Stigmata

by Colin Falconer

  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.

  CV

  WHAT 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.

  He hauled himself up, searched for another foothold, felt something solid beneath his other boot, and steeled himself for a final effort. He reached up with his right hand and groped blindly for something to hold on to, anything that was not slippery with ice. He even used his chin.

  He felt himself slipping back towards the edge.

  His shin scraped down the rock, then his fingertips, his fingernails; he clawed at something solid and kicked out again, got one knee over the edge of the cliff and crawled on his belly over the lip and lay grunting with exhaustion in the snow.

  Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at his hands. He had lost almost all the fingernails on his right hand, but he was so cold he could hardly feel anything. He stared at them, fascinated. How could he do so much damage and be ignorant of it? Slow black blood oozed.

  He rolled on to his knees. ‘Fabricia?’

  His vision would not clear and what he could see did not make sense. He tried to get to his feet and stumbled. He went down, got up again.

  ‘Fabricia?’

  And then he saw her. He rocked back on his heels and moaned. ‘No,’ he said.

  CVI

  ‘NO!’ SIMON SAID.

  Gilles smiled. ‘Do you not think it a perfect retribution?’

  Simon reached behind him, and his fingers closed around the heavy copper cross on the altar. He swung it at Gilles’s head.

  Such unanticipated violence took them both by surprise. The point of the transept hit him in the temple, and the force drove the tip into his skull.

  He went down without making a sound. He lay on his back, blood spurting rhythmically on to the flagstones. Then his legs kicked, and he was still. His eyes were still open.

  Simon dropped the cross on to the floor.

  He stared at the corpse for a long time. ‘Well then,’ he said aloud, almost to reassure himself. ‘That’s done then.’ His legs felt weak. He sat down hard on the steps. ‘I’ve killed him.’ The enormity of it was too much to contemplate. He said it aloud again to convince himself: ‘I’ve killed him.’

  He stood up and then sat down again. He picked up the crucifix, took his time cleaning it before setting it on the altar, perfectly centred. His knees gave way. He sat back on the floor.

  He had to do something, but his mind was blank. There was blood up the wall in a fine spray. There was more blood on his hands.

  ‘You cannot stay here,’ he told himself and ran up the stairs out of the crypt.

  *

  Gilles had crucified her on a pine tree.

  They must have brought the crosspiece with them, Philip realized. No random act, then, Gilles must have planned it before he set out. Philip stumbled across the snow and fell on his knees in front of the cross, staring at the two bright stains of blood in the snow that had dripped from her hands.

  She was breathing, but barely. A faint drift of vapour rose from her lips as her chest heaved in her tortured effort to inhale. She was not aware of him, and she did not open her eyes when he called her name.

  ‘Don’t die,’ he said.

  They had driven nails through her hands and lashed ropes around her wrists and under her arms to hold her to the cross. The Roman way to die took as much as three days, but out here in winter she would die of cold long before that.

  How am I going to get her down? he thought. The crosspiece had been nailed into the trunk of the tree. He stood behind her and slammed the palm of his right hand into it. She groaned as the wood splintered into her back. Then he stood in front of her, braced his right leg against the tree and pulled as hard as he could. Finally the crosspiece came free and she slumped, whimpering, against the ropes. He felt her weight sag against him. He eased her down to her knees, then on to her back. She cried out in pain.

  He slashed through the ropes that held her to the crosspiece.

  Her eyes blinked open. ‘Philip?’

  ‘Don’t talk. I’ll get you off this thing.’

  As he leaned over her the copper and garnet cross she had given him worked free of his undershirt and hung between them, mocking him. He tore it off, ripping the chain and hurling it as far as he could into the trees. He shouted an oath of murder and vengeance, listened to it echo through the mountains. Then he dropped to his knees beside her again, fighting for control.

  There was no easy way. He would never be able to pull out the iron clouts, he could only pull them through. But her hands were so frozen he supposed the pain might not be as bad as if she were warm. He did it quickly, pulling off her right hand, then her left. She cried out each time, leaving more bright blood on the virgin snow.

