Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau was silent. He had no answer against such a reasoned and flawless argument. He had been unable to think of a way out for the lady because there was no way out. He had caught upon the idea of sanctuary, though that was but delaying the inevitable, and the unthinkable would eventually come crashing back in upon them. Despite his gainsaying, this was the clear answer to Titborga’s dilemma, and the only answer to boot.

  Moreover, the prospect was attractive. Infectious, even. Who was he to say his lady was making rash choices when he himself had nowhere to turn? Vallbona was poor. He had always known that, even before his father had drunk himself to death. But three years ago, poring over the estate accounts, it had become clear that only the affection of Don Berenguer de Santa Coloma had kept them from destitution. As such, Arnau had cleaved to his lord ever tighter. And now? Well, he’d planned after the lord’s death to return home and find some way to make the estate profitable once more, but what great chance was there of that? And if the lady donated her estates to the Temple? Well then Arnau would become a tenant of Templar lands or, should she bend to the generosity of freeing him and Vallbona of fealty, then he would be free to become destitute and starve until some other lord bought out his lands and his fealty. In some ways he was every bit as desperate as the lady, for all he might appear a man of means.

  He swallowed.

  ‘Your words are wise beyond your years, my lady.’

  ‘It is as though the Lord sent me an omen with Rourell, Arnau. There was I like Christ, lost in the wilderness and seeking a path, and God sent me not only a preceptory of the Temple but, against all odds, one commanded by a woman! Who am I to deny the manus dei, Vallbona?’

  Indeed. And who was Arnau to do so, for that matter?

  After a long interval, the two Templars returned from their private counsel.

  ‘It is the considered opinion of Ramon, in whom I have the utmost confidence, that you have the makings of a fine sister of the Temple. That your commitment to such an undertaking is impressive and merits consideration.’

  Arnau saw Titborga’s knowing smile. How much of Ramon’s opinion was weighed upon the vaunted Santa Coloma riches, he mused? But he instantly cast aside such unworthy thoughts. There was nothing grasping or underhand in the manner of the knight or his preceptrix. Both seemed perfectly calm and pious and reasoned.

  ‘We will put the matter before the convent of the Temple of Rourell as a matter of some urgency, given your predicament. I daresay the passagium sought with the Santa Coloma lands will sway even the wariest brother,’ she said wryly, throwing a knowing glance at Arnau that sent waves of shame from the soles of his boots right to his hairline. ‘We will press the enrolment, in order to settle the matter of your freedom and your estate before your unwished suitor seeks you out. Please accompany me to the chapel.’

  Before he realised what he was saying, Arnau had cleared his throat and gestured to them. ‘How does fealty to a noble house affect a pledge to the order?’

  The two Templars exchanged a strange look, and Sir Ramon beckoned to him. ‘You owe fealty only to the lady of Santa Coloma?’

  Arnau nodded. ‘I also owe money, but only to the Santa Coloma estate. And were I to offer the lands and full value of Vallbona it would cover any debt with a clear margin.’

  What the fuck am I doing? Arnau thought in the privacy of his head, his hands beginning to shake. His conscience shot back: What you know must be done. Without the lady or the Temple you are nothing. Within a year you will be bondsman or serf. But here is a chance to be more. To be that man. That glorious man in white and red who led the charge at the Ebro.

  ‘You wish an application be made to Rourell for the name of Arnau de Vallbona?’ the preceptrix asked with a totally expressionless face.

  No. Lord, no. I am not made to be a monk.

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  He wondered whether it was possible that his mouth had been cursed to somehow gainsay him.

  Don’t be a fool, Vallbona, his conscience pressed. Your future is as bleak as hers. This is your path to glory. To truth. To a world of wonder.

  Damn his conscience.

  Maria suddenly hurried forward from where she had been lurking at the rear and dropped to the ground beside Titborga. There were tears on her cheeks, but what drew Arnau’s attention was the strange, haunted look she threw back at the gate behind them. Did Maria have such cause to be scared? But then without her lady she would be nothing, he supposed.

