Free Stigmata by Colin Falconer

the hall and
no one had thought to sweep the rushes. There was the sound of snoring from the straw by the cold fire and laughter from the stables. He went to the window, saw the stable boys playing knucklebones
in the yard. They should be feeding the horses and mucking out the stalls.
    He dragged the nearest of the servants to his feet and took him by the ear. ‘Your master’s home, and is done with his grieving now. Today it is just a scolding; tomorrow I shall come
down with the whip. Be sure to be about your business.’
    He rolled the rest of them out of the straw with his boot. They ran off: he would not need the whip. He would not have used it anyway, but they did not need to know that.
    He went down to the scullery, stepped over a kitchen boy asleep on the stairs. There were weevils in the flour, mouse droppings in the larder. Grain crunched under his boot. Rats had chewed
through every one of the grain sacks and a pheasant lay unplucked on the bench. It seemed that no one had thought to salt the pork and it had turned rotten.
    ‘I tried to tell them,’ Renaut said. ‘They wouldn’t listen to me. There was even talk that perhaps you were not coming back.’
    ‘There’s mildew in the pot, for the love of God.’
    What did I expect? he thought. When I put on the cross, it had fallen to her to pay the soldiers, scold the servants, have the hides tanned and the grain milled and keep count of the spice boxes
and the candles. Perhaps she was right, God’s cause was better served here in Vercy than in Jerusalem.
    ‘When the lady Alezaïs died . . .’
    ‘I understand. The fault lies with me, no one else.’ The boy was awake now, standing by the cold hearth, wide-eyed with fright. ‘Get the servants here now,’ he said to
him. ‘There’s work to be done.’
    The boy ran off.
    He turned to Renaut. ‘The sun is out. I want all the bed and table linen washed. Have we enough firewood for the winter? Get it done. Now that I am home I think you will find they listen
to you better. Tomorrow we go hunting. Let us pray we find a stag or two and fat boars or it’s going to be a lean winter.’
    Somewhere in the castle a child was crying.
    ‘In God’s name, what is that?’
    ‘He does not have a name yet,’ Renaut said. ‘Do you want to see him?’
    ‘Not now.’ He turned for the stair. ‘I’m going to see to the stable boys, throw their dice in the moat. Then they can saddle my horse.’
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘I need to talk to my wife.’

 
XIV
    Toulouse
    F ABRICIA GROANED AND rolled on to her side. She put her hand between her legs and stared at the slimy, watery mess of
blood. She imagined this might be what it was like to be a young man knocked down in a fight, robbed and beaten by the companion with whom you were so taken a few minutes before.
    And she had thought him so sad and so gentle.
    She must get up off this floor; her mother would soon be home from the market. Would she tell her? But then her mother would tell her father and he would act upon that knowledge. Her family
would be brought to ruin.
    If I am to go to the nunnery then my maidenhead is no longer of concern to any future husband, so no harm done there, she thought. Unless he has got me with child. But there is an old woman who
lives just outside the city walls who they say can give a girl a potion of herbs that will flush away a babe before it has a chance to grow.
    All this decided and I have not yet pulled down my skirts.
    She dragged herself to her feet, brushed the rushes from her clothes, smoothed down her hair. No bruises, then, no marks.
    I feel as if I have been ripped and I want to spend the day weeping but I shan’t, and yes, aside from this, no harm done.
    Silence then, and the old woman at the wall.
    *
    The city glared back at him. He shared conspiracy with the meanest cutpurse; the lowest beggar glanced up at him from the filthy alleys and knew his sin to its core.
    He avoided a leper who passed him on