Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  His skin prickled with a frisson. Most of the mill’s actual workings were beneath the floor. The two of them could not go outside, and they could not go up. Could they go down?

  ‘Look for a trapdoor,’ he suddenly shouted, starting to hurry around the main room, peering at the floor, kicking aside sacks and piles of chaff and sweepings. Titborga joined in and moments later they were scouring the floor on their hands and knees. Now, just as Arnau had suspected earlier, they could feel the growing heat in the building. The south door was starting to burn. Once the fire was inside, it would race around the dry beams supporting roof and machinery and the whole place would be an inferno in minutes. Death was imminent. They searched harder, Arnau undoing his sword belt and laying it to one side, as the swinging scabbard interfered with his crouching.

  ‘Here!’ Titborga said.

  Arnau looked up to see the young nun, white habit stained and ripped, brushing the floor with her hands, pushing the dust aside. He hurried over and nodded his relief. A square some three feet in diameter was fitted into the floor with a heavy iron ring inset. There was a bolt, but fortunately no lock. Arnau began to try and work the old rust bolt back and forth, fingers sore and aching as he did so. Moments later, the metal came loose with a scrape and a thud, and he rose to a crouch, grasping the metal ring in both hands.

  With a noise like the ignition of hell itself, the south door burst into flame. The room was already full of black smoke down to almost head level and the smell was appalling. Arnau heaved on the ring, trying to ignore the pain in his little finger and the soreness of the stitches in his side as he did so.

  The trapdoor had clearly not been opened in years, and the heavy timber was sealed tight with grime and age. Arnau paused, rose to take a breath and realised his mistake as he heaved in a lungful of smoke and burst into a coughing fit that threatened to turn him inside out. Rasping and choking, he scoured the area and located a small utility knife on a shelf. He ran back over to the hatch at which Titborga was now fruitlessly pulling. Still hacking and coughing, he pulled his habit up to cover his nose and mouth, motioning for the nun to do the same if she could – he had no idea how a habit, coif and wimple combination worked. Ignoring her again, he turned his attention to the hatch once more, jamming the small knife into the crack around the edge of the trapdoor, sawing it up and down with difficulty, cutting through the accumulated muck. Finally, as his eyes streamed with tears in the choking, roiling smoke that was now almost down to ground level, filling the building, he jabbed and stabbed at the barely visible hinges, trying to free them a little, each blow reminding him of the pain in his side.

  The knife blade snapped suddenly, and Arnau narrowly avoided slashing his own wrist badly in the process. Throwing the broken hilt off into the hot smoke, sweating and crying, Arnau reached down and grabbed the iron ring once more, heaving upwards.

  ‘Hurry,’ Titborga said, her voice muffled by the fabric over her mouth and nose. A somewhat redundant suggestion, in Arnau’s opinion. What did she think he was doing? Flames were now licking up beams and rippling across sacks. Arnau heaved again and there was a deep grating noise, like the snoring of some subterranean giant.

  An explosion off at the far side of the workings sent a wave of black smoke and searing heat across them, and Arnau was knocked flat for a moment, his ears whistling at the noise, Titborga floundering alongside him. Flour. More explosions would come yet, and each one would increase the speed and power of the conflagration. Rising to a crouch once more, Arnau set to. Gritting his teeth and grunting with effort, he heaved and pulled.

  The trapdoor came free so suddenly that as it sprang open, Arnau was hurled backwards into the hot black fog. It took him precious moments to rise and get his bearings in the smoke and he almost walked into the fire by the door before turning and hurrying back towards the nun’s urgent shouts.

  Gagging and coughing, eyes moving from one dreadful orange fireball to another all about them, Arnau reached the trapdoor. What lay beneath was shrouded in pitch-black mystery. Momentarily he considered trying to fetch one of the lamps, but quickly decided the idea was idiotic. Even if he could find them in this they would either have exploded or would be far too hot to hold. Instead, he nodded at Titborga and sat on the edge, dangling his feet into the darkness. He reached out and picked up his sword and belt from the floor nearby.

  ‘Lord preserve me,’ he said with feeling, and dropped into the hole.

