The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau’s world was spinning, now, tilting, and he hit the ground hard, winded even as he was still registering the broken ankle that would stop him fighting back. The master of Barbera was wounded, but he fought with a fury Arnau had rarely seen, and was already up and stomping towards the fallen man, sword out and face bloodied; Arnau realised that in his fall he had lost both blade and shield. He looked this way and that in desperation. He could see Ramon and Balthesar, both badly wounded, holding one another up. Of Tristán there was no clear sign. German knights were around his friends now, fighting men in the colours of La Selva. No one could help Arnau. His reaching fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and as de Comminges brought his own down once more, Arnau managed to deflect it and then roll out of the way. He felt an armoured foot slam down on his shin then, stopping him rolling too far, and the pain was intense.

  He tried to rise, but de Comminges was holding him down with his boot, and the man’s sword came up to deliver a downward blow that could cleave Arnau in two. In desperation, he tried to sit up, throwing his own heavy sword up and in the way with bruised and weary arms. It was not enough. The snarling face of the corrupt Templar contorted into a grimace of victory as his blade came down, smashing his foe’s out of the way.

  Arnau felt the blade hit. He felt the bone of his skull crack and the white fire of agony grip him, filling him from the top of his scalp and flowing down him like a white-hot waterfall. His arms had gone numb in an instant; his whole body a heartbeat later. He could feel nothing, and something seemed to be wrong with his eyes too. His vision had narrowed and seemed to be lop-sided. With his one remaining eye, he saw de Comminges’s leering face as the man pulled his sword up for another blow, though the combination of what Arnau could feel of his wound, and the certainty on his enemy’s face made it clear that he had been dealt a mortal blow already.

  The furious bear of a man teetered for a moment, his sword about to descend, and then his expression changed to one of shock as two Frankish knights hit him hard, knocking him aside. That was the last Arnau saw of Bernard de Comminges on the field of Muret, for his vision was overcome then with the torrents of blood pouring from his head.

  As he toppled slowly back, he heard it all, initially clear but gradually folding into a muffled and unintelligible blanket of noise. A few things he could still pick out, though, with his failing mind. The cries of disbelief and horror from his friends, Ramon and Balthesar at his fall. Arguing voices in two languages as German and Frankish knights contested over the fallen men of their opposition. And behind and above it all, the sound of their victory. The unwinnable battle had been won.

  For just a moment, the vision in his one remaining eye cleared, for he had fallen onto his side, and the blood had run from it. Through the pink smear, he realised with an odd tumult of feelings that in the midst of a battle that was still being fought even in victory, he was lying in a small patch of open ground, staring at another fallen man a few yards away. Pedro the Catholic had left this world, his face white, his surcoat soaked with blood from the wound Arnau had inflicted.

  Arnau thought then that perhaps he was smiling, even though he couldn’t feel it. He hoped so. If nothing else had come from today, he had killed the man that had started all this, and he could go to his maker with pride, in the knowledge that he had done what he must. And moreover there was no chance of meeting the vile King Pedro in the Kingdom of Heaven, for the man staring at him through dead, glassy eyes, would be going somewhere entirely different.

  A voice was reciting the viaticum now, absolving Arnau of all his worldly sins, ensuring him of his acceptance by Saint Peter.

  The voice was soothing and welcome, and he thought it might be Ramon’s, though already his thoughts and memory were confused and fading. The vision in his eye went red again from the flowing blood, and then slowly…

  …slowly…

  …it went black.

  Part Three

  Retribution

  Vengeance is mine, and I shall yield it to them in time, so that the foot of them slide. The day of perdition is nigh, and those times hasten to be present…

  Deuteronomy 32

  Chapter Nineteen

  The ghost

  22nd February 1225

  Bernard, the fourth Count de Comminges, stirred and rolled over in his sleep. It must be something about old bones, he decided in his stupefied, half-asleep state. When he was young, he would sleep through the night even if he were laid on a horse saddle.