  ‘My lady, please!’

  ‘What is it, Maria?’

  ‘I don’t want to be a nun, my lady.’

  ‘It was not my intent to give you to the order like chattel, Maria, though those who work the Santa Coloma estate will surely become tenants of the Temple. But you have been my faithful servant throughout the most trying of times. I will, if it please you, Maria, grant you both your freedom and a small stipend or sum to see to your own security.’

  Again that frightened look back at the gate.

  ‘I daren’t, my lady. The Lord della Cadeneta…’

  Then Arnau remembered the privy. No wonder the girl was scared.

  ‘You may stay with us as a consoror,’ the preceptrix said in soothing tones that sat strangely at odds with her imposing, commanding manner. ‘You may enjoy the safety of the order for as long a time as you wish on the condition that you agree to follow the rules of the house and perform such duties as are allocated to you by myself or the brothers. Is that acceptable?’

  A flood of relief flowed visibly through the maid.

  ‘Then come. I shall convene an extraordinary convent of the brothers and sisters.’

  They strode across the compound towards the chapel, arriving as a single voice rang out in an ancient melody across the congregation. At the doors, the preceptrix held up her hand to halt them, and Arnau listened to the haunting sound within. Compline was almost done. The lesson must have been given before they arrived, and they had been at the gate during the Kyrie eleison. Now the unseen priest was completing his benediction. Finally, the voice dropped to a lower tone and the preceptrix opened the door and stepped inside. Ramon filled the door to prevent anyone else entering, and Arnau caught only snatches of conversation. The commander of Rourell had interrupted compline only at the very end when the dismissal was being given, begging the priest’s indulgence. She was clearly informing the inhabitants of the preceptory of the sudden need for a convent of admission. After long moments some sort of affirmative was clearly given, and Ramon stepped aside.

  ‘Speak only when questioned. Answer truthfully and from the heart. Give no offence. Remember that this is a house of God and the Lord is listening to you, both word and soul.’

  With that he motioned for them to enter.

  Arnau allowed the lady to enter first and then waited for Maria, but Sir Ramon de Juelle shook his head. ‘This is not for visitors. The maid shall wait here.’

  The knight of Vallbona stepped inside. The chapel was not a grand one, but was graceful and large enough to house the preceptory’s denizens, which seemed to number almost a score. The interior was plain sandstone, with a single wall painted with fascinating scenes, and the burning torches turned the warm brown stone to gold. As the two postulants entered, so did much of the congregation leave, just five remaining – the preceptrix herself, three men with the white mantles of knights and the priest in his long white robes, also bearing the red cross at the breast.

  Fascinated, Arnau watched the men leave, mostly bearded and wearing the black garments of sergeants. A young boy in peasant garb went with them, as did four women in white nuns’ robes. Brother Ramon he already knew, or felt he did. As the knight took a seat between two peers, Arnau studied them closely. One was clearly of more advanced years than the others, his hair and beard white and bushy, his eyes as grey as a winter sea, hard and suspicious. The other was shorter and paler than any man Arnau had yet seen, his dark hair and salt-and-pepper beard both trimmed neatly, his face settled into a sour frown
from which it appeared unable to lift, a scar running from his right eye, down across his cheek and carving a pink path through his beard to his chin. They were an imposing trio, if still not exuding the impressive gravitas of the house’s mistress. The priest was ancient – possibly the oldest man Arnau had ever laid eyes upon. His hair and beard were wild like the fabled Norsemen and grey as a corpse. His eyes bulged like a fanatic and yellow teeth lurked within the grey hair. The sight of him made Arnau shudder.

  ‘These are Titborga, former lady of Santa Coloma,’ the preceptrix announced, ‘and her man at arms, the knight Arnau of Vallbona. I know some of you are aware of the exploits of the lady’s father on the battlefield. She comes to us seeking a place as a sister of the Temple.’

