Balthesar and Ramon had both decided that they needed to at least visit the estates they had donated, and both felt that they had certain things to do for now; the three knights had arranged that they would meet once more in the spring at Titborga’s castle of Santa Coloma, at the festival of Sant Jordi in late April.
They had not come.
The lady Titborga de Queralt of Santa Coloma had not been remotely surprised at this, and had attempted to console herself with a visit to the nunnery of Vallbona de les Monges to which the preceptrix had retired, having steadfastly refused to return to a secular life. Titborga had returned home in something of a fluster, for the lady Ermengarda was not to be found there, having been transferred to a small house upon the estates of Tarragona’s cathedral. That she might now be under the very nose of Archbishop Rocaberti and within his grasp was entirely unacceptable, and Arnau and Tristán, who had been staying with them, had immediately decided to act.
Arnau could not afford to leave the estate, leaving Titborga alone with the constant troubles assailing them, and so Tristán rode to Tarragona to track the preceptrix down. He returned within the week with bleak news. Ermengarda had seemingly petitioned the Church to be allowed to take on the vows of an anchorite, a hermit who withdrew from the world so thoroughly that all ties were severed and the cell to which she retired now would be her home until death claimed her. Her request had been accepted and she now lived in a cell the size of a small privy, walled in and with only a small window to connect her to the world she had left. Tristán had traced the agreements and everything had clearly been done legally, though he could not attain permission to see Ermengarda, who was now considered effectively dead to the material world. There remained, therefore, a hanging suspicion that the preceptrix’s fate had been sealed under duress.
It was the final nail in Rourell’s coffin, and had led to both former Templars vowing vengeance anew, sitting up late into the night and drinking too much as they made gory plans that could never be enacted. Until they had the help of Ramon and Balthesar, wherever they were, there was nothing they could do. Santa Coloma commanded their constant attention.
By the time Arnau and his liege-lady were two months into running the estate, and the campaign of destruction had begun in earnest, it had quickly become clear that they would not make it as far as spring without further support. Arnau had sold off his lands and ancestral home to a neighbouring lord, not that they had been worth much anyway. Even those funds were now dwindling to nothing, a precious low pot of coin paying the remaining soldiers and staff.
Just like the disappearance of the preceptrix, while it was blatantly clear that the attacks on Santa Coloma were the ongoing work of their enemies, most assuredly of the lord of La Selva in particular, there was no evidence to confirm this, and the hirelings the man was using were smart enough never to put themselves in a position where they could be caught. Unless they had clear evidence of misdeeds on the part of that lord, of the master of Barbera or the archbishop, they could do nothing about it. Even an independent witness would question such a thing with no proof, especially when the accuser was known to have left the Order of the Temple under unexplained circumstances during an investigation into financial improprieties.
They were powerless. If these attacks could not be stopped, soon the estate would fail and be taken over by other nobility while they suffered a destitute and ruinous future.
The days ahead looked bleak.
Little news seeped into their unpleasant and increasingly perilous world, for there were no visits from other nobles, and all tidings came either from rumour in the town or from the periodic forays of Tristán. What tidings there were seemed less than encouraging. The king had gathered a strong force of knights and had declared his full intention to go to war with the Pope’s army in defence of his brother-in-law, the Count of Toulouse, a man who, if he was not a Cathar heretic himself, coddled those in his lands. The Pope had responded in a flash, officially excommunicating the king of Aragon. Caught between their allegiance to the king and to the Church of Rome, the Templars of the region had struggled with internecine conflicts. While the Order officially stood with the Pope, it was said that many Templars had offered their sword to Pedro of Aragon instead.
Tristán had tried to discover whether La Selva was one of those men who had pledged to follow the king into Occitania, but had turned up no answers. At least if La Selva went to crusade, the threat to Santa Coloma might ease for a while.
For now, though, there was still nothing to be done. The king had not departed; La Selva remained a power in the area, and the destructive raids continued. His irritated gaze strayed down to the murdered milkmaid and her cattle.
