The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau straightened. There was a sharp pain in his forehead, but it was already beginning to dull. He turned to La Selva’s man. ‘Take your thug and get out of here while you can.’ He turned to see that Balthesar and Ramon had both stepped forward threateningly, preventing the others from joining in had they the desire. The two sisters protected the doorway like some wild seraphim.

  The captain snarled his anger, but he was in the wrong, He had broken his orders, and if word of it got back to La Selva he could be in trouble. He backed away towards the trees, his men following on.

  Arnau joined the others and pushed his way into the mill, pulling the door shut behind him.

  ‘With luck that’s the last we’ll see of that lot,’ Balthesar murmured as they listened to two of the watchers outside picking up their broken compatriot and dragging him away.

  Arnau shook his head with a sigh. ‘I’ve a lot to catch you up on, but suffice it to say that their master will already have changed his mind and given his men authority to attack us. It just hasn’t reached these men yet, thankfully.’

  As one of the sisters locked the door, Arnau crossed to a seat and sank into it wearily, the other two knights and the preceptrix joining him. As Ramon poured them each a cup of wine, Arnau began to tell his tale, from the visit to Barbera and the missing files, the discovery of de Comminges and his likely Cathar connection; the part La Selva was playing and how he had been at the mother house with de Comminges, to Tarragona and the discovery that La Selva was also the paborda; their ingenious theft of the documents, Arnau’s retrieving of the ones from Rourell and how even now the evidence sat in a ruined hut four miles away. Finally he described his meeting with de Mont and the discovery that it had all been for nothing.

  ‘De Mont is not a bad man, it turns out,’ he sighed in conclusion. ‘He is being used like many others, and is too slavishly tied to the Rule in its unyielding form to refuse his part in it. But an acting master, the archbishop, and the paborda who is also a powerful temporal lord are all arrayed against us, and I cannot see how to move any further.’

  Ramon nodded. ‘These men are very high up in their respective worlds. The only way to overcome them would be to take the evidence directly to their superiors.’

  The preceptrix steepled her hands upon the table. ‘There are few figures who can overshadow the master of a house. Here we are under the aegis of Barbera, but Barbera answers only to the master of Provence and Aragon, the high commanders of the three states of Outremer and the Grand Master himself. The master of Aragon, Peire de Montagut, is currently in the east along with the three high commanders and the Grand Master, Guillaume de Chartres. As such, there is something of a power vacuum at the top of our part of the world. The only brothers who can compel someone of de Comminges’s current rank are all in the Holy land, a month or more’s travel away.’

  ‘And by the time we got there, you and the preceptory would be no more,’ Balthesar grumbled. ‘So we cannot look within our order for a way to overturn this. How about the archbishop?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ Ramon replied. ‘Just His Holiness in Rome and his cardinals outrank our friend Rocaberti. Only two of the cardinals are currently in this peninsula. One is a leading voice in the continual push to reclaim Almohad lands and can be found somewhere in the south. It would take months to locate him. The other is a cousin of Rocaberti’s and there is little to no chance of him siding with us against the archbishop. Your best chance within the Church is to go to Rome itself, which is no more feasible than seeking the Grand Master in the Holy Land. I fear the archbishop cannot be overwhelmed.’

  ‘Then that leaves La Selva,’ Arnau said, slapping his hand down on the table. ‘He is the paborda and we cannot get to him through the Church, but he is also a noble of the Aragonese court. Who could pressure him from above?’

  Balthesar shrugged. ‘Before his death, Castellvell probably could have, though the countess does not have the support to try, I fear. There might be a few high nobles of Aragon who could and would do so, though the way court politics moves like currents in the ocean, it would be hard to say who may or may not stand for or against La Selva at any given moment.’

  ‘There is one man who we can guarantee stands above him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The King. The King of Aragon, who is also the Count of Barcelona. He has ultimate authority over La Selva, and he cannot condone such corruption in his nobles and the churchmen of his land. Our appeal court is the royal court!’

  Ramon leaned forward now, his eyes sparkling. ‘Lord, but you might be onto something. The Court meets at Monzón, halfway between Zaragoza and Barcelona. That cannot be more than seventy or eighty miles from here. We could be there in just two days. We might have time to stop this, still.’

  Balthesar straightened, he too full of fresh energy. ‘Better still, we know that the king is in residence with his court. It is said he deliberates at Monzón whether to join his Cathar nobles in defying the Pope’s crusade. A shameful business in its own right, but one that conveniently has the king close by. Yet this is Arnau’s task alone.’

  Ramon turned a frown on his friend. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because no one knows the details of this conspiracy as he does. He has unpicked most of it himself, after all. And while we might make an impressive entourage to escort him to court, the last thing we can afford to do is to leave Rourell and the preceptrix unguarded. If Arnau is correct and La Selva is prepared to throw caution to the wind and turn openly against us, the preceptrix is an easy target here. And de Mont will now be pressurised to finish this quickly. No, Ramon, you and I stay here to make sure that nothing untoward happens while he is away.’ The old man turned to Arnau. ‘It is late in the day. Will you wait until dawn?’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘La Selva’s men will be back, and this time they may have murder in mind. I need to be gone before they block the way. I need to get to Tristán and retrieve him and the files and then ride as fast as we can for the court at Monzón. Speed is now of the essence.’