  He was surprised to hit stone only perhaps eight feet below, and fell painfully onto his backside. His hands felt around. The ground was thick with muck and unpleasantly slimy. He rose and blinked repeatedly. The cool and the fetid damp air were something of a shock after the superheated, parched world above, and he found that he was coughing uncontrollably again.

  ‘Is it safe?’ a voice called from above.

  Arnau turned slowly, still coughing. Now that he was beginning to get used to it, there was a faint light to this underground world. It took him but moments to spot the source. Moonlight shone in from the waterwheel fixings. He grinned in the darkness and waved up to the hatch.

  ‘Come down.’

  Titborga landed considerably lighter than he had, with a lot more grace, and nimbly stretched and turned to take in her new surroundings. Smoke was beginning to drift down through the hatch, and Arnau tried to reach through it to the lid, though there was clearly no chance of closing it. Ah well.

  Here lay the truly arcane workings of the mill – strange cogs and shafts that transferred the vertical turn of the axle into the horizontal turn needed to drive the grindstones above. Somewhere in the mill proper there must be a sort of brake the owner used to disconnect some shaft and stop the querns above turning, for the waterwheel spun at a ponderous pace, driven by the river’s flow even as low as it was, while the workings leading upward were still and silent.

  ‘Can we get out this way?’ Titborga asked, then broke into a fit of coughing.

  ‘I think so. Let’s hope, as it’s our only chance now.’

  He hurried over towards the light, taking care not to touch the turning axle or any other part of machinery. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped in the mechanism while the mill burned down above him. With some relief, he reached the outer wall.

  The water wheel was quite a large example, and Arnau could see that the water was a good six feet below, driving the great circle of timber round. The hole in the outer wall was not large, just a little wider than the axle, really, which was anchored in place with age-old timbers. Could he get through there? The only answer that leaped to mind was ‘maybe’.

  ‘We have to be quiet now,’ he hissed at Titborga. ‘Don’t want to attract attention. You’ll have to pass me my sword when I’m through,’ he added, handing her the sword and the rolled belt to which it was attached.

  He peered at the slowly turning great wooden axle, imagining what it would be like to be caught beneath it and ground like flour. Taking a breath of fetid, horrible air, he pulled up the sagging hem of his filthy habit and tucked it into the drawstring of his brais, flushing slightly at displaying his underwear in front of a nun. Still, better the impropriety than to have flowing black robes get caught in the machinery. He was sure God would not punish him for such a thing in these circumstances. He would say the paternoster a few times later in personal penance.

  Preparing himself, Arnau heaved in several deep breaths and then forced all the air from his lungs and pulled himself into the narrow gap. The discomfort was intense. The axle turning against his back was a horrible sensation as he pulled on the stonework, heaving his bulk towards the air and freedom. There was a terrifying moment when he felt his chest wedge between the spinning wooden beam and cold stone, but a little grunting and heaving, and he managed to unjam himself. A stray waft of his habit caught the beam and was pulled beneath it. His garment tore with a dreadful noise and one of his hose ties snapped, the woollen stocking rolling down a little.

  Finally, as he was beginning to
wonder if it was at all possible, he was free of the aperture and immediately launched into a whole new hell as he fell into cold shallow water six feet below, hitting the submerged timber of the wheel with a dull thud and a splash. He was then sickeningly lifted with the turning of the wheel until he was almost lying vertically, before falling back in a ball and beginning the process again. Slowly, stomach churning with the constant movement, he managed to get to his feet and walk against the turning of the wheel so that he remained in place. He looked up.

  His sword suddenly plunged from the gap above and dropped into the water, almost taking off his nose in passing. No scabbard or belt was attached. He crouched, still keeping pace with some difficulty, and retrieved the soaking blade. He then looked up again.

  Titborga was emerging from the hole with remarkable ease. Unlike his own unceremonious fall, she turned and dropped, landing lightly on her feet. Arnau tried not to look too closely at her, since her habit had been pulled up and knotted at the waist. He was fairly sure that would require some lengthy penance. More than just a few paternosters, for certain.

  ‘My sword belt?’ he said, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Scabbard?’

