Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Cups were distributed and Arnau took his gratefully with his good hand, wincing as Carima began to wrap his fingers. He frowned. ‘Do you not splint them?’

  Carima shook her head. ‘The break was clean and lateral. It may heal slightly crooked without a splint, but so long as I bind it to the next finger, it will heal more or less straight and you will still be able to hold a sword. Otherwise you would be a month without training.’

  Arnau stared at her. He was expected to wield a sword with a broken finger?

  Perhaps noting the look on his face, the preceptrix cleared her throat and interjected. ‘Brother Balthesar is quite correct. Let me distract you from these uncomfortable ministrations with a tale. It is an old tale, especially for those here who have endured it before, but I am aware of the unusual nature of my command here, and the intrigue it inspires within those who hear of it. Perhaps the story of how I come to be preceptrix of Rourell will turn your thoughts from the pain of your hand?’

  Arnau, his interest piqued over a question he had asked in the silence of his head many times, nodded, noting that Titborga similarly leaned forward in her seat with curiosity.

  ‘It is, however, a sad tale.’ She poured herself another cup of wine without offering it to the others and then set to with her story. ‘My husband Gombau and I were travelling from Tàrrega to Perpignan to visit the king. Our lineage, you see, was of the highest pedigree and our estate sizeable. My husband was sought by clerics and kings alike for his support. On the journey, close to the Pyrenees near Figueres, our retinue was set upon by bandits – a ragtag force of escaped Moorish slaves who had banded together to prey upon the Christians of the region. My husband fought them off, along with the men at arms, of course, but several of them, on departure, loosed arrows from their horses in the manner of the Persians of old. Most were harmless, but one pierced the window of my carriage and took the life of our daughter Maria. She died in my arms in a welter of blood.’

  Arnau felt a cold chill run through him. Suddenly, he was not sure he wanted to know the rest of the story. Titborga’s face was also an open-mouthed ‘O’ of horror, and the young knight could see from the preceptrix’s eyes how hard it was for her to relive the tale. He wondered why she had volunteered to do so, and considered perhaps that in the telling she somehow managed to numb the pain a little. He opened his mouth to ask her to stop, but at that moment Carima pulled a bandage tight and instead Arnau bit deep into the leather, catching his tongue painfully.

  ‘I was filled with fury,’ the preceptrix said. ‘First with sorrow, of course, but then swiftly with fury. And when Gombau came and found what had happened, he vowed such terribly ungodly things in his rage. We travelled on to the king, and my husband beseeched him – this was Alfons, of course, not the current king. He demanded the king hunt the bandits that so infested the region and bring them to justice. I was with him, rabid in my support. But the king was not well. His health was failing – he died within the month – and waved aside our plea, considering bandits a minor irritation in the face of his own mortality and his rush to complete his Pyrenean unity.’

  Arnau nodded. He remembered that minor irritation in practice. The escaped slave bandits had caused trouble across the region, as far west and south as Vallbona’s own door. They became something of a force to be reckoned with before they were finally put down.

  ‘In rage and hollow desperation, Gombau and I pledged to the Templar order all our lands and wealth, seeking only to do precisely that for which the Poor Knights were created: securing the safety of travellers and pilgrims. Gombau was sent to Castile where he was enrolled in the latest push of reconquest. He died on the field of battle against the Moor. I had been serving as a sister in Barberà, doing my best to influence the preceptor there to deal with the bandits who slayed our daughter. It astounds me how my lineage and influence survived both my entry into the order and the death of my beloved Gombau, for I was able to call in a number of debts and favours and secured for myself this preceptory. As such I had considerable say in the region’s Templar activity. Within the year the combined might of the Temple in Catalunya, along with a small force from the new pious King Pedro, put an end to the roving bandits. I have been the mistress of Rourell since then.’

  ‘And proved the match of any preceptor I have encountered, I might add,’ Balthesar put in.

