‘Go,’ he said, gesturing to the arch as he rummaged in his saddlebag. The Doña de Santa Coloma needed no second urging, and walked her horse from the stables into the open, breaking into a trot immediately as she turned and angled away from the other buildings, out towards the fields to the south. The maid clattered along inexpertly behind her, and Arnau felt a moment’s despair at their chances of getting away with Maria faffing uselessly, steering the horse this way and that in confusion. He paused for only a moment, letting the ladies get a little way ahead as he scattered the contents of the bag across the archway with a metallic rattle. His heart sank as he saw the first of the Cadeneta men running around the house towards them, drawing a sword as he came.
‘For God and Santa Coloma,’ he snarled, drawing his own sword and glancing momentarily at his fellow fugitives. Maria was not doing well, but she had managed somehow to achieve a sort of zigzag wandering trot. Titborga was already in the fields, trotting like an expert, clearly waiting to burst into a canter as soon as the others were with her. He turned his attention back to current perils.
The soldier ran towards Arnau, brandishing his sword, but he was no great warrior and was already struggling for breath as he reached the young man on the horse. Arnau simply wheeled his steed around and swung his sword, flat of the blade facing the man. The soldier’s weapon lunged for Arnau but missed by a clear foot, and Arnau’s own blade smashed into the man’s skull like a hammer blow, sending him in a pirouette to the ground.
Others were coming now and, while Arnau had felt more than comfortable facing that one sluggish man, battling a whole crowd was an entirely different matter. He turned his horse and started to trot off after the women, sheathing his sword once more. As he caught up quickly with Maria, he reached out and grabbed her reins.
‘Kick the bloody thing,’ he shouted. ‘Make it trot.’
She did so, belting the horse rather heavily in the side. The combination of that and Arnau’s encouraging noises and guiding hand on the reins led the beast into a proper trot and then, his hand stilled gripping the reins of both horses, into a canter. Maria’s eyes were wide in panic and she made worried squeaking noises. ‘Leave me behind,’ she offered in a small voice, but Arnau shook his head. ‘Your lady needs a maid and it can’t be me. I’m going to get you up to a gallop and then let go. All you need to do then is keep her pointed south, kick her if she slows, and try not to fall off.’
The maid let out another worried squawk and a moment later there was a shout of pained alarm back at the stables. Someone had found the caltrops. He wondered whether the pointed iron had been encountered by foot or hoof. Foot, he hoped. Either way the men of Cadeneta would be forced to spend time clearing the dangerous impediments and it would buy Arnau and the others precious time.
He urged both horses on until they broke into a gallop. Moments later they caught up with Titborga, who dropped in beside them, matching their pace.
‘Congratulations, Maria,’ she said exultantly. ‘Your first ride is a success.’
Arnau cast a look at his lady that suggested perhaps this was not the appropriate time for light humour. They angled across a field towards a wide gateway and a small stand of trees that would avoid having to jump a fence and would help hide them from pursuit.
‘When we round those trees, ride as though Old Nick were biting at your ankles. We need to find a road and make sure we continue south. Three miles away, they said we would find Rourell. Once we’re halfway, we should be safe enough, so long as we’re still lacking pursuit.’
Three miles. Three miles to the house of the Templars. What then?
But to some extent, that didn’t matter. Arnau’s mind drew him an image of that glorious man on the field of battle by the Ebro, killing the enemies of God with a song of praise in his heart. If anyone could help them it would be the Templars, he was sure.
Chapter Five
They joined a road less than a mile south – a main route connecting Valls and Vilallonga – and paused at a point where a side route shot off west over a bridge across the Francoli. For a few minutes Arnau had the ladies lurk in the lee of the bridge while he scouted for pursuit. It seemed they had cleared the farm’s lands unobserved, for there was no sign of horsemen following them, and Arnau, with a sigh of relief, returned to the ladies, drawing them back up onto the road.
‘No sign of della Cadeneta’s men?’ Titborga asked.
