‘Through there,’ he said to the German knight, pointing into the trees. Lütolf dismounted and the pair tied their reins to a branch, then picked their way on foot into the trees, Arnau in the lead, both with blades ready.
They found Carles on the other side of the small thicket. It took some time in the shadows, for he lay in the undergrowth covered with his black habit, the red cross folded inside.
‘The insolent knaves,’ Lütolf hissed.
Carefully, Arnau crouched and lifted the black cloak. The body of Carles lay face down and the young sergeant gently rolled him onto his back, feeling slightly sick at the thought of what he and his lady had apparently visited upon Rourell. Carles was dead, clearly. He had taken two arrows to the chest, both of which had been snapped off later, though the heads and a small section of shaft remained lodged between his ribs, the man’s tunic sticky and viscous with congealed blood. Even mortally wounded, it seemed that Carles had tried to fight, for he had also taken a sword cut to the arm, which had broken it so that it flopped and almost came away separate when the body was turned. Finally, a dagger had been driven through the heart, probably after he was already dead, just to be sure.
‘Too much to hope this was stray Moors on a raid,’ Brother Lütolf said, no question in the sentence.
‘No,’ agreed Arnau. ‘The sword was a long, straight Christian one, not a curved Almohad blade. And the blow that dispatched him was from a knife with a triangular section. A misericorde dagger carried by a Christian.’
He sat back on his heels and breathed deeply. ‘I would like to think that this is the work of bandits. I do not believe as much even for one moment, but I would like to.’
‘There is a simple way to check,’ the German prompted him.
‘What?’
‘The documents.’
Nodding, Arnau set to searching the body. ‘They would probably have been in his saddlebag, I think. There’s no sign of them on his person. But his purse is still here, as well as a ring. If they did not take his purse, then these were no bandits.’
He rose and turned to Lütolf. ‘It seems to me very unlikely that this is the work of anyone other than the men of della Cadeneta.’
‘It would appear that you have unearthed a hive of villainy,’ the German whispered. ‘Men that will kill a brother of the Temple like murderers in the night are low indeed. And fearless, for I will not allow such wickedness to go unpunished.’
For the first time since his arrival, Arnau actually felt in concord with the German knight.
Lütolf straightened and turned slowly in a circle.
‘Wherever you are, heed my call, you base churls,’ he bellowed into the night. ‘Ezekiel, chapter twenty-five: “And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.” With the death of a brother you have set in motion events that you will live to regret for the rest of your short and violent life.’
His words echoed away into the darkness without receiving a reply. Arnau felt a chill again, but the guilt and the determination were back in waves. Stooping, he gathered up the body of Carles and straightened, adjusting his grip with a grunt. The German knight led the way back to the horses and together they tied the body over the back of Lütolf’s horse. Mounting, they began to make their way south once more, towards Rourell.
‘This is my doing,’ Arnau said quietly.
‘Yes.’
He flashed a momentary glance of irritation at the scarred knight, for he’d expected the man to deny it and assuage his feeling of guilt.
‘But it is also the fault of your lady, and in her plight she must be considered blameless, so the same applies to you. The true guilty party here is the villainous cur who would cut down a man of God for mere temporal gain. Come. Back to Rourell.’
It was a short return journey, given that they now had no need to move slowly and examine the verges as they passed. They reached the turn-off and left the main road, heading for the looming walls of the preceptory. Arnau turned to the German brother and opened his mouth to say something, but instead his eyes widened, looking past Lütolf and into the olive grove. Two figures were moving beneath the trees.
‘Hold,’ he bellowed, ripping his sword from its scabbard. Lütolf, surprised, spun to look and Arnau watched in horror as one of the two lurking figures raised a crossbow, already loaded and ready, aiming it at the knight. The German clearly saw it at the same time and tried to lurch out of the way. There was a twang and a thud as the bolt was released and through Lütolf’s sharp reaction alone he was saved, though the missile instead thudded into the neck of his horse.