  The preceptrix gestured to the wall the building shared with the chapel, and Arnau turned to see what she was indicating. A sword was hanging there, gleaming and strong. A fine sword, too, but solid. A soldier’s sword, for all its decoration.

  ‘My husband’s blade. I keep it to serve as a reminder of what I am: a commander of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. No, I have never wielded the blade, before you ask. I may command here with a fist of iron, but I am a woman, and that fist has never held a sword. Yet it remains important as a symbol. Never forget what you are or why you are here.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘To protect the Christian from the heathen,’ he replied with confidence. The look he received in return made him shrink back into himself.

  Balthesar’s quiet tone cut through the suddenly heavy air.

  ‘We protect the innocent and the God-fearing from the wicked, Brother Arnau. We live in turbulent times, but the order is not about the Christian and the Moor. Or the Jew,’ he added, gesturing at Carima and sending a wave of guilt flooding through Arnau as he realised she was glaring at him. ‘It is simply about the good and the wicked,’ the old knight continued. ‘It does not do to see the world in such a basic manner as good Christians and bad everyone else. Sometimes, Vallbona, the wicked wear a cross. Sometimes the innocent do not.’

  Preceptrix Ermengarda was nodding. ‘Your encounters with the Don della Cadeneta should have clarified that point for you. Though the order’s work with non-Christian associates is not universally welcomed, there are certain realities to be accepted in this world. Without the ministrations of good Carima here, herself a daughter of Solomon’s seed, you would probably have lived out the rest of your life with nine fingers. Thanks to her, you will simply have a bent digit. Without the simple honesty and agricultural understanding of our Moorish labourers, our fields would not thrive. Without the expertise of our Moorish overseer, the millstones would not turn to make our flour. If it is righteous reconquest you seek, you should hitch your wagon to the King of Castile’s horse, not to the order.’

  Brother Balthesar smiled, and Arnau nodded with a faint sense of humiliation. Why had he espoused such an ardent viewpoint in the first place? Had he not himself always seen the Moor in a relatively sympathetic light?

  A possible answer struck him suddenly. Perhaps it was the influence of the hard-edged, overly pious Lütolf. Perhaps the German’s inflexible attitude had begun to inform his own?

  Carima finished with the bandages and began to pack away her kit. Arnau thanked her in a rather embarrassed voice and was grateful when she smiled and told him not to worry. He felt he could learn a thing or two about compassion from the young Jewess. Things in the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon were not as simple as he had assumed, watching that glorious knight in red and white leading the charge at the Ebro.

  Chapter Nine

  Arnau exited the dormitory doorway and emerged into the warm night. He could hear the hum of conversation from the refectory where the various brothers, sisters and sergeants had gathered for wine and conversation, the only relaxing moment of the day for the order. To some extent he’d been tempted to join them, but he knew that Lütolf would be there with his Germanic nose raised so that he could look down it at those he considered less pious. Since the training incident, he had gone out of his way to spend as little time as possible with the scarred knight. Not an easy thing to do for his squire, and they had continued to train, regardless of the growing wall between them and the pain in Arnau’s hand. But the young sergeant simply could not find it within himself to spend what little free time he had in the man’s p
resence.

  Instead, Arnau crossed to the stables to check up on his horse. Regardless of the role Guillem played in the care of the preceptory’s animals, it was still expected of every member of the community to maintain his tack and animal and, though Guillem was quite thorough, there was always more to do. The courtyard was empty in the golden glow of the lamps and Arnau paused in the doorway of the stable before he went in, savouring the night air before inhaling the heady aroma of many horses in a small space.

  His attention was caught by movement across the way and his eyes focused on the doorway to the sisters’ dormitory, from which a figure in white had just emerged. One of the smaller women, from the size of her stride, though it was impossible to tell who at this distance and in this light, especially as she was largely covered by wimple and coif.