He sat fretting, waiting for his men to complete the usual checks. He then left three of them to secure what they could, load up the dead and take them away for burial and to gather the animal carcasses, which might as well be delivered to the butcher now. With the other three men, he turned and rode slowly and steadily back to the castle. As he approached the powerful fortress on the crag that overlooked deep valleys and rolling hills, he looked up at the place. Once upon a time it had been owned by a powerful lord, when Arnau was young. It had been a place at the very heart of Catalan court politics. Now it was a sad shell, inhabited mostly by ghosts.
As he passed through the gate, the three guards went their own ways to dismount and attend to their duties. Arnau slid from his saddle and walked the horse over to the stables where he passed the reins to Jordi to deal with. As he turned from the stable, he noticed something odd. A horse in there he didn’t recognise, still lathered with sweat and dust from a journey, as yet untended. He frowned.
‘Whose is the beast?’
‘A knight, sir,’ Jordi replied. ‘Arrived just now. He is being greeted by the lady in the great hall.’
Arnau, still frowning, nodded and turned away, heading for the main door of the castle’s principle block. Rolling his aching shoulders and stretching his arms, he strode along the corridor and turned into the main room, a vaulted hall hung with drapes and tapestries that had each seen far better days. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway, breath catching in his throat.
Ramon de Juelle, former knight of the Templar Order and friend of Arnau’s, stood before the Lady Titborga, travel-worn and dusty in a good quality tunic of black with silver knot-work that now looked rumpled and well-used. Despite his state, though, as the man turned to see Arnau and broke into a smile, Arnau could see that the months had been good for his friend. Gone was the stiffness and the limp that had marked Ramon ever since his grievous injuries at Las Navas. His recovery was seemingly complete, though his eyes had acquired a newly haunted look.
‘Arnau de Vallbona, little brother. Praise God, at last. You are a sight for these tired eyes.’
The younger knight grinned despite himself. ‘A man can take being fashionably late a little too far, Ramon. It has been the best part of a month since the festival.’
Ramon gave him an apologetic look. ‘I must apologise. I have been a busy man, and have much to tell you.’
‘You come to us alone?’ Arnau said. ‘I saw only your horse in the stables, yet I had expected Balthesar and your squires, and perhaps an army of avenging angels in armour.’
Ramon did not laugh this time, and a sad look passed across his face. ‘Sadly Olivar is no longer with us, and nor is Arbert. Balthesar and I were set upon by unknown assailants in the hills north of Teruel in the new year. Balthesar took an arrow to the thigh, and I escaped only through good fortune. Our squires were less fortunate. It was an ambush with the sole intention, I think, to kill our squires and our horses and leave us stumbling alone in the wilderness.’
‘Is Balthesar…?’
Ramon waved both hands. ‘He is fine, or he was when last we met, anyway. It was but a flesh wound he suffered and at most he will have acquired a limp. Please, let us sit. I have much to tell you.’
Arnau wandered over and sank into one of the chai
rs, as Ramon did the same.
‘Our estates are not what they were,’ Ramon said with a sigh. ‘While we received back our donative lands in their entirety, it appears that the paborda and Brother de Comminges did their best to ruin them first. By the time we returned to our estates, they had been plundered of all value, anything of importance stolen or sold off and the populations dispersed. They were no longer viable estates. Our enemies are nothing if not thorough. We were left with little to go home to, and have since arranged the sale of said properties. Better to have a small pot of gold at our time of life than an estate that needs endless work merely to survive.’
Arnau nodded. ‘We have experienced similar, though here it is an ongoing problem. Weekly, we suffer raids and destruction. Farms and mills, villages and orchards all burn and fail, are butchered and broken by unknown bandits who we can never capture. Santa Coloma is just months away from falling completely.’
