Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau realised after a moment that he had been looking at the lady of the castle for longer than was truly respectable and glanced away only as her gaze touched his. He felt the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks and lowered his face until the redness faded. When he looked up again, she had her attention elsewhere.

  Whatever the Lord d’Entenza decided was to happen with Titborga and the estate, it was the business of great men, not minor landowners such as Arnau. Vallbona was little more than a grand farmhouse with a tower, its inheritance an old coat of arms with barely the land and finances to support it. He would need to spend more time at Vallbona when he left Santa Coloma, attempting to improve the estate’s farms alongside his old, boss-eyed steward if they were to be able to meet requirements from his liege over the next few years. Hard times had lain ahead in Vallbona even before the death of Berenguer.

  The funeral droned to a close slowly, a mass reminding all of their own mortality and the need to follow the example of the man being eulogised, a small choir singing the praises of Berenguer and his line and exhorting the Lord God to watch over those he left behind. The body was removed and taken to the place of burial where a heavy stone coffin awaited, and finally the attendees dispersed with dour faces.

  Ignored by the more powerful lords, Arnau spent some time with three of the other minor men at arms, drinking rich wine from the Santa Coloma vineyards and eating bread and slices of juicy lamb with local goat’s cheese. They played dice – Arnau lost – and chess – Arnau won – and passed the day in quiet obscurity. Finally, as evening came on and the melodic strains of vespers rolled across the castle from the chapel, Arnau made his way to the small room in the gatehouse that he habitually used upon his visits. The heat had been stifling during the day, but the wind had changed at sunset, bringing an odd chill off the sea. Men who had stood atop the walls running with sweat only hours earlier were now wrapping up in cloaks and complaining about the breeze. Fires had been lit.

  Arnau lay stretched out on his pallet, still in his funeral garb and now smelling of strong wine, pondering all the potential changes facing Santa Coloma and therefore also Vallbona. It was said that even so early in his reign the new pious King of Aragon sought a grand push south against the Almohads of Valencia. Since the enemy victory at Alarcos over the might of Castile, the reconquest of the peninsula had stalled and the Moors were becoming more confident and stronger with every passing month. And if Pedro the Second announced a new campaign, especially if the Pope were to throw in his support, all the God-fearing nobles of the country would be required to join the Crusade, bringing their men at arms with them. What then for Santa Coloma and its lesser knights? What then for parched Vallbona, which needed every hand to the plough to make it through the year?

  He drifted into a near-slumber, half aware of the crackling fire in the corner of the room and the distant barking of a dog. Rosin burned in cressets, giving the room a glow of dark amber and a smell like torched pine trees. As had so often happened since the events at the Ebro days earlier, the first image to fill his wandering mind was that of blood and horses, of men and death, of Berenguer de Santa Coloma lolling, dead, in his saddle. He stirred uncomfortably at the thought, as though there might have been some way he could have prevented it.

  He turned over, his mind picking out new images of blood and of death, of a man on a horse with a red cross on white, singing songs of joy in the midst of hell.

  A knock at the door disturbed his reflections and Arnau rose, rubbing his weary eyes, and crossed to the door, pulling it open. The sudden draught the movement caused flared the fire in the hearth and smoke leaped up inside the room around the chimney breast. A diminutive figure stood in the passage outside, a young woman in drab dress and unimpressive wimple. He recognised her as one of the castle’s maids – the personal maid of the Lady Titborga, in fact. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, my Lord de Vallbona, but the Doña Titborga requests your presence in the antechamber of the great hall with some urgency.’

  Still frowning, Arnau nodded. He contemplated changing into something more appropriate than the dull grey of the funeral that he was still wearing now, but the summons had been an urgent one and so he simply threw over his shoulders a fur-lined mantle graced with his family’s black lion, threadbare and darned in several places.

  ‘Lead on.’

  The maid, a pretty and voluptuous girl, led the way from the room, down through the tower and across to the hall. There, in an antechamber of ancient stone, beneath an elegantly vaulted ceiling, stood Titborga Cervelló de Santa Coloma in her mourning dress of purest white. The sound of loud conversation emerged from the great hall beyond the thick, heavy wooden doors and, though the details of the discussion could not quite be made out, they sounded purposeful and combative.

