Stigmata (39 page)

‘It is already badly damaged. If they start another bombardment . . . three days, at most, and then part of it may come down.’

‘What are our choices?’ Philip said.

‘We pray that winter comes quickly, for they may yet tire of the work once the snows come. Winter here is vicious. Our other choice is to seek help.’

‘Help?’ Philip said.

‘From Count Raymond in Toulouse.’

‘Do you think he will come to the aid of a Trencavel army?’

‘Who knows? He has allowed the priests to flog him in the cathedral in his own city, he even rode with the
crosatz
at Béziers and at Carcassonne for a time. But still the
Church wants to bring him down and while he tries to appease them he loses the chance to strike back. This may be his chance. Half de Montfort’s army left him after Carcassonne and now our
little army has stalled him here for almost six weeks. He is not invincible. If Raymond joined the fight now we could put an end to this crusade for good.’

‘You think he would listen to such reasoning?’

‘Perhaps, if someone makes the argument forcefully enough. If he were to come now, we could trap de Montfort here in the mountains and destroy this crusade. If not, the
crosatz
could come back next spring with reinforcements. It is Raymond they are after; he must see that. The longer he hesitates, the surer his fate. My master, the Viscount Trencavel, was no threat to
them and look what they did to him. Count Raymond thinks he can play politics but he has to understand that they don’t play politics in Rome; they play for eternity. You cannot trust someone
who has his eyes on God.’

‘But what ambassador could you send that he would listen to?’

‘You, seigneur.’

‘Me?’

‘I will give you ten of my best knights and chevaliers as escort. The men who rode with you when you burned the trebuchet would follow you anywhere after you led them in and out of the
crusader camp.’

Philip warmed his hands on the fire. It was a meagre hearth, for they did not have much timber to spare; Anselm needed it all for the extra barricades he and his carpenters were building behind
the west wall.

‘How might it be done?’

‘You can slip out of the castle as before, and there are gullies and ridgelines that will hide you at night. Dampen your horse’s hooves with sacking again.’ He took
Philip’s arm and led him to the window. ‘You see that ridge? They are camped just below it. If you were to follow the defile on the other side they would not see you. Once you were in
the forest you could climb the spur and then down into the valley. You would have to avoid the road to Cabaret but you could follow the river. It would be slow progress but the north star will lead
you to the Toulousain.’

‘As I understand it, you Trencavels have been at war with Raymond for years. Why would he receive me when my men carry your colours?’

‘You are right; we were most often enemies. He may not receive a Trencavel but he may heed a northern knight who has fought against the
crosatz
.’

Philip considered: a suicide mission, he suspected, much like the last one. Raimon made it all sound so easy from high in his barbican. But what did he have to lose anyway? If he stayed here,
and did nothing, they would have to surrender or die. This way, at least his fate was in his own hands again.

‘All right, find me good men and good horses. I’ll do it.’

‘
Dieu vos benesiga!
May God grant you speed and a safe passage. But . . .’

‘But?’

‘But if you don’t return I shall not blame you. Just do your best to persuade him. It is all I ask.’

‘I will return, with or without Raymond.’

Raimon laughed and shook his head. ‘Return? If you do then I shall know you are quite mad, seigneur.’

L
OUP HAD MADE
a circle on the wall of the church with a piece of chalky rock that he had found on the ground, probably a
piece of some stone slung at them during the night by the
crosatz
. He used it now as target, a measured thirty paces, his slingshot finding the very centre each time.

‘I cannot find Fabricia,’ Philip said to him.

‘She’s sick.’

‘Sick?’

‘She has a fever and retches constantly. Like Guilhemeta.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘During the night.’ He put down the slingshot. ‘Is it true you are leaving us?’

‘What?’

‘You are going as embassy to Count Raymond.’

How did he know? But of course: Anselm
.

‘Weren’t you going to tell me?’

‘We will talk later,’ he said, and hurried back across the square to the infirmary.

It was cold in the great hall and his breath frosted on the air. Two days ago they had been gagging from heat. Now they froze. ‘Fabricia!’ he shouted.

Elionor hurried towards him through the rows of the sick. ‘Where is she?’ he said.

‘This way.’

