Thou hast made ready a board in my sight, against they that trouble me. Thou hast made fat mine head with oil, and my cup, that filleth greatly, is full clear.
And thy mercy shall follow me in all the days of my life. And that I dwell in the house of the Lord, into the length of days.
He felt his nerves calm slightly as the Almohad ship surged past without slowing or turning, hurrying on past the promontory. Balthesar turned and began talking to the fisherman in rapid Arabic, and there was a great deal of pointing before they seemed to come to some sort of agreement. Moments later the boat was picking up speed again, heading for the beach.
Arnau’s gaze climbed to that high horseshoe of rocky slopes above the beach with a sinking feeling. The sun was setting, and the entire cove was in shadow, particularly the beach and the rocks. The prospect of climbing that in the dark was not an attractive one.
The fisherman reached the beach and the boat grounded with a scrape and a thud, Arnau staggering to stay upright. With a few words of thanks exchanged, Balthesar grasped his kit bag and leaped over the side of the boat, landing thigh-deep in the water. With difficulty, he began to wade ashore, and Arnaud bowed his head as best he could manage to the sailor before following suit, shivering in shock at the cold water as he in turn plunged into it up to his thighs.
By the time he reached the beach, Balthesar had dropped his kit bag on the sand and hurried back in, putting his shoulder against the boat’s timbers and heaving. Arnau joined him and together they managed to push the fisherman back out into the water, where he gave them an encouraging call in Arabic, then turned and began to make his way back out to open water.
Once he was sure the man was out of earshot, Arnau spoke, and his voice came out as little more than a dry croak, unused for a day now. By the fourth attempt it began to sound more like words.
‘It’s getting dark.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will he be all right? It’s a long crossing.’
Balthesar smiled. ‘He will make for the nearest village and stay there until morning.’
‘Shouldn’t we have gone with him?’
‘I am taking my lead from the wily Father Lucas.’
‘He’s been dead for centuries,’ grunted Arnau.
‘Yes,’ the older brother smiled, ‘but his example remains. He existed as a Christian in a world where he was constantly at risk, threatened by the Moorish invader. He will have moved via subtle, unseen ways where possible, and we shall do the same for now.’
‘I don’t want to climb that in the dark,’ Arnau said flatly, pointing at the forbidding slope.
‘Quite. We shall sleep on the beach tonight and make the climb in the morning.’
The young sergeant sighed. Wonderful. Time to voice the concern that had been bothering him since they veered into this cove. ‘Were the Lion of Alarcos and his men aboard that ship, do you think?’
Balthesar paused for a moment, then nodded. ‘It is a solid assumption. These islands are still independent, and there should not be an Almohad presence here. Almohads on the islands at all is worrying and unwelcome. Almohads on the islands apparently unopposed is even more troubling. To have seen them in Mahón’s port and then aboard a ship here, so close, cannot possibly be a coincidence.’
‘They are following us,’ Arnau said nervously.
‘Utter foolishness, my young friend. How could they possibly be following us? They did not know where we went from the port and we departed Manûrqa from a tiny village on the other side of the island. Also, when we turned into this cove, they carried on blindly. No, we are not in their sights. It is pure ill luck that we happened to be in their vicinity once more.’
‘So where are they going if they are not after us?’
Balthesar smiled. ‘They are making for the nearest port. Beyond that headland is Al-Bulānsa and its small port suburb. The Almohads will be in the town and in comfortable lodgings by nightfall, while those ships that took the southern coast will not arrive in the capital at Madina until tomorrow. They have chosen a more comfortable, if less urgent, route. It is all logical, my young friend, without being threatening to us.’
It made sense in a very prosaic way, yes, but Arnau’s own views on chance did not stretch this far. What if the Xeuta, or even the Christian shopkeeper on the cliff road, had sold them out? What if the Almohads had been so intent on Balthesar, for whatever reason that the old man steadfastly refused to reveal, that they had hunted and trawled the city and found their trail? After all, the two knights were following a much older, much colder trail, and yet they were managing.
