Stigmata
A Doctor Who fanfic story
by Bex

Part 2

"Denora!" the Doctor shouted, shouldering open the door to her home. A quick glance around showed him that no one was there. Hurrying over to the fireplace, he carefully laid the old man down on his side upon the blanket strewn there, then stood for a few moments, looking at the dark red stain, then glancing at the doorway through which a square of watery afternoon sun was shining.

No time to waste. He gathered such implements as were scattered around the cottage: a iron kettle of water which he hung above the fire to heat, several linen towels which he ripped into narrow strips. He then knelt down and began to peel away the shredded, blood-saturated wool from around the arrow's shaft. Careful as his ministrations were, Leon began to stir and moan.

Hmmm . . . It might not be as bad as it looked. The arrow seemed to have passed right through the old farmer's shoulder. He snapped off the feathered end, eliciting a cry of pain.

"I'm sorry," he told the oldster. "This is going to hurt you, but it has to be done."

Then he rolled the old man partially over, took hold of the arrow right behind its iron point and carefully but swiftly drew out the shaft. Leon let out a strangled scream and went limp. Fainted. Gritting his teeth against the gush of blood, the Doctor applied a thick compress of linen, did the same to the wound on the back, then held it all in place with a thin strip of linen wound round the shoulder.

Sitting back with a sigh, he closed his eyes. It was the sense of presence that caused him to open them again, turn his head to see Denora watching him from just inside the doorway.

She hurried to their side, leaving her bundles of herbs on the table. Squatting down, she said evenly, "You've done this before." Looking over the bandage with professional eyes, she nodded in approval, then back up at the Time Lord kneeling next to her. "You've been in battle, treated the wounded before."

The Doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Oh, yes. Well, on the sidelines. One . . . learns things."

"Who did this to him?" Her voice was sharp and angry.

"It was an ambush. Someone tried to killl us when we went up into the woods above the village."

Her eyes widened. "But why?" He gave her a meaningful look and her eyes narrowed. "Because you ask questions? Because you want to know what has been happening here?"

The Doctor sighed. "Denora . . . Denora, knowledge is power. You know that, you, respected midwife and herbalist as you are." He gestured to the dried bunches of herbs hanging about the cottage.

"I know, but--"

"No buts about it," he said, forestalling her with an upraised hand, and she flushed in annoyance as he continued. "Someone, or rather, something wants a free reign in this village, and they're willing to kill to prevent any interference." He paused in consideration. "Or, rather, to influence others to do their bidding . . ."

"How do you mean?"

"Something Leon said just before we left. He'd been told he would not meet the figures from his vision again, and was most reluctant to even return to the spot where he'd seen them. Others have probably also been affected, unwilling to disobey whatever the beings have told them."

"Even if told to attack someone they've known all their lives?"

"Even so."

She kept her voice even. "Is it . . . is it, as some say, the Devil?" The Doctor looked sharply at her as she went on, "If such a demon has come to Gerant . . ."

"No," he said then, "I've met many beings during my travels. Even met old Beelzebub himself. These beings we seek are flesh and blood. And willing to be very ruthless, it seems."

Denora looked down and sighed, then back up at him. "More than an evil-ward can drive away?"

The Doctor looked bemused, and she gestured at the dried and dusty cluster suspended over the doorway. "An evil-ward? It'll take more than that to send them packing, I'm afraid."

"And you know what will?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to reply and paused, registering the subtle note of challenge. His smile widened. "I have a few ideas."

"And these are?"

But he was shaking his head now. "Soon. In the meantime . . . What do you say to another stroll in the forest?"

? ? ?

They walked out of Gerant together, as if they had not a care in the world. Denora clutched her covered gathering basket tight, a moment later pausing to nod greetings at Horance, out tending his flax field at the village perimeter. He returned the gesture and stood peering after them, leering.

The Doctor glanced over and regarded the midwife's reddened face curiously. "Is there something wrong?"

A quick shake of negation. "No. Nothing." He gave off the same aura of disinterest at her womanliness as the most chaste brother, but what others might think of them leaving together . . . Seizing at a logical objection, she hissed: "But they could attack at any time!"

"Not yet--not while still within sight of the village. Come on; quickly now!" With a hand to her arm, he hurried them into the grove of trees at the side of the road the minute they turned the bend and were out of sight of the settlement below.

Under the sun-dappled shelter, they waited. Denora strained to see. Her eyes were good enough, but she narrowed them, not sure what to expect: an apparition appearing from mid-air, perhaps?