  The figure was carrying a small wicker basket and a lamp, which bobbed and twisted as she walked towards the south gate beneath the arch. Curious, Arnau left the stables again and shuffled over to the arch’s entrance just in time to see the nun open the small door inset into the heavy wooden gate and pass through it. He heard it shut and lock with a click from the far side and frowned. What would a nun be doing leaving the preceptory at this time of night? Still, she had clearly been on some recognised business or other, and had been walking quite openly. There is a strange habit of those attempting subterfuge to slink as though they are about suspicious business. The small nun had not exuded such an aura. She had walked. She had even been humming quietly. Plus, of course, she had a key. The only three keys to that door belonged to the preceptrix, the seneschal of the preceptory, Luis, and Brigida the cook, so she was certainly about the business of one of those three.

  Shrugging, Arnau returned to the stables. He found the hay rack for his horse and topped it up, trying to keep his bound and throbbing fingers from knocking painfully against anything, then filling the rack for Lütolf’s new beast while he was about it. He spent some time carefully brushing the mane and polishing his saddle with eight fingers, then, some quarter of an hour having passed, he emerged once more into the sultry Iberian night air and paused, drawing a deep breath. Somewhat invigorated, he decided that a little time maintaining his sword and armour might be in order, despite having spent time at it earlier in the day. Then, he had been in Brother Lütolf’s company and had done a poor job of polishing, immersed in disgruntlement as he had been.

  A little vigorous rubbing of pitted steel might allow him to work out some of his frustrations, and he made for the small armoury, listening to the evening symphony of crickets across the countryside, the hum of conversation from the refectory, the sounds of the animals in the stables, Father Diego singing hymns in the chapel in a low murmur.

  And an unexpected thread. A sound that was almost buried beneath all the others, but was so out of place that it leaped to Arnau’s ears like a trumpet call.

  The sound of scuffling. A struggle.

  Even as he frowned and tried to work out where the sound was coming from, there was a brief squeak of a scream that was instantly muffled as someone clamped a hand over a mouth. Without having yet identified the precise location, its significance was so clear that Arnau was hurrying for the south gate before he’d realised it. It had to be the nun. Had to be.

  He grasped the handle of the inset door with his good left hand and turned, but the wooden portal simply clonked and rattled, refusing to open. Of course, the nun had locked it as she exited. He could hear a gruff voice now somewhere out there, so low the words were not audible, and then the clopping of hooves. Urgently, he scurried across to the heavy bar. Simo had lifted the one on the west gate, and Arnau had assumed this would be as easy. It proved not to be. Having the inset door and the west gate, no one had bothered fully opening the south gate for some time, and the bar was almost welded into place with grime and rust.

  The young knight gritted his teeth and heaved, positioning his grip on it to spare the damaged finger. It moved little more than an inch and then dropped back into place, Arnau’s hands sore, his arms screaming in pain, his finger throbbing worryingly. He tried again, panting. It moved a little more and then dropped back. As he heaved in a breath he could hear whimpering outside and two men’s voices as they argued quietly.

  Bending back to it, he prepared for a third try when suddenly a figure appeared beside him. Brother Ramon was there now, lending his strength. Together, they heaved the bar up and dropped it to one side. The doors opened with difficulty and a tortured groan.

  Arnau and Brother Ramon burst out onto the causeway that crossed the ditch outside the preceptory, looking this way and that in the silvery moonlight. They spotted the nun in but a moment, a heap of white on the dark, dusty ground, a broken lamp lying nearby, still burning and lighting mostly dry earth.

  The two men ran over to the shape and, as Ramon dropped into a crouch, Arnau scanned the area. For a moment, he thought perhaps he saw riders a few hundred yards from the road, but a blink later there was nothing, and he couldn’t be sure. His gaze dropped.

  The figure, heaving in sobbing breaths, was Maria, Titborga’s maid. As Ramon moved her into a seated position checked what he could within the bounds of modesty, Arnau took in her situation. She had been beaten. There were burgeoning bruises on her face that would later be colourful and cover most of the skin. One eye was pressed shut under a red welt. For a moment, as she held up her hands, he thought they were also wounded from the gore on them, but then he realised the blood was someone else’s. She had scratched with her nails like a hunting cat. But perhaps the thing that shocked him, and certainly the thing that started a simmering rage building within him was the torn white habit. Certain damage would be consistent with a physical attack, but someone had torn Maria’s habit from the bottom hem, ripping it open to display her womanhood. Some despicable monster had seemingly attempted to rape a nun.