  The older knight nodded and gestured to the others. ‘Arnau has only his horse and his travelling gear. He cannot return to the preceptory to prepare for his journey, so he must have whatever we can give him. Rustle up any food reserves we have here, and if anyone has coin about them, they must pass it to him.’

  He turned to Arnau. ‘If you must, sell what you carry, but make it to Monzón and then come back to us with a victory.’

  Chapter Ten

  A desperate cause

  Fraga, 5th October 1212

  Arnau looked around. Tristán rode beside him leading the two pack horses, while around them rode the others, each watchful and alert. As they had left Rourell, travelling fast to be away before the watchers returned with a new and more violent directive, Arnau had keenly felt the absence of the other two knights. He quite understood the need to protect the preceptrix and the other sisters, of course, but he also could not deny that he’d feel a mite safer travelling through hostile lands to the royal court alongside two other brothers and their squires, especially as strong a veteran as Ramon or Balthesar.

  The decision he’d made had not been easy, and Tristán had argued against it, but it had been driven by expediency, and had been supported as the correct choice almost immediately. The route to Monzón was around seventy miles, more likely eighty when allowing for detours and meandering valleys. That would mean a two-day ride, constantly pushing and taking rest only when necessary for the horses, making camp late at night and setting off with the dawn.

  Despite the time constraints they faced, however, Arnau had opted to add a day’s travel to their journey with the addition of a thirty-mile detour. The direct route would take them from Rourell straight across the lands of La Selva, through the narrow pass and past the mother house at Barbera, and the simple fact that there were but two of them made any journey through enemy lands perilous to say the least. In fact, Arnau had felt more comfortable journeying into the heart of Almoh
ad territory last spring than he did facing La Selva and de Comminges now.

  Thus he had opted for a longer, dog-legged journey. Instead of heading north and then north-west on the logical road for Monzón, they would instead head south-west along the coast, turning inland at Masriudoms and follow the valley road west to the great river and their first port of call: Mora d’Ebre.

  It was a matter of reaching Monzón, and that meant strength. Simply, outside the preceptory itself, Arnau could think of only two people who he trusted: the Baroness Castellvell and her strange husband, Montcada. They might be able to help him at court, perhaps, but at the least he had hoped that they would be able to provide an armed escort as he then followed the Ebro and the Cinca Rivers north to Monzón and the king. Tristán had been avidly opposed, pointing out that the extra day would offer them half as much danger again as the original journey, and that it mattered not that they would pass through enemy land, for there was a good chance they would be followed from Rourell anyway. Arnau had been insistent, though, and so they had made their way along the coast after all. By the time night fell and they were only a short way west, they had made camp and kept watch; the older brother had noted a second campfire badly hidden near the beach not far behind them. It could have been anyone, but somehow he knew it would be La Selva’s men. When Tristán had mused about them, wondering why they were shadowing the Templars rather than confronting them, Arnau had smiled.

  ‘They can have no idea what our goal is now, and their confusion will be compounded by the fact that we seem to be heading in a strange direction, far from anywhere involved in this matter. Even if they have been given instructions to kill us, they will be concerned and playing it safe, waiting until they have an inkling of what we are up to. The moment we pass from the Ebro to the Cinca, though, they will realise that we are making for the royal court at Monzón, and then they will have to stop us. I would prefer to have help by then.’

  Sure enough, by the end of the next day, as they reined in outside the gate of that powerful castle at Mora d’Ebre, their pursuers had been with them all the way, close enough to keep the trail fresh, but far enough back to stay out of direct conflict. Arnau had noted the watchers at the baroness’s castle once again, just like those at Rourell’s mill: men of La Selva’s as he was now sure. Fortunately, they made no move to stop Arnau and his squire as they were admitted to the castle.

  The baroness had been gracious again, and saddened to hear that their quest had continually met with dead ends and that the preceptrix remained in danger, yet she was thoroughly supportive of their decision to approach the king, and thanked Arnau for having the foresight to visit them on their journey. When he had delicately raised the subject of an armed escort, he’d half expected a regretful refusal. Even the first time here he had noted the lack of soldiers, for the baroness had been required to send many men south with the crusade, and while the enemy watched the castle it would perhaps be unwise to weaken her already small force. Moreover, Arnau had nothing to offer in return but his thanks, for the supplies they had gathered together at the mill were poor to say the least and would barely see them to Monzón, let alone hire an escort.

  He had been more than surprised when Montcada, the baroness’s husband, had risen from his seat, thrusting away his goblet of wine, and emphatically announced that he would escort Arnau himself, along with eight of his men. Arnau had been overwhelmed with the support and friendship of the pair, so far removed from the Baron de Castellvell who had been their enemy for so long, and the next morning they had set out north along the river, eleven armed men on good horses, with more than adequate supplies and a fat purse of coins. They had picked up extra enemy followers from the men watching the castle, and Arnau had, by noon, estimated enemy numbers to be around a dozen from the dust cloud following them and the occasional glimpses of the riders when they came a little too close.