  Arnau dropped to a knee and bowed his head in respect.

  ‘My lady.’

  ‘Rise, Señor de Vallbona,’ she said in an odd, worried tone.

  ‘How may I be of service?’ he asked, climbing to his feet once more and adjusting his grey bliaut swiftly.

  Something about the way the lady’s eyes scoured the dim surroundings put him on edge, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet and suspicious. ‘You are one of Santa Coloma’s most trusted men, Arnau of Vallbona.’

  ‘I have striven in my time to serve your father appropriately,’ he replied, brow creased more than ever.

  ‘My father spoke of you often, and well. I have seen you with him. He held you in esteem, perhaps more than one might expect for your somewhat minor rank.’

  Arnau stifled the disappointment and irritation he felt at the rather blunt remark. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he nodded. ‘Your father was a great man. I looked up to him. Even at the end, I—’

  ‘I need your help. Your oath, Señor de Vallbona.’

  Now Arnau felt alarm. These were careful words spoken in a dangerous tone. What was happening? The evening of her father’s funeral was no time for intrigues. The possibility of what might be asked of him should he give his oath so freely made him nervous, for certain, but he could not refuse such a request and live in good conscience. He had been oath-sworn to her family his whole adult life, after all. How poor it would be to honour the great Berenguer’s memory by refusing to serve his daughter.

  And there were other reasons, too, of course. What would Vallbona be without Santa Coloma? A poor farming fiefdom with no power, verging on bankruptcy. To refuse her would be to condemn himself and his lands anyway.

  ‘I am yours to command, my lady.’

  ‘So are many men,’ she replied flatly. ‘But most see me only as a chattel or a chit of a girl hanging on the surcoat of my father. I am the last of the direct line of Santa Coloma though, and the estate is mine, along with the authority and duty it carries. The Lord d’Entenza will almost certainly attempt to separate me from my inheritance and claim it for himself before my father’s body is even cold. Santa Coloma is a wealthy title with a great deal of land – a serious prize even for a high nobleman. Were he not already wed, I would see d’Entenza’s marriage bed in my future, and while that will not be my fate, I am certain that I am not to be left unchallenged as heiress. I am prepared to see the case for my father’s estate argued in the royal court if need be, but many of my father’s former supporters will side with the Lord d’Entenza, seeing endless possibilities there. I can rely on none of them. Only Maria here has my confidence. Maria… and a man my father trusted even with his life. I would have your oath, Master of Vallbona.’

  A tinge of worry ran through Arnau. While he had the greatest respect for the lady and her house, and had devoted his life to Santa Coloma, the very idea of standing against d’Entenza, a cousin of the king himself, was bone-chilling. A man does not pit himself against a king or his cousin lightly. Yet before he realised he was doing it, his knee hit the stone floor once again.

  ‘I give you my oath as lord of Vallbona an
d vassal of the house of Santa Coloma that I will serve the Lady Titborga and no other until released by her word, or by my death.’

  Titborga nodded and Arnau was surprised to hear a sigh of relief from her perfect lips.

  ‘Then stay by my side. I may have need of your strength in the coming hours and days.’

  Arnau bowed his head again and rose, moving to stand by the outer door. All was quiet and he, the lady, and her maid stood silently. What were they waiting for, he wondered, as he tried to catch snippets of conversation from beyond the door. It was impossible to make out anything useful with the roaring of the fire in that room and the gentle strumming of a vielle somewhere beyond, playing a current popular melody.

  A sudden loud snort of disdain and a barked call from the hall within leaked through the door, and Arnau felt his blood chill a little. The name was Cadeneta, and that villain was almost certainly the source of the snort. The voice naming him had to be the Lord d’Entenza. The two men being together in the hall boded ill for the small group in the antechamber, and Arnau was about to suggest that they retire to somewhere more comfortable when he heard footsteps approaching the far side of the door. He straightened and tried to look important as the door to the great hall opened.