‘Are you going to tell me who he is? The Lion of Alarcos, I mean.’
Balthesar raised an eyebrow. ‘Not now, no.’ He began to rummage in his kit to find his blankets to lie in.
‘Why not? It could be important.’
‘Because there is no need, and sometimes the past should stay buried.’
Infuriated at yet more questions and enigmas and Balthesar’s flat refusal to explain anything, Arnau wrapped himself in his own blanket and settled down into the soft sand at the top of the beach. He fretted about their situation, their quest, the old knight’s secrets and the absurdity of lying on a beach at night, complained in his head a hundred times that he would never get to sleep, and then promptly fell asleep a few moments later.
The young sergeant awoke at dawn to the cries of the gulls, nostrils full of sand and a mouth that tasted like the underside of a shoe, to find Balthesar already laying out bread and fish on his wooden plate.
‘Is that the same fish from yesterday?’
‘It will still be perfectly edible.’
‘It wasn’t particularly edible even yesterday,’ Arnau said, his stomach confused, gurgling with hunger and yet creasing with disgust at the idea of eating that fish.
In the end he ate an entirely insufficient breakfast of bread and shook the sand off his blankets before packing them once more into his bag. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Now,’ Balthesar smiled, ‘we climb to the top and then make our way along the path to the farms of Alcudia. There, with luck, we can buy horses. From there we make our way to Al-Bulānsa and attempt to locate whatever route Father Lucas took on his fated trip to the fortress of Alaró seven centuries ago.’
He waited for the old knight to eat his fill of fish and loaves, a joke which was beginning to lose its lustre now, and then stumped off in Balthesar’s wake across the beach, feet sinking into the soft sand in the footprints of the older man.
The morning sunlight was already filling the cove and illuminating their path, and Arnau’s roving gaze brought him no joy. In the dark, the steep slopes had looked daunting, but in the daylight they were far, far worse. Before Arnau could open his mouth to convey his doubts, Balthesar was off and moving. The older knight seemed to select a direction at random and walked forward. Surely this was not feasible? Most of the rocky faces above the beach were actually overhanging, and those that were not were so steep as to be more or less vertical.
Balthesar rounded a small patch of vegetation at the rear edge of the beach, nestled at the base of the rocks, and turned, disappearing. Arnau followed suit, curious despite himself. Behind the bushes was the lower end of a ravine that had seemingly been formed over the ages by erosion and landslides, judging from the state and the shape of it. The older knight was already beginning to clamber up the V-shaped defile with only a little difficulty, damn him. Shale and scree slid beneath his feet and skittered down to Arnau, who stood and looked up.
At least it was possible. Until he’d realised the gulley existed, Arnau really couldn’t have seen a way up that did not involve hanging from rocks by his fingertips.
He took a deep breath and began to haul himself up the troublesome slope, feet slipping and skittering, hands constantly out to the rock at one side or another for balance and security. A quarter of an hour later, he finally emerged from the constantly sliding shale and sharp, unforgiving rocks and clambered out o
nto grass. Parched, brown and vertiginously sloping grass, but grass all the same. The two men paused to get their breath back and then, at Balthesar’s signal, moved off once more, clambering up the green slope with heaving breaths.
It took another quarter of an hour to climb the rest of the way, and when they finally passed beneath the branches of trees at the top and into the shade, Arnau collapsed to the ground and sat for some time rubbing the screaming muscles of his shins and calves. It had been little more than half an hour since they had left the beach below, but it felt as though he had been climbing all day.
As he sat, soothing away the aches and concentrating on his feet, Arnau became slowly aware of a low susurration. He turned in surprise to find Brother Balthesar on one knee, sword tip planted in the ground and leaning upon the hilt as he faced the gulley and the bay. He was uttering something quietly, and yet it was achingly familiar. As Arnau realised what it was that the older knight was whispering, he joined the recitation of the sixty-sixth Psalm in time with his brother.