‘No. We were fast enough, it seems. The ground is too dry to leave telltale hoof prints on the road, though we might still be traced if the captain is bright enough. The tracks of our passage across the fields will still be visible in the morning and then it will be clear that we made it onto the southern road. With luck they will think we have headed for Tarragona or Vilallonga and they will continue on down to the coast. But eventually they will learn there has been no sign of our passage there and they will work their way back north. Sooner or later they will track us down. And if della Cadeneta himself joins the search, I can only think it will be sooner rather than later.’
‘But we will be safe with the Templars.’ There was something odd about the way she said it. Not a question, certainly, and not even a statement. More like a liturgy.
Arnau nodded, eyes narrowing. ‘I believe so. I pray so. But the Templars are no mere hostelry and, while aiding pilgrims in distress is the very reason for their order’s existence, we cannot impose upon them forever.’
‘We shall see,’ was Titborga’s somewhat mysterious answer, and they began to ride once more through the cool of the night, heading south. Rourell was soon signed from the road off to the east and even by the light of moon and stars, they could already see what had to be the Templars’ preceptory. The village of Rourell lay a short way to the south, a few lights twinkling therein, but half a mile north of the settlement stood a small complex of buildings enclosed by a wall, with a chapel clearly visible on the edge and a belfry tower rising somewhere within.
They rode towards the complex, slowing their horses to a walk as they neared the large timber gate that filled a grand archway in the sandstone perimeter wall. The entire complex was surrounded by a ditch some eight feet deep and ten wide, a small causeway leading to the gate. Lights were present within as a glow above the wall attested, accompanied by the muted tones of a melodic chant. The night-time service, Arnau realised, at this time of the evening. A bell hung on a chain beside the gate and he hesitated before reaching for it.
‘Why do you delay?’ Titborga frowned.
‘It is compline. It seems vulgar to interrupt the preceptory at prayer.’
‘Ring the bell, Vallbona.’
Arnau chewed on his lip, but her tone was commanding, and he reached up and grasped the chain, rattling the clapper against the bell loudly and repeatedly.
‘We need to seek sanctuary,’ Arnau advised. ‘It must be asked for in no uncertain terms if we are to find safety within God’s house. Perhaps, if your ladyship will allow, I should handle the introduction?’
Titborga nodded, her face blank as they waited a long moment before hearing footsteps within, growing in volume as they approached the gate. Three sets, the hymns of praise still going strong in the distance despite the lack of three voices.
There was the clatter and thud of a wooden bar being lifted and put aside, without the curses that commonly accompanied such activity in a fortress, and the gate creaked inward. The open area within was lit by the moonlight as well as torches burning in brackets on a tall tower at the courtyard’s centre and above the doorway of a stable to the right. A feeling of profound respect and awe settled through Arnau at the sight of the three figures behind the gate. The portal had been pulled open by a man roughly Arnau’s age in a black habit with a red cross on the breast. His short, curly hair was tucked into a cap and his burgeoning beard hung down across the neck of his habit. His eyes twinkled with a hazel-brown intellect. Opposite him stood a man in a similar black habit with a white mantle thrown over the top, red cross on the che
st. His hair was short and straight and somewhat disordered, his beard neat and trimmed. His ageing skin was a healthy suntanned tone, his eyes blue and weirdly piercing. There was about him an odd aura that seemed composed of energy and regret in equal measures.
Yet despite the power these two men exuded, it was the central figure that caught the breath in the back of Arnau’s throat. The woman wore a similar black habit and white mantle to the man, though with a white coif and wimple. She stood half a head taller than both men, her face lined with age and care, and yet somehow the authority and sheer strength she radiated almost made the two male Templars fade into the background.
Arnau found himself assessing and immediately reassessing the figures. The one in black would be a sergeant, the man in white a knight and full brother. He had no idea where a nun would fit in with the Templar hierarchy but it was immediately evident that this particular woman stood a step above both men. The words of desperate sanctuary sought died in his throat.
‘What brings tired travellers to the door of God’s house at such an hour?’ the woman asked in a voice that made Arnau want to drop to one knee for some reason. Still, he floundered. A woman. Somehow, even though he had half-expected from the words of their escort to find a woman here, he had somehow consigned her in his head to the category of ‘unimportant nun’. The fact that this woman was so very clearly far more than that still put a stranglehold on his throat.