  ‘What passagium does she offer?’ asked the one with the scar, in the sharpest voice imaginable with a thick, foreign accent, like a knife being drawn across mail. A German, Arnau suspected. Perhaps even English?

  ‘Always with you Swabians it’s about the money,’ snorted the older, white-bearded knight. ‘The money or the poetry anyway. The endless poetry.’

  The scarred knight shot a hard look at his peer, and Ramon, between them, sighed and pushed them apart a little. ‘Brothers, be so kind as to at least allow the girl to answer.’

  Titborga glanced at the preceptrix, who nodded. ‘I offer to the Temple Santa Coloma, an estate worth two hundred thousand gold maravedi, including nine farms, four wineries, six fiefdoms and two castles, plus sundry other assets. I have full listings in my saddlebags.’

  ‘One thousand seven hundred?’ laughed the older, white-bearded knight. ‘Then welcome to the Poor Knights of Christ!’

  Ramon chuckled at the centre, both of them earning yet another acidic look from Scar-face.

  ‘Can you confirm that you belong to no man, nor to woman or lord?’ the priest suddenly put in, in a lilting, melodic voice that belied his appearance. ‘Can you confirm that you are unmarried and debt-free? That you are not promised to a different order? That you are free to give all that you are to the Lord and to the Order of the Temple?’

  Titborga nodded. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ scar-face rolled his eyes. ‘Two full sisters. As if Rourell was not unpopular enough.’

  Ramon dealt him a warning punch to the shoulder. ‘Disrespect the preceptrix like that again, Lütolf, and I might break the rule not to injure you in anger.’

  ‘As if you could injure me,’ snorted the scar-faced Lütolf in scathing tones.

  ‘You realise that the order is not the simple life of some swan-fed bishop?’ White-beard said in thoughtful tones, interrupting the altercation and addressing Titborga and Arnau once more. ‘That we do not live comfortable lives, sitting fat on cushioned behinds? That we serve as brothers and sisters of the Church first and foremost, with every chore and hardship and ceremony that any monk might endure, maintaining this house of God in working condition and maintaining the daily litany as any Benedictine might, but that we are also so much more? When a monk might sit back in silent contemplation of the hardships of his day, we are instead using the little time we have to keep our sword arms strong and to practise, and to clean armour and plan for battle. There is no freedom in the order. Your private moments are not yours. They belong to God, to the order, and to the Preceptrix Ermengarda.’

  ‘And not necessarily in that order,’ laughed Ramon.

  Titborga bowed her head in acquiescence.

  ‘And in agreeing to be bound by the rules of the order, you will be agreeing to obey any command handed to you as though it came from the Pope himself?’ the preceptrix added. ‘And acknowledging that the punishments for infractions can be brutal?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And what of the lad?’ the one called Lütolf asked suddenly.

  ‘I understand and accept all conditions. I am Arnau de Vallbona, sole owner of two hundred and fifty acres of Catalan land, with two farms, a village and the hereditary manor of Vallbona, beholden only to the lady of Santa Coloma. All that I have, I offer the order.’

  There was a considered silence as the three brothers, the preceptrix and the priest seemed to hold some sort of silent exchange using only their expressions, until it was finally broken by Titborga.

  ‘May I address you?’

  Surprised looks abounded, and one or two disapproving ones, but finally Ramon nodded.

  ‘Though it may harm my case, I feel it is only right to warn you that Don Ferrer della Cadeneta covets both my body and my lands. I am not sure what trouble he might present to the order, but in accepting me, Rourell could earn his ire. He is not the sort of man to let a slight go, and especially not one that costs him near two hundred thousand maravedi.’

  Lütolf frowned and turned to Ramon. ‘Is della Cadeneta the short one from near Reus?’

  ‘No. He’s that runt from the hills west of Valls. The one who argues over grain prices.’

  ‘To the devil with him,’ snapped Lütolf irritably. ‘He has long spoken ill of us.’

  ‘I suspect you have your answer,’ the preceptrix smiled at Titborga and Arnau. ‘If even Lütolf cares not for any peril your admittance might introduce, then nor will any other. Please, step outside while the convent deliberates.’

