercenaries inside the walls he would be overpowered. He could not let that happen. Where were
Fabricia and the others? He supposed they were hiding in the chapter house. He had to stop these bastards before they got there. In almost every battle he had fought he had brought with him some
advantage, either in armour or in training. But these men were mercenaries, professionals; he would have to be quick and ruthless if he was to succeed.

They had Bernadette on the floor of the stable, her habit and wimple off, her shift around her hips. They had posted no guard; Martín was taking his pleasure with her and
the other three were watching him and shouting encouragement. Philip watched from the doorway. Just four of them, then. With speed and good fortune, he might succeed.

He took off his cloak, as it would hinder his movement. Then he slipped inside the stable.

The first routier did not see him. Philip brought down his sword in a wide arc on top of his head. The man had no helmet to protect him and was dead before he hit the ground. The second routier
reacted faster than the others, had his sword out and even managed to parry Philip’s first blow.

Phillip’s second stroke was low and did not kill the man but it slashed open his belly and put him down.

Martín was still fumbling for his weapons. His companion flew at Philip. He parried his first blow, but was thrown back against one of the stalls. The soldier pressed his advantage; he
did not recognize him as a knight, perhaps thought it would be an easy kill. As he swung a second time he left himself unguarded for the counter-stroke and went down.

‘You,’ Martín said, astonished. ‘You were at Montaillet.’ He rushed him, swinging again and again. Philip backed away, tripped on one of the fallen soldiers and
tumbled backwards. Martín brought his sword down, aiming at his head; Philip parried again but lost his grip on his sword. It bounced across the cobblestones.

Martín slashed again and Philip rolled to the side; the blade missed him by inches, raising sparks from the stone. But he could not find his feet and without his sword he was helpless.
Martín had the point of his sword aimed at his chest and was steadying himself for the final blow.

And then Philip saw her, behind him. He knew what she would do and it seemed to him somehow worse than his own dying. Martín might take his life but this would take Fabricia’s soul.
‘Don’t!’ he screamed at her.

For a moment the Spaniard hesitated, dared one brief glance over his shoulder. Did he see Fabricia standing behind him with the knife raised? She meant to do it, that was plain.

Philip kicked out with his right leg and brought Martín crashing on to the cobbles. He jumped up and snatched the knife from Fabricia’s hand and was set to fight on but there was no
need. Martín Navarese died with a look of surprise on his face. His eyes, so full of fire just a moment ago, lost their focus. His sword slipped from his fingers as the blood pooled and
spread under his head.

He had shattered his skull on the stones.

A sudden stillness. Bernadette was sobbing in the corner; one of Martín’s soldiers was dying but taking a long time about it, kicking and crying. But the killing was over, for now.
Fabricia stood quite still, her face white. She did not move, even when he put his arms about her.

‘You saved my life,’ he said.

‘I would have killed him,’ she said. It was true. He had seen the look on her face. The strength went out of her and she sagged in his arms.

‘I should never have left you,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He picked her up and carried her out of the stables.

I
N THE
D
EVIL
’
S
perfect world, he thought, the routiers would have killed me and raped
Fabricia, and then put her to death as well, at their leisure; in the Cathar world their souls would have joined God in his faraway heaven while Navarese and his bandits would have returned to the
Devil’s rancid earth in other bodies, to do it all again.

But this time the Devil did not have his way, because his saint had chosen violence over sanctity. It was a sin to commit murder; was it also wrong to love someone so much that you would kill to
save them? Priests and philosophers might argue over what she did until the sun died cold in the sky. He was glad that in the end it had not come to that, for in saving him she would have destroyed
herself.

Was he condemned also for what he did at Montmercy? If so, then he should not wish to be God on the Day of Judgement, for the weighing of souls would never find a true balance. For himself, he
could no longer fathom the right and the wrong of anything. He had had altogether too much of religion. If only men would forget about God and just try to be kind instead.

‘There is no castle waiting for you on the other side of those mountains,’ she said.

‘You are my castle now. I shall seek my refuge with you and defend you with my last breath.’

He led the mule by inches down the defile. Simon Jorda would have liked to see this, he thought. A perfect vision for a Christian priest: a humble man trudging through the snow, no place to
sleep and a woman behind swaying atop a mule.

‘And what of you?’ he went on. ‘You would be better served without me now. There is no one for you to heal where we go.’

‘Except you.’

‘Yes, except me.’ He looked back at her over his shoulder. ‘I cannot promise what will happen tomorrow.’

‘Then I shall make the most of this moment.’ His hand was on the halter and she reached forward and laid hers on top of it. He stopped to study the way ahead, looking for the path,
but it had been obliterated by new-fallen snow. She is right, he thought; for the first time there is no fortress awaiting my return. I have nothing.

We have nothing.

Except hope. A man cannot live without hope.

T
HERE ARE FEW
phenomena as baffling as the stigmata.

Stigmata are bodily marks corresponding to the crucifixion wounds of Jesus. It is the plural of the Greek word
stigma
, meaning a mark or a brand. They are primarily associated with the
Roman Catholic faith; many stigmatics are also members of religious orders, and over 80 per cent are women.

Stigmatics exhibit some or all of the so-called ‘holy wounds’: to the hands, the feet, the side (from the injury by the lance); and the lacerations to the forehead caused by the
crown of thorns. Other reported forms include tears of blood, sweating blood or scourge marks to the back.

Some stigmatics have bleeding that stops and starts, and many also exhibit
inedia
; that is, the ability to live for long periods of time with minimal food or water. Stigmatics are often
also ecstatics; at the time of receiving their wounds they are overwhelmed by their emotions.

Some Christian theologians believe that the stigmata result from exceptional religious devotion and the desire to associate oneself with the suffering Christ. Indeed, no case of stigmata is
known to have occurred before the thirteenth century when the depiction of the crucified Christ gained wider currency in Western art.

St Francis of Assisi is the first recorded stigmatic in Christian history. His first biographer, Thomas of Celano, reported this in his
Life of St Francis
in 1228:

Since then, three to four hundred Christians have displayed spontaneous injuries, suggesting one or more of those sustained by Christ during the crucifixion.

One of the best-known contemporary figures is Padre Pio of Pietrelcina. He displayed stigmata on his hands and feet that were studied by several twentieth-century physicians. No diagnosis was
ever offered, and no signs of infection were ever found. Two of the doctors, however, commented on the smooth edges of the wounds and the total lack of oedema. They found such a presentation
utterly extraordinary, as any physician would.

Padre Pio carried the stigmata for most of his life and despite constant observation was never found to have interfered with the wounds in any way. He is also credited with notable cases of
healing and was regarded as a saint by local people long before his official canonization by the Church in 2002, some thirty-five years after his death.

Other notable stigmatics include Catherine of Siena and St Rita of Cascia.

Modern researchers believe that stigmata are of hysterical origin, or are the result of unconscious self-mutilation through an abnormally high auto-suggestibility. In other words, the wounds are
created by the power of the mind alone.

Bodily stigmata are not a uniquely Catholic phenomenon, however; they have been reported in the Orinoco among the Warao, in those who spend long periods of time in contemplation of their own
guardian spirits.

The phenomenon has never been satisfactorily explained.