  The nun gave him a look that suggested he had asked for something insane. ‘If you couldn’t get through there with the thing, why would I?’ she hissed back.

  She ignored his frown and danced across the turning timbers to the water. There, with no ceremony, she dropped into the Francoli River with a gentle splash. Her surprise at the shallowness was palpable as she stood straight, the water only coming up to her midriff. Judging the turn of the wheel carefully, Arnau dropped into the water beside her. The two then stood for a moment, unfastening their habits so that they dropped back into place more respectably. Arnau could feel his one leg of hose flapping around his ankle underwater. Now was not the time for messing with that, though.

  The mill was truly ablaze now, great tongues of orange emerging through the eaves, smoke pouring up into the night sky in a thick roiling column. Arnau gestured to the north and they began the slow, difficult slog upstream against the current. Once past the turning wheel, he moved closer to the bank and finally managed to find an area where the water became much shallower. A tile dropped from the roof and hit the water just a foot from him with a loud splash, and his heart thundered at the realisation that he could yet be killed simply by falling debris. Eyes constantly darting back and forth between the ruined roof above and the dark banks of the river, he gradually climbed until he left the water altogether and was away from the wall of the mill. There, he moved slowly through the undergrowth up to ground level. His eyes scoured the area. There were no longer ruffians watching the north door. There would be little point now, of course. Had he and Titborga still been inside they would have been dead for some time.

  Breathing in relief, he hurried out with Titborga at his back. On an odd instinct, he turned and looked back along the river. He could just see the shapes of a dozen men walking across the bridge. One of the departing figures stopped for a moment to look back at the mill and his eyes fell on the two shapes on the riverbank, illuminated by the blazing building. There was a brief kerfuffle on the bridge and the men started to run back, but quickly halted their return and sped across the bridge once more. Arnau stood still and watched them find horses in the trees, mounting quickly and riding away south.

  His attention returned to his immediate surroundings. A small heap lay not far from the glowing rectangle that had once been the mill’s north door, now an inferno churning out black smoke. He hurried over, shying away from the intense heat of the doorway. The heap was composed of two bodies: one a nun, the other a dark, swarthy man in nightwear. He knew it was Maria and the miller before he turned the bodies over and saw the wounds, hers a vicious blow to the forehead that had cracked her skull and broken her head, his blue-black ligature marks where he had been garrotted with a rope.

  ‘Whatever Maria’s motives for any of this, she has paid the ultimate price,’ Arnau breathed.

  ‘I shall grieve for her, Vallbona. No matter how she has fallen I will pray for her soul.’

  He nodded. ‘We will have to come back for them in the morning. I cannot carry them to the preceptory.’

  The pair moved off, rounding the mill’s corner and staying a safe distance from it as more tiles and timber began to fall from the collapsing roof.

  His tired eyes caught movement nearby, and he was as thankful as a man could be to see the white and black habits of Templar knights, nuns and sergeants hurrying from the monastery to the mill. Almost certainly it was their approach that had driven the arsonists and kidnappers to flee before their work was complete.

  Arnau was standing, exhausted, stained black and yet soaking wet with Titborga leaning on his arm, in danger of collapse, when the preceptrix and the others arrived.

  ‘Della Cadeneta?’ Preceptrix Ermengarda asked quietly, her eyes still on the burning mill.

  ‘Again, no evidence,’ Arnau coughed. ‘They were bandits, I think, but clearly hired by someone. They tried to kidnap Titborga. Sister Titborga,’ he corrected himself quickly. ‘But when I managed to get her into the mill and bar it, I overheard them let slip that their mission was to capture her or, if not, to kill her before she could return to the preceptory. I fear della Cadeneta has decided that he can pass up possession of the sister and still get his hands on her estate.’

  ‘He is correct. But if he is convinced that our good sister expired in the blaze, perhaps his attention will no longer be so riveted on Rourell and we will be free to deal with the issue at leisure.’

  ‘I fear not, Preceptrix,’ Arnau sighed. ‘The brigands spotted us climbing the riverbank. I believe they were coming back for us when they saw you all approach and had to flee. Della Cadeneta will hear of their failure soon enough, may he be damned to hell.’