  His eyes flickered, fighting the coming wakefulness. Perhaps it was the cold breeze coming in through the high window that was doing it. Winter had never been his favourite time of the year, and with every season he aged, it brought further aches and discomfort. Especially in the arm that had been fractured on that bloody field. Or perhaps it was his bladder. That never seemed to give him rest now, needing to be emptied before bed, on waking, and often at least once in between. Or maybe it was the dream he’d been having of that battle so long ago when he’d almost lost everything…

  But the simple truth was that he had stopped sleeping well since that day at Muret when the King of Aragon had died. In the private dark of his mind he had to admit that his life had been driven by deadly sins. Pride, avarice, gluttony, wrath and envy. Had he been lustful and slothful, he might have been a golden child of vice, but two of the great sins still evaded him. He had been born to a good family with plenty of land, but the need to be ever more than his father had driven him all his life. It had sent him to crusade and directed him to his four very political marriages. It had even sent him into the Order of the Temple. It had been a gamble, giving the Order so much land and coin in return for his position, but he had known that the goal was the Grand Master’s position, close to the Pope. Sadly it was not to be. After the debacle at Muret he had never even secured the mastery of Barbera, let alone all of Iberia or the whole of Christendom. The gamble had failed.

  Muret had been the beginning of the end. He had watched as the stupid knights from doomed Rourell had killed the Aragonese king, and had almost taken the worst of them himself before Franks and Germans had stopped him. They had argued over his fate. The Germans, egged on by one of the Rourell men, had been all for gutting him and leaving him on the battlefield, but the Franks had been more honourable. They had pushed for capture and ransom, and inside a month he had been home and safe. Despite de Montfort’s reputation, the crusader commander had been clement, and even de Comminges had to give him that. The great earl had gone so far as to hunt the king’s remains across the battlefield and have them secured and taken away for proper burial.

  Bernard had gone home to recover from a number of minor injuries. After all, he’d not been a young man even then. He’d eventually returned to Barbera to learn that he was not popular. The Order had been placed in a difficult position that summer. They were Catalans and Aragonese on the whole, and the Order owed much to Pedro the Catholic. When he had been excommunicated and gone to fight against the Pope on behalf of heretics, the Order had been torn between secular and sacred loyalties. In the end, their ties to Rome had prevailed and they had refused to commit to the war. That de Comminges and many of his countrymen had not done so still sat badly, and in light of that it had become clear that he would never be more than an ordinary brother.

  All this despite having gone with the archbishop and La Selva’s plans to disinherit and remove a number of inconvenient houses across the region, in particular his efforts to destroy Rourell, which everyone said was an embarrassment, with its whore of a commander. Still, he was tarnished by Muret, and all his work had counted for nothing in the end.

  He turned over, pulling the pelts over him to add more warmth, but gradually it became clear to him that it was neither the cold nor his bladder that had awoken him. Nor, and even on the best day he would have to admit to one, was it his guilty conscience that had stirred him.

  He came awake slowly, like dawn light creeping over a rock and falling upon a glitteri
ng pool.

  And then suddenly he sat up in his sumptuous bed, pressing himself against the stone wall and crossing himself like a young postulant, eyes wide and terrified.

  A demon sat in his room.

  The creature was dressed in a white robe with a red cross, a crusader garment, and maybe even a Templar one. It sat hunched up on the windowsill, watching him.

  Bernard de Comminges shuddered.

  It was a man, or at least man-shaped. It had its left leg casually crossed at knee, while its right dangled in the air. Its arm made a ring around the knee. He could see nothing of the face, within the white monastic cowl that hid all features.

  All features but its eyes…

  One eye burned like the fires of hell, while the other remained a pale and pupil-less milky white. It was horrible, and most off-putting. The thing was sitting perfectly still.

  Bernard, recovering something of himself, reached for the bell standing on the bedside table. The creature shifted languorously, just a flick of the arm, without moving from the windowsill, and something clanked against the bell and knocked it from the table to clonk dully on the floor.

  ‘Tsk,’ the thing said irritably.