The animal reared in agonised panic and its rider was tipped unceremoniously from the saddle, dislodging the body of Carles in the process, both Templars, live and dead, landing in a tangled heap. The horse lurched, bucked, kicked and then fell, writhing and shrieking. Lütolf backed away desperately from the flailing hooves, dragging the body of Carles as he went.
Arnau bellowed in rage and kicked his horse into motion, thundering towards the olive grove. The two men, seeing the black-clad Templar coming for them, their crossbow discharged and temporarily useless, turned tail and fled into the trees. Arnau made to follow them, roaring his anger, but even as he left the small road, the reality of the situation insisted itself. There was simply no way he was going to forge on through those twisted, ancient branches on horseback. The two men were running fast, ducked low for safety. Arnau slid from his horse, sword in hand, and started after them, but a cry of pain drew his attention and he turned.
Lütolf was dragging himself across the gravel, clutching his shoulder where a flailing hoof had caught him a glancing blow. Torn between the desire to race off after the fleeing men and rushing to help his brother Templar, Arnau dithered. His roving eye picked out the two men just as they disappeared from sight among the trees. One had his shield strapped to his back, and Arnau knew the shield, knew the design all too well. If he’d been in any doubt as to who had been behind all this, that doubt was now completely destroyed.
The shield held the white stars on a field of red that labelled him one of della Cadeneta’s men.
He hurried back towards the German, who was now out of danger from the dying horse, clutching the body of Carles to him as he sat in the dust and rubbed his painful shoulder.
‘What are you doing?’ Lütolf demanded.
‘You needed help.’
‘Nonsense. Get after them.’
‘I’ll never catch them now. Wouldn’t have done before. They had a head start through the trees on foot.’
The German snorted his opinion of that, and slowly, hissing, pulled himself upright. Arnau helped him to his feet despite the snarled order not to, then crouched and lifted Carles, draping him over Arnau’s own horse now.
With Lütolf plodding along beside him and clutching his shoulder, Arnau led his own horse past the now-still body of the other beast, the three of them making for the preceptory a short distance down the track.
‘Such audacity. To attack a man of the Temple within sight of Rourell’s walls,’ the German said, shaking his head.
Two Templars, thought Arnau irritably, though he kept that to himself.
‘They were della Cadeneta’s men?’ Lütolf prompted.
‘They were. I saw the shield of one.’
‘Then they are hunting your Lady Titborga.’
Arnau nodded. ‘I suspect they followed our tracks to the main road and then lost us there. If it was only seven miles back to Cadeneta, the captain probably sent for more men. They will have combed the landscape for signs of us over the night and this morning. It will have been sheer bad timing that Carles rode north through the middle of their search. Perhaps they saw him coming, put two and two together with the preceptory so close offering the chance of sanctuary, and made to stop him.’
Lütolf hissed. ‘Whether they challenged
him or not, Carles was aware of how they fit into your tale. He was bearing those documents and would not have stopped for them. So they put two arrows in him to halt him, and then finished him off, robbed him and left him in a ditch. Such men have no fear of God or the Church. And if they were watching from the road, then they are now convinced Rourell is where the lady went.’
‘I am sorry we brought this to your doorstep, Brother Lütolf.’
The German brushed aside the apology. ‘Blame is a dangerous thing. It festers and corrupts. Guilt the same. Neither will do us any credit now. The fact is that a base villain, intent on harming and robbing a virginal noblewoman, has set his sights upon Rourell and does not baulk at the thought of slipping a blade into a warrior of Christ. We need to speak to the preceptrix urgently. When we get through the gate, hand the reins to Guillem and tell him to see to Carles. I will go ahead to see the preceptrix. Follow on as soon as you are done.’