  He scooped her up in his arms. There was a smudge of smoke over the trees. He remembered she had told him they were close to Montmercy. He would have to hurry, before the cold killed them or the wolves came.

  He carried her through the snow, promising her vengeance and life with every step.

  *

  Bernadette heard the chapel bell strike for terce. The resinous wood they used on the fire in the chapter house seeped a foul, oily smoke that gave out sparse heat and made her cough.

  Heavy snow this early signalled a long winter, a brutal change after the relentless summer. She fretted for her charges now that she was abbess. The fate of the monastery and its little community were entirely her responsibility now; the abbess before her had succumbed to her infirmities on the last hot day of the summer.

  She stared out of the window over the slate roof of the monastery, watching snow drift from the sky. She worried constantly about bandits. The war had ravaged the countryside, and now there were refugees and Aragonese outlaws wandering everywhere.

  Look there! Something was moving up the valley towards them. She murmured a prayer and watched. It was not a wolf, was too large for that, but too small for a bear or a horse. It must be human then. But whoever it was they were alone and moving strangely. She ran down the stone stairs to the cloister, calling for the porteress.

  She hurried to the gate, pushed the shutter aside and peered out.

  ‘What is it?’ the porteress said, clutching at the skirt of her habit with her hand as she ran.

  ‘There’s something out there. Open up!’

  The porteress – Sòrre Marie – put her eye to the grate. ‘But we don’t know who or what it is. It could be dangerous.’

  ‘Open the gate!’ Bernadette repeated.

  The snow had piled up in a drift, knee-deep. Bernadette had to clamber over it. She could see now that the stranger was a man and that he was carrying something; and the way he was staggering with his burden, he was not going to make it as far as the gate.

  As a precaution Sòrre Marie went back for her stick. She placed great value on prayer and the rod.

  *

  When the man saw Bernadette running towards him, he fell to his knees.

  He was carrying someone, she saw, a young woman. There was ice in his beard and neither of them had cloaks; they were dressed only in their tunics. The woman’s hands were bloody and her face was blue. She was clearly dead.

  ‘Help her,’ the man said.

  The porteress hurried to join her abbess. She was alarmed to see that the man was carrying a sword slung across his back and she took him for a bandit. She hit him on the back of the head with her stick and he collapsed in the snow.

  ‘Sòrre Marie, what are you doing?’


  The dead woman moved. She opened her eyes, reached out a gory hand and touched the man’s face. ‘Thank you, seigneur,’ she whispered.

  ‘Get the others!’ Bernadette told the porteress. ‘Quickly! Get hot baths ready and stoke up the fire. And throw that stick away!’ She bent down to cradle the woman in her arms. She was shocked to realize that she knew her.

  ‘Fabricia,’ she said.

  CVII

  THEY WARMED STONES by the fire and put them in her bed; and though the nuns themselves slept even through the harshest winter with just a thin woollen blanket, they piled the one bearskin they possessed on top of her, along with every spare rug they had, to try and warm her. The infirmarian made a poultice for her hands.

  And then they prayed for her.

  As for the man: he would only say that his name was Philip and that he believed his own wounds to be of no account. Yet for two days he could not rise from his bed without toppling over. He retched each time he moved. ‘You have taken a serious blow to your head,’ the infirmarian told him. ‘You have a lump there as large as a chicken’s egg.’ His hands were badly lacerated, and she carefully removed the torn shards of his fingernails. He tolerated this without complaint.

  She also discovered a livid bruise in the centre of his chest. He said he had been hit by an arrow and that his coat of mail, now discarded, had saved his life. When he knew the girl was alive, and was being cared for, he fell into a deep stupor.

  There was a crucifix on the wall of the cell they put him in. The next morning the infirmarian reported that he had torn it down during the night.

  When he found his balance again, he made his way to Fabricia’s sickbed. She looked like a corpse, save that she was propped up with pillows. When she saw him she reached out to him with her torn hand, kissed his forehead and then closed her eyes again.

  *

  The abbess kept vigil by the bed with Philip. The logs on the fire were green and the room was so cold it made his teeth ache. The room was lit with tapers. A flurry of snow whipped against the shutters.