Ramon sighed. ‘On the way here I called at Barbera, which was a throat-tightening experience, I have to say. I went to check on the progress of the preceptrix’s donative. Half a year gone, and still it is unresolved, tied up in the bureaucracy of the Order.’
‘On that count,’ Arnau said darkly, ‘I have dire tidings in exchange. The preceptrix is no longer at the nunnery. The official account is that she sought and secured the right to withdraw from the world as an anchorite. As such we can no longer see her. That, as I say, is the official account.’
Ramon frowned. ‘Such a thing is not beyond the realms of possibility, Arnau. Ermengarda was not pleased with our plans, and she has little to tie her to the world. She was ever the most holy of us all. That she might decide to withdraw altogether does not surprise me.’
‘Yet the fact that the cell to which she has retired is in a chapel on the lands of Archbishop Rocaberti puts some doubt upon the matter.’
Again, his friend’s eyes flashed darker. ‘That does put things in a different light.’
‘Just as with everything that has happened here, though, it all appears to be perfectly legal and explicable. There is nothing we can take to any authority. We are powerless.’
‘Even as a powerless nun,’ Ramon sighed, ‘Sister Ermengarda is still an affront to our enemies. And enemies they clearly remain. They move methodically, ruining the world like glittering locusts. Rourell is a shadow of its former self, with little land and no finances, a tiny house of no importance. A nobody in the Order by the name of Guido is now preceptor there, and I spoke to him. He expects the place to last little more than half a decade before it is sold off to cut the Order’s losses. Having dealt with Rourell, the archbishop now concentrates on the preceptrix. La Selva, I fear, is behind our own troubles, and almost certainly yours as well. De Comminges is too busy with his future plans to concern himself with us for the time being.’
‘He leads the Order to war?’
Ramon nodded. ‘You are better informed than I suspected. The war in Occitania grows more dangerous daily. It is said that the Franks under Simon de Montfort are committing appalling acts, though I hear of atrocities from the Cathars too. Our dear excommunicated king rushes to support his heretic relations in direct opposition to the Church. This, my friends, is where our goal lies, I feel.’
‘What?’ Arnau waved over the girl with the wine who had appeared in the doorway, and behind her appeared the excitable face of Tristán.
‘Ramon!’ He hurried over, grinning, and pumped the hand of the older knight until Ramon managed to delicately extract himself from the former squire’s grip.
‘It is good to see you too, Tristán. Please join us. We were discussing the king’s plan to face the crusade in Occitania.’ As the younger man sank into a seat and poured himself a wine, Ramon continued, ‘Our enemies gather, flocking together once more. In mere weeks, the king and his gathered army ride north. A small yet significant Templar contingent rides with him, led by Bernard de Comminges, whose own lands are threatened by de Montfort.’
‘La Selva rides with him?’ Arnau prompted.
Ramon nodded. ‘La Selva is one of Aragon’s more significant nobles now. He will go to war with his king. And to bless the armies on their unholy campaign, among the bishops and archbishops who travel with the army will be our friend Archbishop Rocaberti.’
Arnau sat back heavily in the chair. ‘The archbishop, the paborda, the master and the king, all in one army.’
‘Others too,’ Ramon added. ‘Not all of those nobles who added claims to Rourell’s fate were simply greedy and making the most of the situation. Some were actively seeking our end on their own account. I have identified at least three more nobles who have been tied to La Selva through this entire affair, pitting themselves against us, and each of those men now rides with the king among our enemies. You may remember in particular Michael of Luesia, for it is his records we hold as evidence. Sir Dalmas of Creixell is another.’
‘It is almost as though providence is at work,’ Arnau breathed. ‘The Lord is gathering the unholy host that they might fall to one sweep of the scythe. For in supporting the king and defying the Pope they brand themselves heretics. Not one of them will see the kingdom of Heaven for what they do.’ He looked to Titborga, who thus far had remained silent, and she nodded once, brow creased. Tristán similarly nodded, in his case emphatically. ‘I think we are in accord,’ Arnau added. ‘Though how such a thing could be achieved is beyond me. Our enemies are all highborn, and the root of it the highest born of all. We cannot pit ourselves against an army. And simply walking into the middle of a war would be foolish in the extreme.’