In the end, it was the much more prosaic sight of two of Lord Xavier's servants, walking along the track, then pausing to consult, the sounds of their drifting voices low and urgent. One pointed ahead, the other to the brush opposite, then in their direction, and she drew back, willing herself smaller. The Doctor did not move, but stared at their pursuers. Finally the two men proceeded on their way. Denora let out a sigh and slumped.

"Now," the Doctor said, eyes gleaming, "we--"

"You're not going to follow them?!"

"Of course not!" he said, looking indignant, and despite her annoyance and alarm, Denora felt a sense of relief at the so very ordinary umbrage--like any man she had met. "I'm going to go and have a chat with their boss. I wonder if he knows what his servants have been up to." He patted her shoulder in what she decided to take as a gesture of absent-minded comradeship.

And off he strode, his eyes distant, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Flummoxed, Denora watched him go. No good-bye, no good-luck . . . He always just left, not even asking her if she wanted to accompany him.

"Well," she muttered, turning away and stepping over dried meadow grasses and underbrush on her way back to the pebbled track. "Fine! Go talk to their 'boss'." She frowned, wondering if the unfamiliar word was some sort of insult. Lord Xavier would not give the Doctor much of an audience if he addressed him with that sort of impudence. The more she thought of it, the more she was convinced that the Doctor was off on a fool's errand. She really ought to go back and talk some sense into him, and--

She started violently. Xavier's two men were in front of her, blocking her way as they stared at her. Denora smiled shakily. "G-good matin," she said and made as if to step by them.

One, a medium-height fellow with a red woolen tunic, umber leggings and graying brown hair, put out an arm, forestalling her.

"The man, the one you were just with. Where is he?" His fellow, in dun and dark brown, looked at her with keen eyes, his right hand settling lightly on the knife on his belt. They both carried short hunting bows and partially-full quivers.

"Pardon? The man?" Denora gave them a harried look. "Oh! The traveller. He chanced upon me as I was leaving to pick mugwort in the upper meadow. A strange one, certainly." When their grim countenances didn't waver, she hurried on: "He merely made greetings and went on his way."

"You lie." The pronouncement was made with a flat certainty. "You left the village together." He glanced around. "What are you doing hiding in these trees?"

"I'm not hiding! I thought I saw some foxtails; very rare! Now if you'll excuse me, I have mugwort to gather--I might be using it during your next fever!" She stepped forward.

They let her go. Her cheeks flaming at the unexpected rudeness, Denora hurried away up the track, turning aside into the forest as soon as they were out of sight. She waited, but they did not follow.

Biting her lip with indecision, she retraced her steps, but the trail was empty. She stared out over the meadow, perturbed. She should have seen them, small shapes below on the track near the town gates. Which meant they had set off cross-country. In the direction the Doctor had taken.

"Oh, Doctor," she murmured, her forehead creasing."Be ware . . ."

? ? ?

Lord Xavier's rule was due more to his aura of competence than his lineage, which stretched back a mere three generations, since a resourceful great-grandsire had been made a peer by the king. His lands though were impressive, stretching many furlongs on either side of the river. His fair rule kept order for many miles throughout the fertile flood plain and his current Overlord, the Duc de Berry, depended, he knew, on his continued support. Recent harvests had been good, it had been years since the river had flooded and none of his near relatives had displayed any unseemly ambitions--yet.

One dark stain blotted Xavier's contentment. He glanced at the figure of his wife as she moved about the fire, her shoulders slumped in perpetual grief even as she carried on in her duties, determined to oversee the household.

Three months since his son had been still-born, after several years of fruitless couplings, and Lady Alicia's grief was as fresh as it had been yesterday. He still wasn't sure if he blamed her or not, despite her aching guilt. Perhaps Father Beran was right: the Father, Lord of them all, moved in mysterious ways, demanded strange tribute. That tale, of Abraham, told to sacrifice his son . . .

Xavier shuddered. He couldn't have done it. He needed to beget a son and quickly, he noted, for the tenth time in as many days. The death had left him numb; a portent of things to come. Such good fortune as his valley had enjoyed demanded a price, he could see that now.

He would have to take on a leman soon. It would hurt Alicia immensely. Final confirmation of her barrenness. Still, she would adapt. Oversee the brat's proper raising. Who knew; perhaps she might yet still bear him an heir, turning the former claimant back into an ordinary bastard son.