‘Ye heathen men bless our God, and make ye heard the voice of his praising.
That hath set my soul to life, and gave not my feet into stirring.
For thou, God, hast proved us; thou hast examined us by fire, as silver is examined.
Thou hast led us into a snare, thou puttest tribulations upon our back
Thou settest men on our heads. We passed by fire and water, and thou hast led us out into refreshing.’
The Psalm wound slowly to a close and Brother Balthesar finally stood. ‘A little thanksgiving seemed appropriate and, while the Lord will almost certainly forgive us for our lack of timely devotions to the liturgical canon, it is always well to show devotion when we can, especially when we are most certainly alone and are offending no one.’
Arnau nodded slowly. ‘And I presume the fact that you did it on your knees facing Mecca is purest chance?’
Balthesar gave him the blackest of black looks and dug in his pack for yet more bread and more fish that was beginning to look like grease. They rested there for a short while, and then began to move once more.
‘You are surprisingly quiet,’ Balthesar said as they wandered through the trees, using glimpses of the sun behind them to set a vague westerly course.
‘Still getting my breath.’
‘It just surprised me, since you seemed unable to keep quiet when required, and now we are alone you’re silent as the grave.’
‘It’s not as though you’ll answer my questions, anyway,’ Arnau said.
Balthesar gave him an irritating smile. ‘My past is my past, young sergeant. I prefer it to stay there, and you prompting me to dig it up all the time is not encouraging me, I can tell you.’
‘But if it has bearing on what we’re doing? That man, the Lion—’
‘Arnau de Vallbona, men join our order for many reasons, and I am certain that you would be surprised to uncover the bleak lives that have driven men to God’s service. Men like Ramon and Lütolf did not come to the Lord’s service through chance, but through pain and anguish and the need to devote oneself to a source of redemption. A man’s past is just that, and will remain so. If I have call to tell you things, then I shall do so. Until then, please respect the privacy of my life in the same way I do yours.’
And that was that. They strode on beneath the trees for some time, clearly moving along a valley, but gradually the gradient began to change, and they started to descend. A dry seasonal stream bed joined them from the left, and they followed it downhill. Finally, Arnau spotted a roof between the trees. They gave the small farmstead a wide berth, dropping onto its rough track further down, past the house. For an hour they followed that rough road, continually descending at a gentle rate and passing occasional farms. Finally, they left the peaks of the promontory and reached flat land.
‘That was the Alraas al Sanawbar,’ Balthesar said, thumbing over his shoulder, ‘the Cape of Pine Trees.’
‘Delightful. Where are we heading now?’
‘To Alcudia. There we will buy horses for the next leg.’
‘You’ve clearly been here before.’
‘I’ve been many places before,’ said the old man enigmatically.
Another twenty minutes across flat farmland with occasional farmsteads saw them approaching the first thing they had seen that bore the remotest resemblance to a town.
‘This is Alcudia?’
Balthesar nodded. ‘It’s a village, really. A large farm estate with several other farms attached. But unlike the others we’ve passed, one of these is a horse breeder, among other things. Come on. And now it’s time to slip back into your mute role.’
Arnau threw him another irritated look but stumped on behind, his eyes on his surroundings. The main cluster of buildings of the farm village lay in one small area, around a central circle of dusty ground into which led several local roads. Pens of animals and corrals of horses were visible, the best irrigated land in the area devoted to their pastureland. Stone troughs, formed of coffins from ancient times, stood around filled with drinking water. Half a dozen youths ran around with training ropes and forkfuls of hay.
The more common arable farming that they had seen since they descended from the cape was in evidence too, all well irrigated and tended. It was a testament to Moorish farming abilities how green and well organised it all was. In a way, it reminded him of the excellent farms around Rourell, all run by Moorish subjects.