  ‘What are you,’ de Comminges said, pulling his bedclothes up around him like armour.

  ‘Do you not see?’ the thing asked. ‘Do you not remember?’

  De Comminges frowned. He had no idea who this thing was…

  ‘Perhaps I can refresh your memory,’ it said. ‘A king lying dead. His killer was turning, looking for the other members of a great conspiracy, when you killed him. Or at least, when you thought you had.’

  The thing paused and waited.

  De Comminges found himself thrown straight back to that day and his eyes narrowed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, but yes,’ the thing said, pulling back its hood. It was changed from his blow, but he recognised that stupid, inconvenient brother who would not let the matter rest. He had a dent in a line across his head and one eye was blind white, but the other burned with a zeal that Bernard had never felt, even in the Order, and even as a crusader. Clearly the wound had not impaired the man’s mind or ability. His gaze shot to the bell on the floor as confirmation, and it was only then that he realised the fallen bell was transfixed with a crossbow bolt. He looked up to see that the wraith in the window – the former Templar – had almost finished nocking and priming a second shot. The bow must have been sitting in the shadows on the sill beside him.

  Before Bernard could do anything about it, the crossbow was levelled at his face and he felt fairly sure that any unexpected move would end everything.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Justice,’ murmured the creature.

  ‘Heavens, man, but it’s been a decade. Surely we can come to an arrangement?’

  ‘You think that a decade is a long time. It was long enough for me to have grown from callow youth to hard crusader, and to watch the Order fall from a grand thing to a corrupt band of killers, certainly. But let me tell you what a decade really is. A decade is years of recovery to the point of being able to act like a human. A decade is learning to walk again with a ruined ankle. A decade is retraining with the loss of an eye. A decade is preparation. A decade is rebuilding everything that was lost.’

  ‘Go home… Vallbona, isn’t it? Go home. This need not be the end.’

  But the creature gave a smile that sent chills through de Comminges. ‘Oh, but it is. And it is the final end. The end of your web of conspiracy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your little group that filled the king’s treasury at the expense of others – who saw our preceptory fall.’

  De Comminges stared at him. ‘Please don’t tell me all this is about land acquisition thirteen years ago.’

  ‘No. It’s about good people being ruined for the sake of greed.’

  ‘Have you…’ began de Comminges, but the figure interrupted with a shake of his head.

  ‘No. You were left for me. Did you never question the end of the others? My word, but the poor archbishop. He managed more than a year after the victory at Muret, didn’t he?’

  * * *

  Archbishop Ramon de Rocaberti stepped from the cathedral and pulled apart the toggle that held the heavy garments around his neck. They fell, only to be collected by some lackey. He had finished the service, a special one in favour of the new king, and was on his way to rest and recover.

  Servants bustled around with things that needed signing or looking at, but he waved them all away. All he wanted now was to retire to his bath where a nice little Moorish convert girl with olive skin and almond eyes awaited him. Some days were simply too long and busy to endure.

  Waving away the rest, he walked along through the cloister arcade of the cathedral, heading for the room where he would change into his everyday garments before leaving the cathedral precinct. Thus it was that he was alone as he passed the chapter house.

  ‘Your Grace?’ someone called out from within.

  The archbishop, forehead creasing, turned and looked through the chapter house door. A monk was seated directly opposite. Despite his confusion, the first thing that arose in him was irritation that this lowly son of the Church might sit in the presence of his archbishop. Rocaberti, his lip twisting into a snarl, strode into the room.

  ‘Who are you to sit in my presence? Up, rude fellow. Up.’

  The figure did rise then, and stepped forward. Suddenly, Rocaberti did not feel quite so sure of himself. He was now acutely aware that he had dismissed anyone who could come to his aid if he were in trouble, and in truth he had been expecting trouble for weeks. Indeed, he didn’t leave the castle or the cathedral now unless he was escorted; he dare not walk through the city’s crowded streets for fear of meeting one of his many, many enemies. It had all come to a head when the entire population of Riudoms, a sizeable town, had taken a stand against him and refused to pay his new land taxes, claiming they were extortionate. He had sent in a hundred soldiers, and they had killed until all resistance caved and the taxes were paid. But now he saw vengeful citizens from Riudoms in every shadow, and had received threats almost daily.