  His memory corrected him. She was only dressed in the habit as a consoror – a temporary resident, and not a full sister. Maria was not a nun. He dismissed the distinction as an unworthy thought. Still, the savagery and wickedness made his blood boil. He caught sight of Ramon’s eyes and recognised two things in them. Firstly, that the knight felt that same fury. Secondly, that Brother Ramon was, in fact, in his cups in a manner that broke at least one of the order’s rules concerning moderation.

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked the knight.

  ‘Buttery. Checking the wine.’

  That figured. But in the event it had been a good thing, for the buttery was next to the arch and hence Ramon had been able to hear the commotion outside almost as well as Arnau.

  ‘Are there tracks?’ the older knight asked as he rocked Maria gently.

  Arnau peered at the ground, lit gold by the fallen lamp and silver by the moon in the clear sky. ‘Yes. Three horses, I would say.’

  ‘What were you doing out here?’ Ramon asked the wounded girl.

  Between sobs and through a painful split lip, Maria murmured her story.

  ‘The Doña – Sister Titborga – had smelled the bouquets we had put together for the preceptrix’s bedclothes and had asked if I could do the same for her.’

  Arnau frowned and Ramon looked across at him and shrugged. ‘A small indulgence. The sharpness of the order’s rules can sometimes be dulled with such tiny allowances. The sisters often have scented sheets.’

  ‘I checked with the preceptrix and with Brother Luis,’ Maria said in a worried voice. ‘I was looking for lavender and evening stock to dry in a posy. Neither grows within the walls, but I know there are patches without.’

  That explained her having the key, at least.

  ‘Who attacked you?’ Ramon pressed, not without sympathy, as the thud of boots announced more people arriving from the preceptory. Arnau turned to see Brothers Lütolf, Balthesar and Mateu crossing the causeway at a run.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Maria said. ‘Couldn’t see. I was bent over, gathering stock.’ She pointed at a half-filled basket that seemed to corrobor
ate as much. ‘They attacked me from behind. One tried… he tried to…’ She broke down into a fit of sobbing once more and Ramon consoled her again as the new arrivals checked the ground hereabouts and gathered up the broken lamp and the basket.

  ‘Three lots of horse tracks,’ Balthesar confirmed. ‘All well-shod, so knights and soldiers. Not just thugs. Could be bandits.’

  ‘Bandits would not dare come so close to the preceptory,’ Lütolf said, shaking his head.

  ‘Not ordinarily, my friend,’ Balthesar countered. ‘But these are not ordinary times. It may be that a hostile don in the vicinity watches Rourell with wicked intent. That this young maid was part of that same don’s wedding caravan can hardly be coincidence.’

  Arnau nodded. There had to be a connection. He leaned closer to the beaten girl. ‘You did not see a face?’

  Again, Maria fought back her sobs, shaking her head. ‘They held me from behind. They were going… Then they heard the gate. Heard someone coming. I think that changed their plan. Two ran off to their horses and the other… he spun me, but I only saw a blur before he hit me. And then he hit me again and again until I was on the ground and he was gone.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘Did you see any clothing? Did they wear red?’

  ‘I… I don’t think so,’ she replied doubtfully. ‘It was dark. And confusing. But I think they were in brown and grey. They looked like peasants, not soldiers.’

  ‘I thought you did not manage a look at them?’ Brother Lütolf said suspiciously.

  ‘I watched them ride off. I could see no face, but they were drab in their dress.’

  ‘Bandits,’ Balthesar said again.

  Ramon nodded. ‘But as our esteemed brother noted, it is unheard of for bandits to try such a thing right under our walls. This is not their usual behaviour.’