‘I am Titborga, daughter of Lord Berenguer Cervelló and heiress of the estate of Santa Coloma. This is my maid Maria and my man at arms Arnau de Vallbona.’
Arnau turned in surprise to find his lady sitting proud in the saddle and speaking in a clear and level tone as though conversing with an equal. He was suddenly struck by the notion that Iberia had never seen such a meeting of strong-willed women. Both would be able to command Arnau into Satan’s maw with but a word. Both should be leading armies.
The female Templar nodded silently, then looked at the older brother at her side, who shrugged.
‘This is not a hostelry,’ the woman said in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘This is a house of the Poor Knights of Christ and of Solomon’s Temple.’
‘Of that I am aware, Sister,’ Titborga said quietly. ‘I find myself in peril with nowhere to turn. My man here felt that the order might be relied upon for aid, given your raison d’être.’
There was a tense pause, as the two male Templars looked the travellers up and down appraisingly and the lady of Rourell drummed fingers on her forearm. Finally she took a deep breath. ‘You had best enter the preceptory, then, and spin your tale, young lady.’
The gate was opened to its full extent and the figures stepped aside to allow the three visitors access. Arnau’s gaze took in the complex as a whole as he entered. The southern and eastern sides of the square were filled with ranges of buildings, a second gate visible through an arch. To the north a chapel was attached to the east range by a connecting building that was almost certainly a chapter house, and this remaining north-west corner housed a tower that stood alone. It was a small complex. Compact. It smelled mainly of horses and burning torches. Straw lay about in the dirt and gravel. The stone of the walls was rough. Yet there was an odd sense of peace and of piety about the place that made young Vallbona feel like something of an intruder.
Behind them the gate clunked closed, shutting out the world, enfolding them in this house of God, and Arnau marvelled again and again at this place and the manner in which he had come here.
‘Dismount,’ the knight said in a deep voice accented with the more honeyed tones of western Iberia. Arnau did so, and the younger sergeant helped first Titborga and then Maria from their saddles. The reins of all three horses were then taken and the man led them into a small stable block on the right beneath the guttering torch.
‘I am Ermengarda d’Oluja,’ the Templar woman said, ‘Preceptrix of the house of Rourell and head of this community. This is Brother Ramon de Juelle, a knight of the preceptory. Now tell me of the strange circumstances that bring you hither.’
As Titborga began slowly to relate the whole story, from the death of Berenguer to her enforced betrothal and all through their journey and flight from the farm, Arnau studied the two remaining Templars before him in astonishment. He had, as he’d told his lady, encountered a few nuns of the Temple in his time. They were commonly lay sisters or some sort of semi-sister, and rarely seemed to hold any real authority or position in the order. Never had he heard of a full sister such as this, and in command of a preceptory of knights and sergeants. This, then, had to be the captain’s ‘bitch of Rourell’.
His attention wandered back to the conversation just as Titborga was reaching the end of her tale, and he blinked at her closing lines.
‘Thus I find myself promised to a monster, heiress to a fortune, and with no recourse from a dreadful future. How might a lady seek membership in this most august order?’
Arnau felt his skin prickle. Membership?
‘My lady…’
Titborga turned to him with an odd smile. ‘Why did you think I came so readily to such a place? Sanctuary is of little use to me, for sanctuary must one day end, and then I would find myself once more in the very same position. Did I not warn you, Vallbona, that I would promise both myself and my lands to God before I saw them fall into the hands of della Cadeneta?’
‘But my lady…’
Preceptrix Ermengarda tapped her chin, apparently as uninterested in his opinions as was Titborga. ‘A place in the order is not to be sought simply to escape peril or the tribulations of the world, young lady. The order welcomes chaste souls and steadfast swords, but only those who are prepared to devote their whole being to the worship of the Lord and to service within the order, which can include its own perils and most certainly presents arduous tasks each day. It is not a thing to contemplate with but half a heart.’