This is impossible, he thought. Fabricia is not the one who gets sick; she is the healer. But Loup had not lied, Fabricia lay on the floor at the far end of the hall, beneath the great arch. She
looked wretched, and she did not rouse even when he called her name.

‘How bad?’ he said to Elionor.

She shook her head. ‘Who knows when it is our time? I have asked her if she will take the
consolamentum,
but she refuses. I worry for her soul.’

Philip picked up Fabricia’s hand; it was limp and hot. Her face was pink, and slick with sweat, burning up while there was still frost on the barbican. ‘Fabricia,’ he said
again.

Finally her eyelids flickered. ‘Seigneur?’ She pitched to the side and retched, nothing but bile.

Elionor soaked a linen cloth in a basin of water and put it on her forehead. ‘Before now,’ she said, ‘those with the sickness died for lack of water. Now we have plenty.’
She held her head and dribbled a few drops of rainwater into her daughter’s mouth. Fabricia coughed but gulped it down gratefully.

‘Make her well,’ he said.

‘It is out of my hands. It is the fate of her spirit that concerns me now.’ She slipped away, a hundred others groaning and crying for her attention.

‘Fabricia, my heart. Can you hear me?’

She squeezed his hand to let him know that she had.

‘I have to leave here. I am going to get help for us.’ The flagstones trembled and dust and flakes of mortar drifted down from the ceiling. A woman screamed. The
crosatz
had
assembled their new trebuchet and recommenced their bombardment of the citadel. That one was close. It sounded as if it had landed in the courtyard; the engineers were still finding their range
with their new equipment.

‘I won’t ever see you again,’ she murmured.

‘But you will. I am coming back for you, I promise.’

He looked at her hands. It was the first time he had seen her without gloves or linen bindings. Her wounds were healing over.

She reached up to her throat for the crucifix that Father Marty had given her and ripped at the thin chain. It snapped easily. She pressed it into his palm.

‘What’s this?’

‘If you get . . . across the mountains . . . to Barcelona . . . Marty has a brother . . . Show him this . . . he will help you.’

‘I do not need this. I am coming back for you.’

‘Take it. Goodbye, seigneur. We had one dawn together. It seems God is jealous to keep the rest.’

Mist settled in the gorge: they were above it now, in their own peculiar heaven, looking down at the clouds. The evening was still; then a sudden shower of rain like a hail of
small stones whipped against the rocks.

Somewhere in the citadel, Fabricia tossed and groaned in a slick of her own sweat; Anselm grunted as he hefted a large stone into the sling of the mangonel – he had taken to firing
boulders into the crusader camp day and night, each of them stamped with his mason’s mark; in the
donjon
Loup whimpered in the straw, troubled by bad dreams.

There was the faint sound of a hymn, the pilgrims perhaps, or holy Christian soldiers drunk on wine.

He took out the cross Fabricia had given him and knotted the chain where she had broken it. Then he put it over his head and tucked it inside his shirt.

The cold weather made the ancient scar on his leg ache while he waited to lead his horse into the black rain right under the noses of his enemies. Death in a thousand forms, hers, his, tormented
him.

S
O HERE WE
sit in the wind and the drenching rain, Simon thought, our skin tanned like leather from this endless summer,
wondering where it all went wrong. For myself I am glad there will be no more mutilations and massacres.

The wind tore at the fine silk of the pavilion and threatened to blow them all into the gorge.

Simon de Montfort himself sat at the head of the table. He looked every bit of his forty-nine years, grey-bearded and sombre, with a face you could break walnuts on. They said he was no ordinary
Christian knight, the kind of man who would retain his virtue even in a barrel of whores. But as strong as an ox, by all accounts, and with a will to match.

Father Ortiz was explaining to him the vagaries of their campaigning so far, God earning credit for every advance, Gilles de Soissons the blame for their every setback. However the canvas was
painted, it was clear to Simon that the crusade was dissolving into a shambles. De Montfort may have been acclaimed the new lord of the Trencavel lands but that did not make him master of them. Now
that winter was getting closer and the Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Nevers had gone home with all their soldiers, de Montfort had no more than thirty knights and their retainers to contain and
conquer the south of France.