What struck Arnau most, though, were the ruins of the old city. The farms had been constructed in and around, and from the stone of, an ancient city that remained visible in the form of walls, arches and columns jutting from the ground like sad reminders of its past – stone skeletons reaching to the sky in supplication.
Such ancient remains were far from unknown to Arnau, who had seen similar sights in Tarragona and Barcelona, and other more rural places. Somehow, though, seeing the remains of a lost civilisation, and indeed the very civilisation that given birth to the Church, as little more than fragments being shat on by Moorish animals felt vaguely offensive. He tried not to let it get to him, but it did so, nonetheless.
They made their way to a house, where Balthesar knocked and waited. The door opened to reveal a man who looked more like a raisin in a felt cap and smock than a man, with whom the old brother had a brief exchange in Arabic. When it ended with the usual polite formalities, which Arnau was beginning to recognise, the farmer disappeared inside once more and shut the door. Balthesar gestured at another building, and Arnau followed dutifully.
The same procedure brought forth a very different occupant. This man was better dressed, in brightly coloured clothes, and his skin was a healthy sun-bronzed colour. There was another brief conversation in Arabic, and then the two men strolled out through the door, a dog running along and yapping at the man’s legs until he ruffled the hair on its head. The two men continued their discussion as they approached one of the corrals of horses.
When they stopped, Arnau dropped his kit for a moment to take the weight off, and sat on a block of stone that had once carried some great civic inscription. His gaze strayed across the horses in the paddock appreciatively. He had ridden some very good horses in his time, and like most riders he had to grudgingly admit that the horses bred by the Moors were generally superior to those of their northern counterparts. Certainly the beasts in this corral were generally of a high quality.
He wondered which of them would be his, and smiled as he watched a few of the animals cantering around in some strange equine game. It came as no surprise to him, though, when a quarter of an hour later a farmhand arrived leading two of the least impressive beasts on show. In truth, they would still be a vast improvement on walking, but Arnau would not want to take one into battle.
Unlike their horses back at the preceptory, which were large, powerful, muscular beasts bred to carry an armoured man into the chaos and din of war, these were short, stocky ponies that would look more at home pulling a small vehicle. They had tack
and harness, but only blankets and no saddles, he noticed.
There was another exchange between Balthesar and the farmer, then the old knight bowed and said ‘As-salāmu ʿalayka,’ yet again, and mounted with relative ease. The farmhand brought the other beast to Arnau, who clambered up rather inexpertly, since he had never done so without a stirrup in his adult life. With a cheery wave from the farmer, they moved off once more, trotting away along a road that Arnau thought probably headed north.
‘Could you not have bought saddles?’ Arnau said once they were sufficiently far away to talk unheard.
‘The man is a farmer and horse breeder, Arnau, not a leatherworker.’
‘Hmm. And why the smallest and shabbiest beasts?’
‘My, we are full of complaint, are we not?’ Balthesar said archly. ‘We do not need warhorses, Brother. There will be no heroic charges into battle here. We are not on Mayūrqa to lead a cavalry charge against the Moor. We are better served with unobtrusive yet hardy beasts. Besides, they cost considerably less than the good horses and we should preserve our coin. We are burning through the purse at an alarming rate.’
‘We?’
Another withering look, and Balthesar gestured to the west. ‘Do you see that high, dome-like rock?’
Arnau followed the finger and nodded. A grey peak like an upturned bowl rose from the plain, the mountains behind it visible as lines of blue-grey and green.
‘Our next destination lies just beyond. The town of Al-Bulānsa. We shall ride north along the shore, and then turn inland. I suspect that it is that stretch of shore where many moons ago Father Lucas landed with the arm of the saint. We shall pick up his trail there once more. The town is perhaps five miles from here. Come.’
He rode off at a trot and Arnau took some time trying to persuade his reluctant pony to move, then had to hurry to catch up.
Another town, another vague clue. More peril, no doubt.
The Last Emir Page 5