  Brother Ramon noted the heap of bodies behind them near the burning mill.

  ‘Maria?’ he asked, pointing.

  Arnau nodded. ‘And the miller.’

  ‘What were you all doing out here?’ Brother Lütolf asked suspiciously.

  ‘Maria tricked me into believing an old friend was here with an important message,’ Titborga replied. ‘Brother Arnau happened to see us leave the preceptory and came to investigate. Were it not for his timely arrival, I would now be in their hands.’

  Though the preceptrix nodded her approval at Arnau, the German brother’s expression was less sympathetic. ‘And it did not occur to you to raise an alarm? Then perhaps those two would not be in God’s hands and the mill would not have burned.’

  The preceptrix turned on Lütolf. ‘You are being uncharitable, Brother. A warning to the rest of us would not have saved Maria or the miller. Nor, I suspect, the mill. Had he delayed, Brother Arnau would have been too late to be of aid. All is as the good Lord designed. Come. Let us return to the preceptory. There is nothing to be done here until the blaze dies away, and there is no chance of catching those men now. Brothers Luis and Mateu, would you bring the bodies of the unfortunate pair? They must be dealt with before the scavengers can get to them.’

  With that, the preceptrix began to stride back towards the monastery, the others keeping pace. Arnau and Titborga fell in with the group, leaving the bodies to the two other sergeants. All the way back, the German knight studied them, his expression unreadable, and Arnau’s irritation grew. At the monastery’s south gate, Simo let them all through, helped the brothers with the bodies and then pulled it shut.

  ‘Search Maria’s body,’ the preceptrix said. ‘Find the gate door key. If it is not there and has been lost we must stop using that door, for it is entirely possible that the enemy has acquired the key. If so, nail it shut and bar it until we can arrange a new lock.’

  Catarina was hurrying across the courtyard in their direction, her face full of concern, and Preceptrix Ermengarda gestured to her. ‘Please go to the sisters’ dormitory and bring all Maria’s things to the chapter house, Catarina.’ />
  The nun bowed her head and scurried off. The knights and sergeants, the preceptrix and the two drenched and filthy survivors moved into the chapter house, where lamps had now been lit.

  ‘This is a very worrying turn of events,’ the preceptrix announced as she sank into her chair, motioning for the rest to do the same. ‘It represents, I believe, a change in the mindset of our opponent. Evidence notwithstanding, I presume we are all in concord that this can only be the work of the Don Ferrer della Cadeneta?’

  There was a chorus of murmured agreement and nods all round.

  ‘Then della Cadeneta has now moved on from cajoling and threatening, even via powerful nobles, and through attempted kidnap. But the next step seems clear. He has abandoned such thoughts now and has resigned himself to an attempt to appropriate Sister Titborga’s lands following her demise. Since we continue to grant shelter and succour to the dear sister, we therefore place ourselves beside her in the sight of his crossbow. I fear the sand in Rourell’s hourglass runs low, brothers and sisters.’

  At this bleak appraisal all remained silent, thoughtful and uncomfortable, and a few moments later Catarina entered with a half bow, struggling to hold a blanket-wrapped bundle. At a nod from the preceptrix, she placed the bundle on the floor before them all and unwrapped it. All Maria’s possessions, brought with her from Santa Coloma and on horseback from the farmhouse, lay in that pile.

  ‘If Maria has been in contact with someone from outside the preceptory, which now seems likely,’ the preceptrix said, ‘then she must have been doing so for some time. Perhaps there is a clue in her belongings?'

  Catarina began to go through them, removing one item at a time and holding them up for the brothers and sisters to observe. It was sad, watching the life of a girl – a woman, really – reduced merely to a display of a few tatty possessions. There was little of note in there and nothing of particular value, and soon the pile was reduced to just a heap of crumpled garments, most of which had not been worn since her arrival and her donning of the white habit. Still, Catarina continued to hold up the clothing and then, suddenly, as she lifted a pleated bliaut skirt that had been rolled into a ball, something chinked and rattled and fell to the blanket below.