The gate to the complex was opened upon their approach, and Arnau was momentarily surprised at the lack of activity until he realised that they had been long enough on the road that they had missed compline altogether and the preceptory had settled in for the night. Young Simo struggled with the gate and the bar but this time Arnau was too preoccupied to consider helping the lad. He led the horse and body off to the stables, though Guillem was nowhere to be seen. As the gates were barred behind him, he heeded the German’s earlier words and set to removing the saddle and harness and stabling the horse himself. He had just filled the hay rack for the beast and closed the stall gate when Guillem arrived at a rush.
‘Simo told me you were back.’ His eyes slid to the body and he blanched. ‘Carles.’
‘Yes,’ Arnau answered darkly. ‘I have to see the preceptrix with Brother Lütolf. Could you manage to deal with Carles for me?’
Guillem nodded and stooped over the body. Arnau thanked him hurriedly and then scurried out of the stables and across the courtyard to the chapter house. At the door he paused, assuming this was where the others would be found, and knocked politely. The door was opened by the German knight a moment later and he motioned for Arnau to join them, then closed it once more.
The preceptrix sat upon her chair, and the two men hurried over to her.
‘Brother Lütolf has explained what you found. You are sure these are della Cadeneta’s men?’
Arnau bowed his head. ‘There is no doubt, Sister. I saw the shields. They are watching Rourell and it was almost certainly they who killed Carles.’
The preceptrix drummed her fingers on the chair arm. ‘Two hundred thousand gold maravedi could turn many a heart dark and make them consider otherwise unthinkable courses of action. And without wishing to cast calumnies at the lords of Catalunya, della Cadeneta has ever harboured such a dark heart. He is known to me as a man of little moral fibre. That he would kill a soldier of Christ for such a sum is hardly a surprise, though it does sadden me.’
Arnau nodded. Sadden was hardly the word he would have used. Anger, perhaps…
‘And it seems unlikely that this is the end of the matter,’ the preceptrix added. ‘I would wager that this is the desperate work of the captain of whom you spoke, who escorted you from Santa Coloma. Afeared of how his lord would react, he is desperately attempting to recapture our dear sister before della Cadeneta arrives. He was, I believe you said, following on a few days behind.’
Arnau nodded. ‘Though he is eager and despicable. I suspect he will already be well on the way.’
‘Then we can likely expect an escalation,’ Lütolf put in. ‘For now, they watch the preceptory. I would recommend that we make regular armoured tours of the properties surrounding and try to keep this wicked rabble away from our doors.’
Preceptrix Ermengarda looked unsure for a moment, an expression that seemed odd on that certain, commanding face. ‘Perhaps, though I fear for my people if we are gathering an enemy who does not baulk at the murder of a Templar sergeant. We must be careful. Life should go on as it is for now, but yes, we must remain ever vigilant. I am tempted to send word to Barberà but am beset with twin worries. I have no wish to send another brother to the grave in the manner of Carles, and we are lacking proof of della Cadeneta’s complicity in the affair, for all that his men attacked you on the road. There could be an argument suggesting that his men acted alone and without their lord’s consent in his absence. If I take charges against him to the mother house, charges that will then likely reach the king, we must be certain that he is the villain beyond all doubt. Since he is as yet not even in our vicinity, such an accusation would be foolishly made.’
Arnau and Lütolf both nodded at the truth of this.
‘But the documents’ Arnau sighed. ‘If the documents pertaining to Santa Coloma lands are already in the captain’s hands, as well as those confirming the applications of myself and the lady into the order, then those applications are yet to be lodged legally. We are still not members of the order, and those lands are still fair game. Possibly, holding those documents, della Cadeneta can even lay claim to them in Titborga’s absence? I’m no student of law, but it seems to me…’
The preceptrix was waving him to silence with a curious smile. ‘I am nothing if not cautious, young Vallbona, though the death of our beloved brother might suggest otherwise. Knowing the men of Cadeneta to be at large, and the value of such documents, I had Carles make copies. At this stage legal title to lands and fortune do not need to be confirmed, just the details of the proposed donation and of the brother or sister to be admitted. This is simply the initial lodging of records. Thus Carles was carrying only copies of our Templar records, rather than any document which might be legally binding outside our order. The lady de Santa Coloma’s lands remain hers safely for now. Those records will have to be lodged in due course, but I am loath to risk another messenger until we are more informed as to the situation in the world outside.’
