flushed with blood, their bodies taut and erect. Even the women watched without modesty; many seemed more passionate than the men, flinching as each blow struck home. The only sounds were the hiss of wood in the air, and the abrupt snap as it cut into the naked flesh beneath. Soon every blow produced a spray of blood, though not a single droplet stained the whiteness of Peter Bartholomew’s robe. His hands were crossed penitently before him, his lips parted in rapture, but he never closed his eyes or lifted his gaze from the punishment before him. Where was Raymond?
I suppose I had seen many men beaten in my time, but this sickened me. I could not watch the naked wretches, for even that felt like complicity. I looked over my shoulder, praying that Raymond would come. When I turned back, my gaze involuntarily fell on the stage. The noise of the blows had stopped, and the beaters had lifted up the victims to display their punishment. It was a gruesome sight. Blood had run down their sides and embraced them all around: it trickled down the woman’s breasts, smeared her belly and matted in the fair hair between her thighs. With her bare head, she reminded me terribly of a newborn baby fresh from the womb. The man was in little better state.
Peter stepped forward. He held himself very still, the quivering restraint of a man who knew the slightest touch might cause him to disgorge himself. A bead of spittle dribbled from his mouth.
‘Truly it is said, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than ninety-nine who never strayed.’ He stretched out his arms again. ‘Do you repent?’
The battered man cleared his throat, spitting gobs of blood on the stage. ‘I repent,’ he croaked.
‘And you?’ Peter turned to the woman, struggling to keep the leer from his face. ‘Do you repent of your sins?’
She mumbled something I could not hear. It evidently satisfied Peter. He crouched down, and appeared to draw or write something in the blood on the stage with his finger. ‘Your flesh has been made clean, purged with suffering and redeemed in blood.’
He crooked a beckoning finger towards the crowd. Three men climbed onto the stage, carrying a brazier between them, and set it down beside Peter. He pulled the poker from the fire. A dull orange heat smouldered in its tip, which I saw was forged in the sign of the cross. Two men took the woman by the arms, though she did not resist or even flinch, and turned her to face Peter.
‘Receive the mark of Christ as a sign of your penitence. Let it live in your flesh, as He lives in your soul.’
Somewhere in the distance a rumbling began. Some in the crowd looked to the heavens; others glanced over their shoulders and made the sign of the cross. Peter paused.
A host of mounted knights broke into the clearing. Tents tottered and collapsed as flying hooves kicked over the stakes and pegs that held them. As they met the pilgrim throng the horsemen turned aside, riding around the fringe of the crowd like dogs herding sheep. Last of all, flanked by four knights in full armour, came Count Raymond. He lowered his lance and trotted forward, using the tip to prise a path between the pilgrims until he could look down at the blood-soaked figures cowering on the stage.
‘Amanieu? Amanieu of Vienne? What have these peasants done to you?’ He swung around towards Peter. ‘How dare you touch a knight of mine, let alone inflict. .
Peter put the branding iron back in the brazier. Sparks flew up from the coals. ‘This man was caught in adultery. The laws of Moses and of Christ demand punishment.’
For all I would willingly have stabbed the branding iron through Peter’s heart at that moment, a part of me marvelled at the transformation wrought in him. Not so long ago he had been a snivelling, pox-scarred wretch of no consequence, who might have died a hundred times over on the march from Constantinople and never been remembered. Now he stood on the dais in his spotless robe and serenely traded words with the greatest prince of the age. What could have changed a man like that?
Raymond pricked his horse with his spurs and pulled on its reins, so that it reared up. Its hooves flailed in the air, terrifyingly close to Peter Bartholomew’s head.
‘I am the authority,’ Raymond snarled. ‘I say who is guilty and what their punishment will be. As for you, even to touch one of my knights is death.’
‘This was not my doing,’ protested Peter. ‘My disciple Amanieu, and the woman he lay with — they sinned, and they knew they must be punished. It is to save their own souls. Do you see any bonds restraining them?’
Raymond turned to the knight.
‘Is this true, Amanieu?’
The knight, naked and streaked with blood, nodded. Raymond spat onto the stage.
‘Then you are a fool. A fool for sleeping with that whore, and a thrice-cursed fool for submitting to this peasant’s madness. As for you,’ he hissed at Peter Bartholomew, ‘I raised you from nothing and I can return you to nothing. Do not
Through all this confrontation, the accused woman had stood at the edge of the stage, bleeding, shivering, naked and forgotten. Now, suddenly, she took three steps towards the brazier and snatched the branding iron from the fire. She held it with both hands, the burning cross pointed towards her, then plunged it into the soft flesh of her breast.
I never thought a noise alone could rupture a man’s soul, but the woman’s scream of terrible, euphoric agony hit me like poison. I leaned forward and retched, my body unable to stomach the evil. When the scream stopped, I looked up.
The woman lay sprawled unconscious on the platform, the smoke of burned flesh rising from her wound. Peter Bartholomew stood over her, a beatific smile adorning his face.
‘Go,’ he declared, ‘and sin no more.’
25
Raymond gave his decision that night; the next morning, we struck our camp and headed west for the coast. The road led us down from the plateau where we had camped, into a green, steep-sided valley. To our left, the valley climbed away until it merged with the lower slopes of the distant mountain, while opposite it rose to a series of commanding bluffs and hilltops. We could only see them in snatches, though, for the warmer air in the valley brought a thick mist down over us. Ragged fingers drifted by, curling round as if beckoning us on. From behind, the low melody of the pilgrims’ psalms droned in the fog.
‘I hate that sound,’ said Anna. ‘Like a wasp, hovering over your shoulder and waiting to sting.’
Soft hoofbeats cantered down the line towards us. I half-drew my sword, then let it slide back in its scabbard as I saw Aelfric emerge from the mist. He dropped down from the saddle to walk beside us, leading his horse by its reins.
‘The scouts say there’s a castle ahead.’ He jerked a thumb to our right, to the northern side of the valley. ‘High up on those bluffs.’
I groaned. The ordeal of the day before had drained me as much as any battle, and I could not countenance the thought of having to fight now. ‘Will the castellan let us pass in peace?’
Aelfric shrugged. ‘I don’t think anyone asked him.’
‘Will Raymond attack?’
‘He’s a fool if he does. The castle’s perched up there like a crow’s nest. Cliffs on three sides, high walls all around, and probably a garrison ready to roll us straight back down the hill with rocks and boiling pitch. They’ve had plenty of time to know we’re coming.’
‘Perhaps they won’t see us in this mist,’ said Sigurd hopefully. Though he untied the leather cover from his axe soon afterwards.
The fog seemed to lift higher as we moved down the valley. It did little to relieve my spirits. The crest of the ridge to our right was still obscured, and I was constantly glancing up to reassure myself there were not hordes of Saracens waiting to slaughter us. Gradually our pace slowed and our column squeezed up on itself, until even in the lingering mist I could see the clustered banners of Count Raymond’s bodyguard close ahead of us.
‘If we get any nearer those horses they’ll be shitting on our heads,’ said Sigurd.
Count Raymond must have thought the same; soon one of his knights came riding back to order us to slow
