Stigmata (45 page)

Father Ortiz threw himself between the baron and the tall knight who commanded their reinforcements. ‘What are you doing?’ Father Ortiz said. ‘He is one of us!’

‘He is a traitor!’

‘You should pray for more such traitors,’ Philip said. ‘I have brought you a hundred men to reinforce your garrison. Or would you rather fight Trencavel’s soldiers on
your own?’

Gilles turned to Father Ortiz. ‘I saw this knight on this very barbican when we laid siege! He fought on the side of the heretics then!’

‘I am a northerner, same as you. I was trapped here during the siege but I never fought against you. I escaped through my own daring and made my way back to Toulouse. Do you think the
Bishop would have entrusted his men to a heretic?’

Father Ortiz rounded on Gilles. ‘Put away your sword!’

‘I do not believe him!’

‘He wears the holy cross. Should you murder him, you will answer for it. Come to your senses. We are surrounded by the enemy and we need every man we can find. Has he not risked his life
riding through these mountains to bring us the reinforcements we sorely need?
Now put away your sword.
’

Gilles’s face flushed pink. He sheathed his sword with the reluctance of a man ripping off his own arm. He did not take his eyes from Philip. ‘We will settle accounts, you and
I,’ he said. ‘I will not let this stand.’

F
ATHER
O
RTIZ WAS
surprised at how quickly Anselm had erected his scaffolding. Somehow he had
already organized his rabble of martial pilgrims into a viable workforce.

He stood in the nave with Father Jorda and watched him work. ‘He is nimble for a man of his age,’ he said.

‘As I told you, Father, he is one of the best. He enjoyed a great reputation in Toulouse. Now that you have seen that he is in earnest, I take it you will release his daughter, as you
promised.’

‘I promised to consider it.’

‘But, Father . . .’

‘You have yet to learn the virtue of obedience, Brother Jorda. Why must you always contend with me?’

‘But I have spoken to many people who know her. She has never claimed to work miracles. She poses no threat to the faith. We should let her go.’

‘Did you not hear how she spoke to me at the gate? I do not intend to discuss this further with you, Brother Jorda.’ He returned his attention to the stonemason. ‘What is he
doing up there, do you think?’ He called to him to come down. Anselm shinned down the scaffolding with the ease of a man half his age.

He wears just fingerless gloves and a tunic, Father Ortiz noticed. He seems impervious to cold.

‘There is a problem,’ Anselm said, jumping nimbly on to the floor.

‘What sort of problem?’

‘I have been examining the cracks in the vault and while doing so I found an inscription. It is in Latin, I think. I cannot read it. It may be sacred and therefore to be preserved but I
worry that it was left there by Cathars.’

‘Why would they do such a thing?’

Anselm shrugged. ‘I would like you to see it. I have never seen an inscription in such an unlikely place before.’

A wooden ladder had been propped against the scaffold leading to a platform halfway up the structure, a rope ladder ascending the rest of the way. Father Ortiz hesitated, then hitched his
cassock into the cord at his waist, as a woman would do with her skirts. He followed Anselm up the ladder. The frame of the platform swayed under their weight.

Anselm easily reached the timber planks spanning the vault. Father Ortiz finally struggled up the rope ladder and joined him.

Anselm pointed to something carved into the stone, halfway across the walkway. Father Ortiz inched across. He had never been on a scaffold before; he started to sweat, despite the cold.

‘See here,’ Anselm said.

Father Ortiz saw what Anselm was pointing at, a cross carved into the stone and next to it the words:
Rex Mundi.
Rex Mundi, King of the World! It was the name the Cathars gave to the
Devil.

‘This is sacrilege,’ Father Ortiz said. ‘How did it get here?’

‘I put it there, Father.’

‘You? What do you mean?’

‘I wanted you to see it before you died. I wanted you to know what I think of you and all priests like you.’

Father Ortiz stared at him, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’ll never let her go. I know you won’t. You’ll let her rot in the dungeon.’

‘Of course I will release her. You have my word. Now let me down from here!’

‘It’s high, isn’t it? We’re so high we’re almost in heaven. We can go there together if you like.’

