‘Better to be a fugitive than the wife of della Cadeneta. Better to be a corpse than that.’
There would be no turning her from such a path, Arnau could see even now. He sighed. ‘Then we ride for Tarragona. At least there we will find civilisation. Perhaps we can seek the aid of the bishop there. Sanctuary is still an option, if nothing else. Even della Cadeneta would never stoop to breaking into a cathedral to retrieve you.’
A short while later, driven from the room by the guards so that the ladies could enjoy a respectable night’s sleep, Arnau returned to his own room and began to ponder on how to best effect a safe flight. Sleep came slowly that night, and was troubled when it arrived.
He rose early with the dawn light and disappeared into the village with his spare saddlebag. With loose coin he purchased smoked sausage, hard cheese, a loaf of bread and other provisions. He was just making his way back to the inn when he passed a smith at his forge, already into his day’s work as the dawn mist cleared from the hills. The craftsman’s activity attracted Arnau’s attention as something went wrong and the bearded young man spat a curse. Arnau paused, his eyes straying across the man’s work. He was fashioning curved iron brackets for some reason, but had hammered too hard on one. It had bent back further than intended and was now wrapped around another. Arnau’s shrewd gaze took in the mistake and a slow smile spread across his face.
‘Can you bend the other one, so that it interlocks?’ he asked the smith.
The man frowned at his mistake and then looked up. ‘Like a caltrop?’
‘Precisely like a caltrop. How long would it take you to do that with all of these?’
‘Not more than a quarter-hour,’ the smith replied, ‘but I need these.’
‘I’ll pay you well.’
The smith smiled. ‘Twelve caltrops, then?’
Arnau nodded and dropped what he believed to be a generous price on the table. The smith’s grin suggested he’d been correct, and he added more coins. ‘These and four spare horseshoes, each with a four-inch span. Can you deliver them to the inn?’
The man nodded and went back to work, and Arnau returned to the inn to find the rest of the party beginning to break their fast and look to their travelling gear. As he also went about his business, Titborga and the maid both put in an appearance, the lady throwing a silent questioning glance at him from across the room. Arnau gave her a subtle, barely perceptible nod.
The captain emerged a few minutes later in, if anything, a worse mood than the previous day. A hangover added to his irritation and made him waspish and unapproachable. There was a sullen and angry atmosphere as the last of them ate and began to make ready the horses and carriage. The blacksmith appeared in a timely fashion, seeking Arnau, and the captain demanded to know what he was doing. The young soldier fished in the bag the man had brought and produced a horseshoe, waving it at the angry, flush-cheeked officer.
‘After the carriage yesterday, I do not intend to be slowed by such misfortune. A spare shoe or four is a sensible precaution.’
The captain huffed, but nodded. Deprived of a reason to take out his anger on Arnau, he turned to his men. ‘Why do none of you think ahead like that?’ he snapped.
The party forged on in the morning sunlight as the heat of the day gradually began to assert itself. They travelled hard and at an uncomfortable pace set by the captain, who was determined to try for the unattainable and reach Cadeneta by nightfall. Arnau had cause to smile when one of the escort’s horses threw a shoe and the captain, steaming with irritation, was forced to come to him, cap in hand, for one of his replacement shoes. One of the serfs travelling with them did a passable job of removing the loose, broken shoe and nailing on the new one, but the incident cost them another half an hour, adding to the captain’s constant simmering ire.
They moved across the flat farmland, pausing for a late lunch break at a small walled village called Puigpelat and then forging on past the city of Valls, the Prades range beginning to loom ahead as a dusky blue ribbon of hills. As the sun dipped towards that line ahead of them and the town of Valls began to flicker with torches and lamps against the coming evening, so the captain’s mood deteriorated even further. From passing comments, Arnau surmised that the man had been given appropriate moneys to see them through three days of travel to Cadeneta, and no more. The captain was already personally out of pocket from the replacement wheel, and an extra night of inn accommodation for the entire party would seriously eat into the man’s purse. Arnau could imagine how difficult and dangerous a matter it might be to solicit a reimbursement from the Lord Ferrer della Cadeneta, and that looming necessity would only make the captain all the more unhappy.