‘I intend to invest the Cathar fortress at Cabaret,’ de Montfort said. ‘I cannot do that unless I am sure I will not suffer an attack from the rear. It means we must have this
fortress in our possession.’

‘Now we have the trebuchet,’ Gilles said, ‘I guarantee we shall bring down the west wall before All Souls’ Day.’

‘If you had not lost the first one, it would be in our possession now,’ Father Ortiz said.

Gilles gave him a poisonous stare. ‘No commander could have foreseen such an impudent action.’

‘Anticipating the enemy’s moves is what a good commander
does
.’

‘We have no time to bicker,’ de Montfort said. ‘What’s done is done. God is testing us but he will surely grant us ultimate victory if we keep faith.’

‘Amen,’ Father Ortiz said.

‘I need more men if I am to storm the walls,’ Gilles said.

‘I do not have more men,’ de Montfort said. ‘Many of those who rode with us from Lyons have hurried home with the first cold wind. Just this last week two more counts and even
two bishops abandoned our holy quest on account of rain. I have barely enough men to garrison the castles we have already won. You will gain victory with what you have.’

Simon wondered how Gilles would react to this news. He had served his forty days of crusading, he could return to Normandy with glory and his place in heaven assured if he wished it. But he
showed no sign of weariness with the siege. Simon guessed that it had become a matter of personal honour for him, perhaps even vengeance. He would stay until Montaillet was rubble.

‘I suggest we negotiate,’ de Montfort said.

‘There is no need. If you will only be patient.’

De Montfort rose to his feet. ‘I do not have the time to be patient. I am about God’s work here! The entire Church is praying for me. We need their surrender, now. Get it for me, any
way you can.’

Simon knew little about warfare but he knew this: the conventions of war required the besiegers to spare the lives of any garrison that surrendered to them. That would not sit well with Gilles,
not now. ‘I came here to kill heretics,’ Gilles said, ‘not negotiate with them.’

‘If you let them go now,’ de Montfort said, ‘it will not matter, for we will catch them again later. Justice will be served in the end. Trust me on this. But for now, I need
Montaillet.’

‘Besides, only a few of those inside the citadel are heretics,’ Simon pointed out, choosing his moment to speak up. ‘Many are good Catholics.’

‘A good Catholic does not protect heresy!’ Gilles shouted. ‘They are all Devil-worshippers to me and they should suffer for it.’

De Montfort turned to Father Ortiz. ‘What say you about this?’

‘I think that offering to massacre everyone inside the fortress is hardly a good basis for negotiation.’

‘I agree,’ de Montfort said and looked at Gilles. ‘Are you listening to this, my lord?’

‘So you would let them all go free?’

‘Let those who love the Church swear an oath to her and yes, we will set them free. Those who will not do this, we shall burn.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ Gilles shouted. ‘A man will swear an oath to his donkey if it will save his life!’

‘If that is what you think,’ Father Ortiz said, ‘then I think you misjudge these people. The true heretics would rather face the fire than swear against their godless beliefs.
That is precisely what makes them so vile and so dangerous.’

Another gust of wind and Gilles’s purple-sheeted pavilion almost gave way to the wind. Let us parlay and be done with it, Simon thought. I cannot stand another day in this vile
country.

‘That is settled then,’ de Montfort said. ‘Send them a message under flag of truce that we wish to parlay.’

‘I shall not talk any kind of peace to these dogs,’ Gilles said.

‘Then let your priests do it.’ He turned to the friar. ‘Can you find a way to put Montaillet in my possession, Father Ortiz?’

Diego smiled. ‘If it is God’s will,’ he said.

‘T
ODAY A RIDER
from the crusader camp approached the main gate under a flag of truce. They have asked for
parlay.’

‘Then we have them!’ Anselm said. ‘They would not want to bargain unless they were at breaking point!’

Raimon shrugged his shoulders. ‘But then – so are we.’

He looked around at the three men he had invited to his chamber for counsel. They would carry the opinions of the rest: Navarese, the commander of the mercenaries; Bérenger, the giant
stonemason who had become spokesman for the refugees and who now knew every stone and every brick in the castle; and the burgher Joan Belot, in his silk breeches, who had been agitating for a
truce, and had many sympathizers among the townspeople.