Ramon nodded. ‘Exactly – though we already anticipated this. Balthesar has an idea, and if his idea holds water, then he will come to us, and soon. Until then, might I prevail upon your hospitality?’
The lady smiled. ‘Ramon, we have little, though you are most welcome to what there is.’
Ramon sat back, his gaze rising to the wall behind the lady of Santa Coloma. He gestured at the sword hanging there, the blade of Gombau d’Oluja, given refuge here as it could not be at the nunnery. ‘Would that a woman could go to war, for I would fear to face you holding that weapon.’
Arnau laughed. ‘Wouldn’t we all.’
20th May 1213
Ramon leaned on the tower’s parapet and peered out into the hazy distance to the northwest, in the direction of the town that sprawled upon the plain. He could not see the source, but a column of black smoke had begun to rise into the air somewhere in between. He waved his friend over.
‘Is that one of yours?’
Arnau sighed. ‘From here I cannot tell, but the lady holds much of the land between here and the town, so it seems inevitable. I shall send the men out to investigate.’
Ramon frowned. ‘Will you not go yourself? I can join you. Perhaps we will catch the scoundrels.’
Arnau sagged back against the parapet. ‘They will be gone already, let alone by the time we get there. I know it sounds defeatist, but this has been happening since the winter began. Not once have we caught one. Not even close. La Selva hires only the best to ruin our lives. I shall send the men. They will report back with what valuable building has been destroyed this time and what store of important goods has been burned. Another week passes and Santa Coloma’s decline continues.’
‘Then perhaps you will be grateful for this day,’ Ramon said, lifting a finger and pointing. ‘See who comes?’
Arnau peered down at the road from the town that crossed the hills before passing beneath the very walls of this fortress. Two figures on horseback approached slowly, both armoured, judging by the glitter of sun on steel, yet wearing neither bright surcoats nor caparisons.
‘I do not know them.’
‘But you do, young Vallbona. You do. Come on.’
Ramon turned and took the stairs down the tower two at a time. Arnau, still confused and frowning, followed him as fast as he could. They reached the ground floor, bursting from the doorway and Ramon hurried over to the girl who carri
ed a bowl of bread towards the main hall.
‘Inform your lady that she has guests arriving.’
As the girl scurried off, Arnau gestured to Tristán, who was standing by the gate. ‘Get the men together, saddle up and take the road into town. Something is burning. Do what you can and then report back.’
As Tristán ran off to find the soldiers, Arnau wandered over to stand by Ramon who had placed himself in the gateway with his arms folded. ‘It is Balthesar, I presume?’
‘It certainly is, and since he is not alone, I suspect he has achieved that which he sought.’
Still mystified, Arnau stood beside his friend and watched as the two distant horsemen gradually resolved into clearer shapes. Their old friend was much the same as always, grey haired and grey bearded, tall and proud. His companion rode a grey palfrey, tips of mail sleeves glinting below a hooded cloak that otherwise hid his features. Arnau glanced once more at Ramon, who gave him an infuriatingly sly look.
He continued to squint beneath a furrowed brow until the figure on the second horse came closer and finally, as the two riders closed on the gate and the hood fell back a little, Arnau recognised the man, his eyes widening.
‘God in Heaven, no.’
As he reached down for his sword, Ramon grabbed his arm. ‘Stay your blade, Arnau. This is not what you think.’
‘The Devil, you say. That man is as much my enemy as any corrupt churchman of Catalunya.’
Henri d’Orbessan threw back his cloak and hood now, and turned to Balthesar. ‘I warned you that this was doomed to failure. In truth I have as little interest in being here as he has in my presence.’
The Last Crusade Page 21