Stranger things had happened.

A stranger drew open the doors of Xavier's timber meeting hall then strode down the centre, past gaping plaintiffs as if he owned the place and its true lord, sitting on a carved chair on the dais at the end, was merely warming his seat for him. It wasn't until the stranger reached the end of the waiting area and a couple of glaring guards stepped forward, barring his way, that he seemed to take notice of his surroundings.

"Ah!" A slight frown, then a gormless smile. "I'm sorry; I appear to have skipped protocol, again. Well, now that I'm here, I might as well--"

He paused as the figure on the dais raised a hand. The handsome man, bearded, his black hair shot through with silver, seemed more amused than angry. "And who," he asked, "are you?"

A wide smile. "I am the Doctor. And you would be, if I am not mistaken, the lord of this delightful valley."

Xavier stared, bemused by the fellow's impudent air. He had the air of a jester, but bore himself like any peer of the realm. A most strange combination . . . But he desired diversion today: anything to take his mind off his dark mood of late. Lucky for this fellow.

"I am," Xavier declared. "I take it you seek an audience with me?"

The "Doctor" grinned. "That would be most useful," he replied, as a number of spectators exchanged looks consisting of equal parts of indignation and confusion.

Xavier spread his arms wide in a beneficent gesture, quite willing to play along. "Then speak."

The Doctor looked surprised, as if the success was unexpected and unplanned for. "Oh. Erm . . . Well, I was just curious as to why"--his gaze darted around the meeting hall, at the clusters of plaintiffs, accusers and retainers--"why those two servants of yours over there tried to kill me and a harmless old farmer earlier today." He pointed at the two figures who had just slipped into the hall.

A murmur arose amongst the onlookers, a whisper of laughter and speculation, many obviously starting to conclude this to be an impromptu spectacle for their amusement.

Behind his slight, superior smile, Xavier was flicking his glance over his servitors, seeking the distant shapes the Doctor had pointed out. When he spied them, standing in the back, his eyes narrowed. Giraud and Haffnon. Two of his huntsmen, competent and loyal enough, from what he had observed so far. The lord turned his attention back to the figure standing before him, fixing the man with a steely gaze, which the fellow returned unflinchingly. Interesting. Not a light jest, then, nor the plaintiff one without resolve. "Let the two you have identified come forward," he called.

The two hunters hesitated, then detached themselves from the onlookers in the back and walked forward into full view. They bowed respectfully and waited, not deigning to glance aside at their accuser, who was observing them closely.

"Doctor."

The man started, roused out of his reverie.

"These are the men you accuse of attempted murder?"

The Doctor hesitated, then said, "Yes."

"And when did this alleged crime occur?"

"This morning. Leon of Gerant was injured in the attack; he may yet die of it."

Xavier leaned aside to listen to murmured counsel from his steward, Joseph. Yes, the villagers were talking of Leon's injuries. Xavier nodded, returning his attention to the men standing before him. "Do you have a witness to this attack?"

"None, save Leon," the Doctor admitted. "But Denora of Gerant helped to treat the wound; she will vouch that he has been injured."

At the name, Xavier frowned. A name that brought him back to that night... he forcibly mastered himself, quickly smoothed his expression and lifted his head to stare at the two plaintiffs. "You two," he said briskly, indicating the two hunters. "What do you say to this accusation?"

They bowed again, ever-respectful, in stark contrast to the stranger's casual manner. "This is the first we have seen of this man. All morning we were within the castle, milord, retipping arrows."

Near the back, a figure stepped out. Stephen the Fletcher. "I can vouch for that."

Xavier swung his head around to peer at the Doctor. "Are you quite certain you wish to pursue this matter further? There are severe penalties for perjury in my realm." His earlier amusement had long faded.

The Doctor, brow furrowed, opened his mouth to answer, then paused, looking from huntsmen to lord and back at the fletcher.

"It is possible . . . that I was mistaken," he admitted. "But someone attacked us; I assume you desire order in your lands--"

Xavier's hand raised with a sharp jerky movement. "The matter will be investigated." The Doctor's mouth turned thin-lipped.

The lord leaned forward. "You have taken up enough of our valuable time. I suggest you conclude whatever business brought you to Gerant and be on your way." He looked away, over the Doctor's head to the line of supplicants waiting to be heard.

"Let the next plaintiff come forward!" the steward called out.

When Xavier looked up again, the Doctor was gone.


To be continued...