Titborga nodded. ‘I am more than prepared, Sister. I am nary afeared of labour. I am strong of both body and will, and am a woman of letters with a command of Latin. Since I learned of Rourell, which I will grant, to my shame, is only recently, I have thought as constantly on the matter as imperilled flight would allow. It is my earnest heart’s desire. My father once told me that our lands could buy us a crown if we wished it. Will they not buy us entrance into the order?’
The preceptrix steepled her fingers. ‘It is not simply a matter of purchase, young lady. I will grant you that the order always welcomes land and finances to help support our work in the kingdom of Outremer and against the Almohads, and it is rather unfortunately true in these times of depopulation and war in Iberia that the order finds itself begging recruits in a manner seldom seen across other countries. Still, though, I would turn aside an uncommitted body before taking them to the order’s bosom for mere monetary gain.’
Titborga nodded her understanding. ‘I fear that the peace and the truth I seek will not be found in the temporal world, Sister. This is neither a last desperate attempt to arrest the decline of my fortune, nor a sudden and rash decision formed entirely by chance. In some ways it is a little of both, I might admit, but I feel it is more directly the result of some divine convergence of desire and opportunity. Is it not said that everything is part of the divine plan?’
This answer seemed to please the preceptrix and one eyebrow rose. ‘The order cannot accept members who are in any way bound to another in the temporal world. Are you a ward of the crown? What is your age – are you of enough years to manage your own affairs? And most importantly, when your hand was promised to the Lord della Cadeneta, did you at any time confirm your consent to the match?’
Titborga smiled. ‘Far from it. I denied the match at every turn. As the only surviving child of my father, I come under the nominal wardship of the Lord d’Entenza, though I am of age and more than capable of managing my own affairs.’
‘And your estate is uncontested?’
Now Titborga laughed. ‘Again, far from it. The Lord della Cadeneta would pull ou
t Christ’s fingernails for my lands. The Lord d’Entenza sees them as an asset with which to bind houses to the crown. I have distant cousins who bear the Cervelló name, though they have lands of their own and no legal claim upon those of my father. But the line of descent and inheritance is clear, as is my father’s will. I hold title to all the Santa Coloma lands and would see them delivered into the care of the order.’
Again, the answer seemed satisfactory to the preceptrix, and she nodded. ‘It is not the custom of the order to admit new members, whether they be brothers or sisters, full members, donats, associate members, knights or sergeants, in a precipitous manner. There must be a time of consideration for both the postulant and for the community considering their admittance.’
‘I understand.’
‘Furthermore, despite my authority within this house, any admittance must be agreed by the convent of full brothers and sisters.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you still wish us to consider you an applicant?’
‘I do, Sister,’ Titborga replied.
The preceptrix nodded again and then retreated a dozen paces, beckoning to Brother Ramon, where the two huddled into murmured conversation. Taking advantage of the momentary respite, Arnau hurried over to Titborga. ‘Doña, have you taken leave of your senses?’
The lady of Santa Coloma turned a look on Arnau that would have silenced him in any circumstance. ‘On the contrary, Vallbona, I may have listened to the voice of sense for the first time. As we fled the farm, it came to me as though a vision sent by the Lord. What future have I in Aragon and Barcelona? Should I somehow manage to slip the clutches of della Cadeneta, I would remain an heiress and a catch for any grasping noblemen, even were I the size and the very vision of a heifer. Even wrinkled and withered I would be sought for my lands. As long as I live I will be at best naught but a source of wealth in the eyes of men. I could donate my property and live on without them, of course, but I have seen the plight of the poor and uncared-for in this world and have no wish to be one of them. Nor have I a pressing desire to be a wife or mother. My father never instilled in me the need for such things. The only men who have ever looked upon me with a kindness born of selfless love are men of the Church. I have, since the day my mother died, considered a possible future as a bride of Christ, though I remained in the wide world for the love of my father. Now he is gone and vultures gather to pick over the bones of Santa Coloma. Is not a life in the Church to be cherished for a woman such as I, Arnau of Vallbona?’
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