  Now they were closing on their destination, but a day’s ride from Monzón, and the riders following them were becoming bolder, getting closer by the hour, edging towards them, probably realising finally what they were planning. The town of Fraga was visible ahead as a blanket of terracotta roofs and narrow towers rising above the trees that bordered the river. Arnau turned to Montcada.

  ‘Would we be safer in the wild? Perhaps finding a ridge and making camp somewhere defensive?’

  The nobleman shook his head. ‘While we can protect ourselves from assault like that, a crossbow bolt cannot be put off so easily. I learned that the hard way in Occitania,’ he added, pulling up his sleeve to show a nasty scar where the skin puckered around an entry wound on his upper arm.

  Arnau whistled through his teeth, and Montcada nodded. ‘A finger-width to the left and I’d have lost the arm. No, we make for Fraga and civilisation. There we will have walls and shutters. We might still be in danger, but at least we can see it coming and not simply die on the tip of a silent missile in the night.’

  And so the small party rode on, the sun now sinking behind the hills to the west, the sky turning purple at a noticeable speed. Arnau flicked his gaze back, and for a moment he was confused. Their pursuers had started riding close enough that they were visible almost all the time, all pretence cast out; now that he looked again, he saw nothing and fretted.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  One of the escort riders raised a finger, pointing back and left. ‘They took the other turning at the fork back there. They’ve moved away from the river.’

  ‘Onto higher ground,’ Montcada noted. ‘This is it, Brother Vallbona. They are making a move.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘They’ve not deviated from their pursuit all day. Now, as the sun goes and we near safety, they move out of sight onto a parallel path. They must know now that we are bound for Monzón, and they have to be aware that any attempt on us will be difficult, if not impossible, once we are in Fraga. They are running out of time. I believe they intend to stop us reaching Fraga – a dozen travellers who fell to bandits on the road. When our bodies are found they will raise no suspicion, for the hills harbour many such bandits. Although… no, I think they are more focused than that.’

  Arnau chewed his lip. ‘We are more than a match for them. Any attack will be perilous for them.’

  ‘I and my men are immaterial. We are secondary targets. Even your squire is of lesser importance. Given your place in all of this, it is you they seek to kill. If they can manage to remove you, they can deal with us at a more leisurely pace, if at all.’

  Arnau frowned. ‘So what is the plan?’

  ‘You stay out of trouble. We are close to the river, and we will edge even closer. They will come through the trees, so keep a watch on the greenery to our right. Brother Tristán, stay close to Vallbona. He has to survive, so your shield is also his. My men and I will attempt to deal with them. Stay safe, and use the river to prevent being flanked.’

  Arnau nodded as the squire closed on him with a look of concern and frustration, and he felt it too. The men they faced were the opposition. What they both wanted was to attack them, to make the enemies of Rourell pay for their actions, and yet Montcada was right. He was the one who had to reach Monzón.

  They rode on in silence now, each listening carefully. The light was fading. The sun was already little more than a glow in the west, while the waning moon was still hours from showing. The river rumbled by like a dark stain across the land, currents picked out only by faint highlights, while the trees between them and the higher ground began to take on a constantly gloomier aspect, like some Stygian cavern.

  The light was almost gone, the town less than a quarter of an hour’s ride away, when the attack came. Just as Montcada had anticipated, it was announced almost silently with the twang and thud of crossbows. Arnau had been riding close to the riverbank, Tristán carefully staying between him and the trees. The squire had taken the unusual precaution of unpacking his shield and bearing it on his sword arm, facing the woods, and it was only that which saved him. Tw
o bolts came from the shadowed eaves of the trees, one smashing into the squire’s shield and bursting through the board to emerge inside, stopping just short of ploughing into his side as the flights wedged. The second bolt slammed into the head of one of the pack horses that had happened to trot a tiny bit further forward than usual, and the animal died in an instant, collapsing and almost jerking the squire out of the saddle until he let go of the lead reins.

  With a low roar, men burst from the trees. None were mounted, for making their way through the woodland had precluded the possibility of remaining on horseback. Three were wearing the colours of La Selva, the rest in a motley collection of blacks, browns and greys. There were ten of them, and Arnau felt a momentary flash of satisfaction that his estimate had been so accurate, given the fleeting glimpses he’d managed, for with the two crossbowmen that made his total of twelve dead on.

  Montcada bellowed commands like a general on a battlefield, and Arnau found himself once more adjusting his opinion of the strange man who had seemed to be little more than an indolent and effete nobleman upon their first meeting. The baroness’s husband had been forged into a Titan of a warrior in the crucible of war. Even as the first man, bearing the green tree of La Selva upon his surcoat, ran at the nobleman with his sword out, ready to sweep low and sever one of the horse’s legs, Montcada lifted a heavy, flanged mace and leaned out, bringing it down with impressive force, smashing into the top of the man’s helmet so hard that it tore through the steel and the bone beneath. As it came back out it was matted with viscera and fragments of metal and bone, trailing hair. The man, dead on his feet, folded into a heap, shuddering.