Father Ortiz looked back over his shoulder. The rope ladder seemed so very far away. He started to shuffle back along the planks, the way he had come. ‘Think of your soul, Anselm. Should
you harm a priest you would be damned for all time.’

‘Perhaps it would be worth it.’

‘If I die, she dies too! We had a bargain, remember?’ He saw Simon far below. ‘Help me!’ he shouted.

‘Some bargain. I don’t trust any of you bastards any more.’

Father Ortiz turned and scrambled for the ladder but Anselm was too quick for him. He wrapped his arms around him and held him easily.

‘You will burn in hell for this, for all eternity!’

‘Eternity is worth it, you Devil-fucker.’ The scaffolding lurched and swayed. ‘I wonder who is right, you or the Cathars? One of you must be wrong. Very soon we will find out
for sure. No more wondering, eh?’

Father Ortiz soiled himself. Anselm frowned in disgust.

‘Come now, why are you frightened? I’m doing you a favour. I am transporting you to paradise!’

‘Don’t,’ Father Ortiz whimpered.

‘We shall go to heaven together. Nothing will hurt us, save when we reach the ground. It will be quick, we shall know nothing of it. Not quite the mercy you showed my poor Elionor, was it?
Say goodbye to the world, Father Ortiz. If it truly is the Devil’s creation then we are both well out of it.’

Father Ortiz screamed, but briefly. He struck one of the stone angels as he fell, snapping off her wing and her head. It seemed to Simon that they bounced a finger’s
breadth from the earthen floor as they landed.

Once dead, they formed an awful, bleeding tableau on the floor; Father Ortiz lay beneath, Anselm above. One of the broken wings from the statue lay by Father Ortiz’s skull. The
angel’s head lay at his feet.

Simon remembered what Fabricia had said:
You will die surrounded by angels.
He staggered back, and then ran for assistance.

T
HE BODY HAD
been washed, dressed in liturgical robes and laid out on a catafalque in the nave. His wrists had been tied
together so that his hands lay across his chest in the attitude of prayer, clutching a gold crucifix. Hundreds of candles had been lit around him.

Gilles fell on his knees to pray for the soul of Father Ortiz, and when he was done he stood up and walked up to Father Jorda, who stood vigil in the shadows of the chapel. ‘You’re
next,’ he said and walked out.

Philip came in to pay his respects. As he examined the corpse he raised an eyebrow. ‘Was he very handsome once?’

‘He was devout and cared nothing for the flesh.’

‘Just as well when one sees what has become of it. You cannot even be sure he had a beard. Did he have a beard?’

‘A slight one.’

‘This could be the stonemason. You may have burned the wrong body.’ Philip glanced towards the door of the crypt. They were quite alone. He took a dagger from his belt and casually
held it at Simon’s throat.

‘What are you doing?’ Simon said.

‘Where is she?’ he said.

‘This is your plan? To slice my throat in the crypt?’

‘For want of a better one. Threatening to slice a man’s jugular has worked for me before.’

‘She is in the jail under the
donjon
, and killing me is not going to help you get her out.’

‘You are very calm for someone with a knife at his throat.’

‘If you meant to kill me you would have done it. I assume you want something from me. And because we both want the same thing I do not think I have anything to fear from you.’

‘We both want the same thing? Is that what you think?’

‘We both want the girl safely out of that dungeon and away from here. Don’t we, Philip?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘I spent some hours in the company of her father when I was ordered to bring him back here to Montaillet. He was cold and grieving and miserable and felt the need to unburden his soul. He
told me all about you, how Fabricia had placed great hopes in a certain nobleman from Burgundy. He thought you were dead or had abandoned her. I see he was wrong on both counts.’

Philip put the dagger back in his belt. ‘You knew who I was when I arrived here at the castle?’

‘Of course.’

‘You could have betrayed me to Father Ortiz and that other albino bastard.’

‘I had no interest in betraying you.’

‘Why do you want to help the girl?’

‘Not all priests are like Father Ortiz.’

‘Yes they are.’

‘Well then, perhaps I am not a very good priest. She is unjustly accused.’