‘What is our next step then, Sister?’ Lütolf asked quietly.
The preceptrix’s expression hardened. ‘We prepare for any eventuality. We continue on with our lives as servants of God and of the Temple, we trust in the Lord and we take our cue from the Book of Exodus and not the Book of Matthew.’
The scarred German nodded his approval and Arnau frowned in incomprehension.
Lütolf turned to him. ‘Put aside all Matthew’s thoughts of turning the other cheek, de Vallbona. “If there is serious injury, you are to take life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” The word of the Lord demands vengeance upon della Cadeneta.’
Chapter Eight
Arnau stood in the clear area of dry, dusty brown earth and eyed his opponent warily. The walls of the preceptory rose nearby, at once imposing and comforting, the sounds of hammer on anvil, of horses and men, of daily life rising across the surroundings in the afternoon sun.
Brother Lütolf stood immobile and emotionless, a Germanic statue to order and control. His sword tip barely moved, while Arnau’s wavered like a snake hypnotising its prey. The younger man, his sergeant’s robe now finally clean and neatly pressed, but already gathering dust from the surroundings, swallowed as he changed his footing.
‘Whenever you are ready,’ the scarred brother said in the offhand tone of a disapproving tutor.
Arnau forbore to reply, instead keeping his eyes on the German. The younger knight had learned from good sword teachers in his days at Vallbona. He was no dunce with a blade, even though it was not his chosen weapon, but the main thing his teacher had drummed into him during those hot tiring days of training was that no amount of skill could replace wit. If a man could anticipate his opponent, then the actual strike or parry would be a simple thing. It was advice that had served Arnau well in his time. Every opponent had at least one tell if you studied him enough. Of course, in the heat of battle, that was not often possible, but in a duel such as this, it could mean the difference between failure and success. A man might always take
an involuntary glance in the direction he was planning to move. A knee might twitch before a step. One memorable opponent had always rubbed his thumb on his sword’s guard before a lunge.
Lütolf of Ehingen was unreadable. It was baffling. Every man Arnau had faced had at least given something away, but the German might as well have been carved from alabaster. Arnau would hate to play the man at dice. Not that such a thing would be approved of in the order, of course, he thought with a tinge of regret.
Well, if Lütolf could play the man with no tell – a thing of which Arnau knew he himself was incapable – then he would take the contrary path. He would be the man with every tell. He knew that he himself would have something that gave him away, though he knew not what it was, and that the German would be watching for it in exactly the same manner, so instead, Arnau would play the fool.
He began to move. Stepping back and forth, left and right in a haphazard manner, shifting his fingers on the hilt, eyes darting this way and that, arms rolling. He would be unpredictable. Lütolf would not see him coming. He readied himself mentally even as his dance of distraction continued.
‘Are you ill?’ asked his opponent in an acidic tone.
Arnau lunged. In the midst of a strange sidestep, he suddenly leaped forward, sword sweeping unstoppably for the padded chest of the German standing motionless in the dust.
A moment later, Arnau was on the ground in a beige cloud with the blunted tip of a practice sword hovering, immobile, an inch from his windpipe. All he’d experienced was the thrill of a strike the man couldn’t possibly have anticipated and then a rushing feeling as he fell past the sidestepping Lütolf and collapsed to the ground, almost doing himself an injury with his own sword.
‘Rise,’ the German said in that same aloof teacher’s tone.
Arnau, who would love to be angry but was currently too astonished, did so as his opponent stepped back and removed the weapon from his throat.
‘Incredible,’ the young knight breathed.
‘Quite credible,’ Lütolf said dismissively. ‘especially given your strange Saint Vitus’s dance.’
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