  The Santa Coloma steward, an old man with an aquiline face and long, greying hair, stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light of the roaring fire and of many candles. He bowed respectfully to the lady without and gestured with a sweep of the hand, stepping aside.

  ‘Your presence is requested, my lady.’

  Titborga strode into the hall of her father with a pride and assurance that belied her age and, as she approached her father’s grand chair on the dais at the end – currently occupied by the Lord d’Entenza – she showed little sign of deference, her back straight and chin high. Despite his position as her vassal, Arnau felt an odd thrill of pride at the sight, as though he were her father. Consequently, despite the danger in the room and the power wielded by the man they approached, he found himself walking tall in her shadow and with a dignity of his own. He was Arnau de Vallbona, bearer of the black lion and knight of Santa Coloma.

  His composure almost shattered as his eyes slid sideways from the king’s cousin and took in the figure of Ferrer della Cadeneta standing close by, smug and oily. Arnau was suddenly very grateful that he’d not spent time changing and arming with his sword belt. Had he been able to put hand to steel right now, he would have found the urge almost irresistible. Perhaps he should tell the lady what he knew? She certainly had a right to know that her father had died through the wilful negligence of that serpent in red.

  ‘I presume you have summoned me to confirm my inheritance of the estate of Santa Coloma?’ Titborga said, her tone almost challenging and certainly lacking in any meekness or deference. Arnau felt his skin prickle at the aura of tension and danger that suddenly filled the room. The Lord d’Entenza’s expression moved through a variety of emotions, settling into a furrow of disapproval.

  ‘Santa Coloma has long been a bastion of Christian pride in the north,’ d’Entenza replied coldly. ‘The sword of Santa Coloma has been raised against the enemies of the Crown of Aragon since the days of your great grandfather. And that is where the problem lies. We live in uncertain times, with the Moor in control of Valencia and hammering on our gates to the south, Castile offering only threat and disfavour to the west as they flounder and recover from the disaster at Alarcos, and the attention of our foreign allies still riveted to the Holy Land, the kingdom of Outremer and the infidel who defiles our holy places.’

  Arnau saw Titborga’s hand grip into a tight fist. She knew what was coming. So did Arnau.

  ‘I am the lady of Santa Coloma, my lord,’ she said in a firm tone. ‘My father raised me to understand the estate and with the ability to manage it in his absence as my mother had done before me. No one knows Santa Coloma better than I.’

  ‘Lady—’

  ‘You doubt me?’ she snapped. ‘Santa Coloma, an estate worth almost two hundred thousand gold maravedi, including nine farms, four wineries, six fiefdoms and two castles, with fealty from a further eight fiefdoms. I could provide you with a breakdown of the details if you wish, including the number of men at arms the estate can furnish at the king’s call, how many cavalry, bowmen, crossbowmen.’

  ‘Your intellect and administrative abilities are not in doubt, my lady,’ d’Entenza said coldly. ‘But a powerful estate should be led by a strong sword arm.’

  ‘Your sword arm, I presume,’ spat the young woman, and Arnau marvelled at her nerve.

  ‘Hardly,’ snapped d’Entenza, becoming angry. ‘You are presumptuous, Titborga. Your father was soft on you. He spared the rod all too often, it appears, for you seem to forget your station.’

  The young heiress wisely remained silent at that, though Arnau could see how her fingers had gone white with her powerful clenched grip.

  ‘No,’ d’Entenza said, sitting back in the old lord’s seat. ‘As your father’s liege lord, it is my duty to see to the disposal of the estate. I have come to an arrangement with Señor della Cadeneta.’

  Titborga said nothing still, but Arnau could almost sense the blood draining from her face.

  ‘I have agreed that Don Ferrer will take your hand in marriage, joining the estates of Santa Coloma and Cadeneta under a strong military hand, as is appropriate in these dangerous times.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Do not test me, Titborga,’ d’Entenza snapped. ‘I held your father in great esteem and as such I seek the best interests of all concerned. You are too old for a virginal girl. You need a husband.’

  ‘I need no husband.’