‘When has justice ever troubled a cleric? There is more to it than that.’

Simon lowered his eyes. ‘Perhaps she will tell you herself when you are away from here.’

Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely not, you don’t look the type. More of a bum-boy than a lover, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘How do you plan to get her out?’

Philip shrugged.

‘You have money?’

‘A little.’

Simon held out his hand. ‘Give it to me. I shall bribe her gaoler.’

‘Why don’t you just order her release yourself? Can’t you do that now he’s dead?’

‘The gaoler is the baron’s man. He is susceptible to gold, not orders, especially from a priest. Do you know a way out of this place except by the main gate?’

‘One way. I doubt if the new owners have discovered it yet.’

‘Where?’

‘Below the stables. There is an iron grille on the end wall; push against it and it leads to what might be a mistaken for a storeroom. But there is another tunnel that leads off it and it
goes down under the castle to a cave.’

‘Very well, leave it to me. Spend your time in prayer out of the way of the seigneur. I will find you tonight after compline. Be ready to ride.’

Philip decided to trust him because he had no choice. From habit he made the sign of the cross over Father Ortiz’s body and left the crypt.

T
HE DEAD WOMAN
was a camp follower and would not be missed.

She lay in a corner of the church like a pile of rags. God alone knew what rot or disease had wasted her, though she must have been comely enough once. She mumbled a last confession though she
was so weak he could hardly hear her. He gave her absolution anyway; soon enough she would be the problem of a judge more profound than he.

When her last gurgling breath had stopped he made the sign of the cross and got to his feet. ‘What shall we do with her?’ one of the soldiers said.

‘Bring her to the crypt.’

The two soldiers looked at each other. One smirked, the other shook his head; sad to witness how low the reputation of churchmen must have sunk if they thought he intended to violate the corpse.
Still, he no longer cared what such men thought of him.

Not far away from him, Philip knelt before the shrine of the Madonna in the transept, staring at the bloodstains on the ground. Some of it had splashed up the pillars. Fabricia
had always described her father as a gentle giant; but such gentleness is not a constant thing, he thought. They had pushed the poor man beyond madness. Fear the man who has nothing to lose.

He wondered about Fabricia, what she must be suffering. Just a few more hours, he thought, be patient. Tonight he would get her out of that tomb they had buried her in. He would not contemplate
failing her. He had failed too many people in his life. Not this time.

‘You came back then?’ He looked up. It was Loup. ‘The stonemason killed the priest. I was here. I saw the whole thing.’

‘He was a brave man.’

‘He was crazy.
Fou.
Did you come back for me?’

‘For the woman.’

‘Are you getting her out of here?’

‘Tonight. You want to come with us?’

‘You’re only saying that because if you don’t take me, I could tell Gilles everything I know about you.’

‘That’s true. But I also owe you my life. I have not forgotten it.’

Loup knelt down beside him. He stared at the picture of the Madonna on the wall. ‘You will not leave without me then?’

‘Be waiting by the stables tonight after compline. You have my word.’

‘And you must keep it, seigneur. You’ll be sorry if you don’t.’

Philip watched him slip away. Had the boy really threatened him? Perhaps he should have listened to Renaut that night by the side of the road.
Seigneur, this is not a good idea.

Simon took the gaoler, Ganach, aside. The man was not, as he had assumed, a complete brute. His breath reeked of garlic and his teeth were rotten, but he knew the value of a
coin or two.

Simon could also see that Ganach was frightened of him, so he fixed him with a stare that let him know he could be every bit as ruthless as his predecessor, Father Ortiz. ‘Do not breathe a
word of this to anyone or it will go badly for you. I shall make sure of that.’

‘Father, I am an honest man,’ Ganach said, unable to appreciate the irony of that statement. ‘You can rely on me.’

I need only rely on you for a few hours, Simon thought. After that it really won’t matter.

A few hours later Ganach drew out the bolt of the trapdoor and Simon stepped down into the pit.

He held up the torch and studied the pale skeleton before him in the light of the candle. She was covered in filth and sores.

He felt his spirit tear like vellum.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.