The man finally gave up on their chances of reaching their destination as the sun slid behind the hills and the light took on an indigo tint. Even then he lobbied to continue into the evening but, as Arnau had predicted, the carriage’s driver flatly refused to try the hill roads in the gathering gloom. That way, he announced, lay both broken axles and broken necks.
They stopped for the night at some grand farming estate, where the captain negotiated with a hard-nosed landowner for space for them all. The captain most certainly paid over the odds for what they secured, though he still saved on what a proper inn would have cost them. As the entire party settled in, Arnau exchanged glances a number of times with the lady, each of them taking in everything around them, attempting to work out what was possible and what was not.
There were ten soldiers in the group and five serfs, as well as the captain, the carriage driver and the three of them. With the three spare horses they had brought, there were fifteen beasts now being stabled in the farm’s facilities on the far side of the yard. The landowner had steadfastly refused to let anyone stay in his own house, but had temporarily evicted some of his workers and the overseer to allow them a small stone house and a sizeable bunkhouse. The ladies, Arnau and the captain were to have the house, while the rest would share the bunk room. Moreover there was to be a guard on the house and one on the stables at all times, partly to maintain a watch over the lady, but mostly because the captain did not trust these rural provincials further than he could throw them and wanted a constant watch on the safety of all of them and their gear.
The place’s owner had grudgingly agreed to feed them all, and three of the estate’s workers visited their bunk room and house an hour after arrival with a huge cauldron of unidentifiable spiced meat and turnip stew and bread, along with cheap, cracked bowls for all. Arnau and the ladies ate with the rest, silent and watchful. He knew Titborga was right: they had to go tonight if they were to go at all. But how best to be about it? They would have to make it out of the house in which the captain also resided, past the guard on the door, past another guard on the stables, and then leave in a manner that discouraged pursuit.
They finished their meal and sat for a moment in silence as two of the soldiers complained about the lack of wine or beer since they were not in an inn. The captain, clearly an angry and contrary man by nature, began by snapping at the two men and calling them dullards and drunkards – somewhat unfairly given that he himself had been the only one today sporting a hangover – but by the end of his tirade he had joined in the moaning about the absence of alcohol. When the serfs came to collect the cauldron and bowls, the captain enquired of them were they might acquire wine, and the drudges informed him that the town of Picamoixons was but two miles away, though there was a winery only half a mile from the farm if they could persuade the owner to open of an evening.
Arnau felt an opportunity opening up before him and prayed hard and silently as he listened to the exchange unfold. The two men who’d bemoaned the lack of beverages volunteered to ride to the winery and procure drink for them all. Sixteen men down to fourteen – that would help. The captain snorted that the two men were moonstruck if they thought for a moment he would let them loose in a winery with his money. He would personally supervise and assure they were not cheated and that all the wine made it bac
k. Arnau’s heart leaped. Sixteen down to thirteen, losing the captain and two of his men.
The soldiers escorted Arnau and the ladies back to the house and then, with a guard on the door, the young man set to scouring the place. Sure enough, there was a servants’ door at the rear of the kitchen, barred from the inside. He quietly slid open the bolt and peered out into the evening light. He could just see the stables across open ground. The bunkhouse was on the other side of this building and completely hidden from view. Arrogance and carelessness go hand in hand, and the captain was so sure of himself now that no one had bothered to check for another exit from the building. Thus the servants’ exit was unguarded. He shut the door once more and, pausing at the kitchen fire, perused the log basket and selected a length of timber from it. He then returned to the front of the house and watched from the window, waiting for the captain and his men, who were currently arguing, as seemed the norm, to leave. Arnau focused on the three men, ear twitching. At times like this, every ounce of information could be vital.
‘… much better,’ one of the soldiers finished.
‘I don’t care how far it is, I am not buying wine from there.’
‘But it’s good, Captain. I’ve had it before and it’s only three miles south of here.’