  ‘The alternative is to hie yourself to a nunnery and I will acquire your estate on the authority of the crown.’

  Arnau could see his lady beginning to tremble. With rage, he realised, not fear.

  ‘I will contest the disposition in the court of the king.’

  ‘My cousin will know where the good of the kingdom lies,’ snarled the lord from the chair.

  ‘You cannot marry me without my consent. I will seek an annulment from the crown on those grounds immediately.’

  D’Entenza shot upright from his seat pointing at her with an angry, wavering finger. ‘By God, girl, you will do as you are told! The marriage is a fair deal. You will be entitled to one third of della Cadeneta’s estate in return.’

  ‘And while he takes the opportunity to sell off my family’s lands to adorn himself in gold, what am I supposed to do with a third of a chicken shed, two pigsties, and half an acre of mouldy turnips?’ she snapped back at him.

  Arnau felt himself tremble. The sheer purple rage rising in the lord’s face was matched by the impossible smugness of della Cadeneta.

  ‘Enough!’ d’Entenza roared. ‘The match is made. You will give your consent or I will dispossess you on grounds of a vassal refusing her lord’s command. That, as I am sure you are aware, would go to the court of my own direct superior, Pedro the Second, and the king would look rather disfavourably upon your presumption, I can assure you. You will consent to the marriage, you will go to Cadeneta and you will accept my judgement on the matter. Now begone.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Titborga hissed, fitting more bile and spite into the title than Arnau would previously have thought possible. She turned, and Arnau started at the almost demonic expression she wore. The lady of Santa Coloma strode proudly from the hall, Maria the maid scurrying along behind. Arnau cast a last glance of utter hatred at della Cadeneta. It seemed that by the most unexpected and unfortunate turn of events he had just given his unbreakable oath to serve a woman who would shortly be della Cadeneta’s wife. Would he have to kneel to that red-coated bastard?

  He bowed curtly to d’Entenza, ignoring della Cadeneta completely, and then followed the lady from the room. She was surprisingly fast, given that she was not overly tall, and Arnau had to hurry as she swept from the building and made for the living quarters nearby. All the way to her
apartments she said nothing, though Arnau could hear her angry breathing even above the sounds of castle life. Finally, as she entered her rooms, she spun angrily, Maria hurrying to shut the door and close the shutters of the window before even lighting the candles.

  ‘I will not submit,’ Titborga growled.

  Arnau held up both hands. ‘I understand, my lady. I hold personal grievances against della Cadeneta myself, and he is not to be trusted. But you have been left with little choice. D’Entenza effectively wields the power of the Crown of Aragon.’

  Titborga pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. ‘How many times have you seen me lose a game of chess, Señor de Vallbona?’

  ‘Rarely, if ever, my lady,’ Arnau replied truthfully, ‘but this is no game.’

  ‘On the contrary. This is very much a game, just with the highest of stakes. Ferrer della Cadeneta is an animal. I have seen him with the women of my father’s estate when he believed he could get away with it. He is the very epitome of a devil in a codpiece. My father overlooked his less savoury habits for the value of his sword arm.’

  Should I tell her? Arnau wondered, but decided against it once more. She had enough to deal with right now, and was already vehement enough about della Cadeneta. She would need no further incentive to hate him.

  ‘He simply desires the estates of Santa Coloma for their monetary value,’ she went on. ‘Lord d’Entenza does not realise how little he can expect from della Cadeneta in return for securing him my fortune and my chastity. The oaf will deflower me and seize my lands. The king would have no issue with that, but I can see della Cadeneta’s plan as though it were threaded out in tapestry before me. He will not want lands removed from his own fief by more than fifty miles, and he will have no intention of occupying this castle in person and transferring his estate here, for he knows that many of his peers here despise him. So the lands, as they are, can be of little use to him except as coin. He will sell off my estates, hoard the payments and then accept an annulment from the king, allowing him to marry again and leaving me with nothing – ruined, both financially and physically. No. I will not accept this. Before he touches my flesh I will put a rondel dagger through his heart. And before he could sell one acre of my land, I would give it all to the Church.’