  Why had he been so stupid as to send the lackeys away? But then he should be safe in the cloister and chapter house of the cathedral. And this was a monk, after all. Why was he still so uneasy, then?

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.

  The monk uncoiled, spinning and moving so fast that Rocaberti had no time to react. In moments, a rope had dropped around his neck and the noose was being pulled tight. He tried to call out, for surely someone was close enough to hear, but no sound escaped him for the rope had cut off his voice. He felt panic now, reaching up to his throat, trying to loosen the coil, but then he was being hauled backwards by it with no chance to ease his agony as the burning began in his chest and throat.

  There was a moment of relief then as the pressure on his throat eased, and he felt thankful for the respite, though it was but a brief interlude and by the time he had reached up to loosen it and call out, he was being dragged backwards again. He slammed against the window of the chapter house, an ornate triple opening that looked out into the cloister walk from whence he’d come, his back painful against the stone mullion.

  The reason for that moment of relief was now clear. His assailant had paused to feed the rope through the window and then back in through the door beside it. And now, as the life was being choked from him, the man on the other end of the rope was standing before him, pulling it tight. The cowl of the robe fell away as the man used one hand to reveal his face before grasping the rope with both again and pulling. He was a sandy-haired man nearing thirty years of age, battle scarred and with a wicked glint in his eye.

  ‘No one else would come for you, archbishop,’ the man said. ‘Because you weren’t at Muret, because you were to them the lesser of the four evils, and because in the end even you would not take up arms with the king against a Papal crusade. That alone almost saved you
.’

  Rocaberti could feel true fear now, through the intense and endless pain of his burning lungs. He tried to speak but there was no chance of that happening.

  ‘I’m not like them, though,’ his killer said almost conversationally. ‘I was never a nobleman. I was a poor nobody. Just like those poor nobodies you drain the lifeblood from daily with your legalised robbery. Just like the poor bastards in Riudoms that you had put to the sword because they were too poor to pay. Well, I’m not grand enough to consider this Divine Justice or retribution, but fortunately I’m not above petty revenge, either, and a youth of enforcing gang rules taught me a trick or two. When word of this gets out, there will be celebrations all across the Church-owned lands of the region.’

  Rocaberti was in the full throes of panic now, hands scrabbling at the rope that was killing him. He was dying and had only moments left, but there was no way out. No way to stop it. He couldn’t even beg for mercy from this monster. No one was going to give him the rites! He would die unpardoned and sinful. Lord, no!

  ‘Good night, Archbishop Rocaberti,’ Tristán said, as everything went black.

  * * *

  De Comminges stared in shock at the demon in the window that seemed to be the shade of a Templar he had killed twelve years ago on the field of Muret.

  ‘Rocaberti.’

  That was the work of the men of Rourell? Everyone had assumed his unpleasant demise to be revenge from Riudoms for the man’s stupidity in sending in his army. It had been a foolish and heavy handed move, and such a fate was really to be expected in response. The killer had never been caught and the whole affair had been hushed up to prevent embarrassment for the Church, the official verdict being a death of natural causes, but he’d never expected it to be revenge from these men.

  ‘My squire,’ the demon smiled horribly. ‘I expect you remember him. You almost killed him too at Muret. It took him a year to regain the use of his left arm, and it will never be the same. Still, like me he lives, and he is a good man, despite what he did in the cathedral. He wanted Rocaberti for himself. You see, Ermengarda withered away to nothing within a year of her enforced anchorite life, and Tristán took her passing rather personally. Rocaberti did not end well, though it is lucky for him that he was killed in a busy place. Had there been no danger of discovery, I fear that my squire would have spent days seeing him off in a variety of unpleasant ways. Oddly he’s the second of my friends to kill an archbishop in those sacred halls. A curious coincidence.’