‘That place is a pox on the world,’ the captain snapped. ‘If there’s anything less trustworthy than a man who gives his cock to God, then it’s a woman who takes the vows.’
‘The Templars are—’
‘The Templars are trouble,’ snapped the captain, ‘and none more so than the bitch of Rourell. We will try the local winery. Even if it tastes like piss, it won’t taste like conceit and chastity.’
They departed a moment later and Arnau, mind racing, heart pounding, turned to the two women in the room.
‘There’s a chance. A real chance.’
‘With the captain gone?’
Arnau smiled. ‘Better than that. Better even than the cathedral in Tarragona. There are Templars nearby, at a place called Rourell. Just three miles south, the captain said. He doesn’t trust them, or the “bitch of Rourell” in particular. Perhaps it is a nunnery? If so it would be the safest place for you right now. Even if the captain hates the Templars, and I know that they’re not always the nobles’ favourites, few would dare challenge the order. The Pope takes a dim view of soldiers invading the houses of God.’
Titborga leaned back, a concerned expression on her face. ‘The Templars do not have nuns, Vallbona. Would that they did.’
‘Oh they do, my lady. Maybe they’re not supposed to, but I’ve come across them occasionally.’
She smiled a calculating smile. ‘Then my destiny, I fear, lies with the sisters of the Temple. Can you get us from this place and into their reach?’
‘I think so, if we go while the captain is not here. The men are full of food and tired from the day. Few will be alert. There is a servants’ door from the kitchen that looks out to the stables. Watch for me from that door. When you see me signal, hurry towards me as quietly as you can, hunched low. We need to leave this place unobserved if at all possible. Watch for the sign and be ready to go at any moment.’
Without further discussion, Arnau hurried across and collected their bags, slinging them all over his shoulder with a grunt at the extreme weight. He would have to brazen this out. They needed all their gear with the horses and, with Arnau’s armour and various heavy items contained within, he could not risk sneaking from the servants’ exit. If he were heard, which was likely, his discovery would reveal the existence of the other exit. Hurrying down the stairs, he emerged through the front door to the surprise of the man guarding it. The soldier gripped the sword at his side as Arnau appeared, and he stepped back, holding up his other hand in a challenge.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Stables,’ Arnau replied in an offhand tone. ‘Setting things ready for the morning.’
‘You’re not supposed to leave.’
‘I’m not leaving. I’m going to the stables to do a few chores and then returning. Anyway, I suspect that if you think back you’ll realise that it’s the lady of Santa Coloma you are guarding, and not me. Not unless your lord intends to bed me too.’
This drew a smirk from the soldier, and Arnau was more than a little relieved to see the man’s hand on the sword hilt relax. Time to add some subtle reassurances that nothing was amiss.
‘Will there be wine made available for us, you think?’
The soldier snorted. ‘The way Captain Ruiz is wading through the stuff at the moment, I doubt any of us will get a look in.’ The man’s smile slipped as he remembered he was talking to the lady of Santa Coloma’s man and not one of his own compatriots. ‘Be quick.’
Arnau nodded. ‘I intend to. Nice warm bed in there.’
Before the man could reply Arnau hurried off, adjusting the bags as he went to redistribute the weight a little more evenly. As he walked his head remained low, yet his eyes searched out everything. Two more men stood in front of the bunkhouse engaged in a relatively friendly argument, though neither of them paid him any attention. He glanced up towards the window at which he had so recently stood and saw no sign of the women. Good. They must be at the servants’ door already. He rounded the corner of the house swiftly, dropping out of sight of both the guard on the front door and the bunkhouse with its denizens. Still, he needed to be brazen. Sneaking would draw so much more attention if he were spotted. He sauntered slowly towards the stables, still sweating beneath the heavy load, and as he reached the archway into the timber building that remained gloomy and dark even with three torches in sconces, he spotted the two occupants. One was the guard who had been set to watching the stable, and the other was one of the serfs, who was busy filling a nosebag. The guard was scratching his nethers with a bored look on his face and had yet to spot Arnau in the gathering gloom. Trusting to luck, the young man slowed and was rewarded for his patience as the serf boy slipped from sight to attach the feedbag to one of the horses. Faced now with only one witness, the young soldier entered the stable and let the bag containing his mail shirt slip slightly from his shoulder.