  Arnau and Titborga moved towards the door, which he opened for her. They strode back out into the cool of the evening, and the lady of Santa Coloma examined him with searching eyes.

  ‘Why, Vallbona?’

  He shrugged. ‘The case you made for your own future could as easily apply to me, my lady. It seemed the clear path.’

  ‘They will take me,’ she smiled ‘for the lands of Santa Coloma are too valuable to overlook. And if they take me they cannot refuse you, I think. The end of our relationship as lady and man at arms is nigh, Arnau. In a turn of events that neither of us might have predicted a single month ago, it appears that we are to become brother and sister.’

  And Arnau had to laugh at that.

  Part Two

  Haven

  Chapter Six

  ‘You are familiar with the daily routine of the monastery?’

  Arnau turned to Mateu, a serious-looking man in his early twenties and with the neatest, shiniest hair Arnau had ever seen. The man’s black habit, denoting the rank of sergeant, was impeccable and perfectly pressed, in direct comparison with Arnau’s own crumpled garment that smelled of mice and old food. It was the new arrivals’ first morning at Rourell, and it did not feel auspicious.

  ‘A little,’ Arnau admitted. ‘I was a regular guest at the monastery of Santa Maria in my youth. I learned my letters there.’

  ‘Then forget what you understand of monastic life from those days.’

  ‘That should not be hard,’ yawned Arnau, wondering how long they would have before sunrise. With the lamps lit in the courtyard, he couldn’t even tell whether the sky had yet acquired the indigo glow of pre-dawn.

  ‘While it is the duty of the order to follow a straight monastic liturgy of the hours and to devote ourselves to the traditional pursuit of prayer and learning, the reality of life in the order means that certain adjustments need to be made. Even the Rule of Order, set by the blessed Saint Bernard, is bent to fit the real world. You may find that other preceptories keep their houses in a different manner, according to their needs. There has to be a melding of Church duty and temporal realism, and the preceptrix is, perhaps, one of the less traditional in her approach.’

  Arnau simply nodded and stifled another yawn.

  ‘Thus we are heading to lauds in the hours of darkness,’ Mateu continued, ‘rather than to celebrate the dawn and the resurrection. The simple fact is that as men of God and also of the sword, we have more chores and tasks to fit into our day than any monk could contemplate, and consequently we begin our day more than an hour earlier to grant us as much time as possible. There is more to do in Rourell than there are hands available. While the blessed Saint Bernard drew a delightful line between squires and sergeants in his scribblings, t
he truth in Catalunya is that we barely have enough sergeants to fulfil the preceptory’s duties, let alone lay members, so there is some doubling-up on tasks. As confanier, I might be expected to lead horsemen into the fray, yet I am squire to Brother Ramon as well as the bearer of the beauséant banner. Perhaps in Outremer they have sufficient staff to be more specialised. We do not. Every brother here has at least one role. Every sergeant too. Even the sisters and the consorors.’

  An hour before dawn, then, Arnau sighed. Another stifled yawn, and now a grumble of hungry belly joined in, like the gentle shifting of continents.

  ‘After lauds, we break our fast swiftly,’ Mateu said, his eyes dropping to Arnau’s noisy midriff. ‘According to the rule there is no dawn meal, but the preceptrix believes that without a morning meal men are too sluggardly. After that repast the preceptrix will assign you duties. I suspect I know what duty you will take on, but it is not my place to say. Undoubtedly someone else will walk you through the rest of the daily duties from there. I have my own business to attend to, of course.’

  The new arrival nodded again. Mateu was not only confanier – standard bearer for Rourell – and squire to Brother Ramon. In addition to those duties, he seemed to be the man to whom the preceptory turned for a thousand small chores and tasks, such as locating appropriate apparel for Arnau. He had not had time to wash the garment, though. Rather than the neat black of Mateu’s, Arnau’s habit was a sort of mottled black-grey from cobwebs and stains, though the red cross stood out clearly enough.