As the guard suddenly noticed the new arrival and the commotion, Arnau put on a desperate face and visibly struggled to keep the bulky and heavy load on his shoulders. Staggering a little, he looked imploringly at the guard and hissed, ‘Help?’
The man paused for a moment, clearly struggling to decide between blissful inactivity, watching this buffoon struggle, or helping the man like a good Christian. Charity eventually won out and the man scurried over and grabbed the slipping bag of mail, grunting with the weight.
‘Thanks,’ Arnau said with heartfelt gratitude as his hand reached up to the other bags. As the guard struggled to help haul the armour bag back onto his shoulder, he failed to see Arnau producing a stout wooden stick from another. The guard squawked with alarm as he suddenly took the weight of the whole bag when Arnau let go and, suffering and struggling, he was utterly unprepared for the blow that connected behind his ear, driving his wits from him and his eyes up into his head.
This was it. The deed was done and there was no going back now. They had to move. If they were stopped and the captain discovered what had happened, Arnau would be cut to pieces, Maria probably handed round the men until she was broken, and Titborga bound and gagged and delivered to her new husband thus. So he breathed deeply, hefted the log from the fire basket, dropped the bags and hurried along to the stall where the serf had been feeding the horse. The lad rounded the edge of the stall just as Arnau arrived, his eyes wide in surprise. The boy’s gaze slipped past Arnau to the guard near the arch, and he opened his mouth to shout. The log smacked into his forehead rudely, and the serf folded into a heap, unconscious in a single blow.
Hurrying now, against the time the captain and his men returned or some random Cadeneta soldier happened to visit the stable, Arnau moved up and down the stalls. He located his own horse quickly enough, as well as the two upon whom he’d had
an eye all day – the pair he’d judged to be a combination of speedy, obedient, and steady. Maria could not ride at all, and he could hardly imagine Titborga being a great horsewoman, so forgiving beasts were of paramount importance. Locating the three, he unhitched them, removed their nosebags, and brought them out towards the arch. There, he swiftly attached the saddlebags to them, pausing with his own to remove his mail shirt, shield and sword. As quickly as he could, struggling a little, he slipped into the armour, then fastened his bags and shield to the horse, buckling his sword at his side. Shushing metallically with every movement now, he hurried across to the small door at the far end of the stable from the main arch and ducked outside. The evening was fast settling in, and true darkness was on its way. His eyes slowly adjusted to the light and he noted with relief that the servants’ door at the house’s rear was ajar. He waved madly at the door where the women would be waiting and after a moment it opened, two figures emerging, running for the stable.
Satisfied that the women were safely on their way, he ducked back inside once more and grasped the reins of the three horses, leading them towards the archway. His heart skipped as he realised that the heap of the unconscious guard was moving. Slowly, the man unfolded, rising to a crouch, shaking his head. Arnau fumed. Why hadn’t he hit the man twice for good measure?
Letting go of the reins once more, he ran over to the groggy guard. The man was recovering quickly now, and rising to his feet. Arnau hit him even as he tried to draw his blade, knocking him back to the floor. His mailed elbow thudded into the guard’s forehead, but it was not that blow that did the damage, for he heard the crack as the man’s head smacked against the stone flag below. He could do nothing about the yelp that escaped the man’s lips as he fell back, and Arnau rose and hurried over to the horses.
‘We go now?’ Titborga asked in a hiss as she and Maria arrived.
‘We do. We’ve minutes at most.’ He helped the lady up into the saddle and then repeated the process for the nervous maid. There was an alarming moment when Maria almost slid straight off the other side of the horse onto her head, and she cried out in panic. Titborga hushed the woman, but it was too late. In the still of the evening air there was precious little chance that cry had gone unheard. Desperately, he and Titborga managed to get the maid settled in the saddle, and Arnau hauled himself up urgently.
Daughter of War Page 6