Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  He would have liked to take offence at that, but the simple fact was that Brother Lütolf was absolutely correct. Since the moment the German’s horse had bucked, Arnau had made a string of utterly idiotic decisions. And now they were trapped in a shed awaiting death at the hand of bandits, while the documents they needed to protect above all sat on a dead horse far from here.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘Get the documents and go to the preceptory.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘If you argue with me on this, Vallbona, when I pass the gates of blessed Saint Peter I shall have them locked against you for all time. Get the bag and get back to Rourell. I care not how you do it. Just go.’

  Arnau stared helplessly at the wounded German. His white habit with the red cross was now mostly crimson across the torso from the chest wound. Between that and the pulverised leg, Lütolf was done for, and they both knew it. Still, despite the vast differences between the two of them, Arnau felt a tearing at his heartstrings at the thought of losing the overly pious German. He hated the man in a way, but by God he would miss hating the man.

  ‘There,’ Lütolf said, pointing across the dark interior of the shed. At the far side, a small square of silvery light denoted an opening in the wall. ‘Go, and God go with you, for there is no place for him here.’

  Arnau stared, still unable to pull himself away.

  ‘Go,’ commanded the German in a compelling voice.

  Arnau scampered away through the darkness, snapping off the white-flighted bolt jutting from his shield as he went. He reached the wall moments later. It was an egress for water. Gathered in a large tank outside, it was channelled through the wall into a smaller container inside, presumably part of the processing of the oil. He could see moonlight reflecting off the liquid surface and, for the second time that night, dropped into cold water. As he stooped to pull his way through, he heard a cry of pain and looked back to see Lütolf upright, leaning on the doorframe with his sword drawn. The man was shouting now, in his native tongue.

  ‘Herr, höre meine Stimme! Im Blut der Gottlosen gebadet, werde ich meinen Beistand im Haus Gottes finden – also gewähre mir Rache!’

  Arnau, regret cascading through his soul, pushed his way through the wall, losing sight of the German and emerging once more into the open, out of sight of the farmhouse frontage. In the distance, across the shed, he could still hear the German bellowing, though now he had reverted from his native language.

  ‘The Lord governeth me, and nothing shall fail to me; in the place of pasture there he hath set me. He nourished me on the water of refreshing.’

  Arnau blinked back tears. Never had he heard the beautiful, powerful twenty-third Psalm spoken thus, as a lament in the face of death, and it pulled yet more of his heartstrings free. Trying not to picture the scene, and entirely failing, he moved to the corner of the shed. He would be in view of the windows for long moments as he went for the horse. He could see the saddlebags from here.

  ‘He converted my soul,’ Brother Lütolf’s voice went on. ‘He led me forth on the paths of rightfulness; for his name. For why though I shall go in the midst of shadow of death; I shall not dread evils, for thou art with me.’

  The last strain of his voice was lost beneath a metallic clang as swords met. Arnau, heart in his throat, peered around the corner. Four men were pressing into the doorway of the shed. Even as he watched, one of them staggered backwards, crying out, clutching his belly where, in the moonlight, Arnau could just make out his guts sliding free like coils of rope. Mortally wounded and leaning on a wall for support, still the German was formidable.

  They were busy. The crossbowman might not be. Perhaps he was even now running to join them, bow discarded, rondel dagger in hand. Whatever the case, the Templars were out of time, and whatever grace the dying German was buying him would soon dissipate.

  He ran. As he emerged into the open, knowing that it would be moments only before those fighting men realised he was there, he began to swerve this way and that, zigzagging wildly. His caution paid off as a crossbow bolt hummed through the air and thudded into the ground where he had been a moment earlier. Shit. He began to count through the reload once more.

  Twenty-two…

  He reached the horse and dived over it, shield held safely to the side. There, with the dead beast between him and the farmhouse, he reached over the bulky corpse, pulling his shield back in the way, and began to open the saddlebag.

  Eleven…

  Fishing inside, he found the bag and tried to pull it free, though it caught on something. Desperately, he pulled, cursing the bag and begging the good Lord.

  Four…

  It ripped free a moment later and as he hauled on it the sack tore, the money and the locket falling back into the saddlebag, lost from sight. He cursed like the worst sinner.

  The next crossbow bolt thudded into his shield, narrowly missed impaling Arnau’s hand in the process, and instead punched deep into the dead meat of the horse, pinning his shield to it.

  Twenty-two…

  With difficulty, he slid his grip free of the pinned shield and used both hands to grasp the leather-bound document wallet that was even now falling out of the bag.

  Twelve…

  He dropped back behind the horse’s body and breathed heavily. What now?

  He could hear furious fighting at the shed door, but the screaming was all coming from one throat.

  Six…

  He lifted his head to look across the beast and could see that the three men at the shed were now hacking and stabbing at a figure prone on the floor in the doorway, their companion sitting on the ground nearby and staring down at his own intestines in horror.

  Lütolf of Ehingen was no more.

  Arnau was on foot and without a shield, enough open ground around him that it would be difficult to cross without taking a bolt in the back. As if to confirm that, another missile thudded into the saddle inches above his head.

  The Francoli. The river was the only answer. It was low-lying, below the level of the farmland, filled with reeds, bushes, trees and dense undergrowth. If he could get to it, he would be able to stay out of sight all the way back, or at least until he was close enough that he could make a last short dash to safety.

  Twenty-two…

  He rose and ran. The man on the ground clutching his belly was far too preoccupied to care. The other three footmen were busy hacking apart the body of the Templar in the olive press shed’s doorway. The archer was probably yelling a warning to his fellows, but with all the noise of their furious butchering and the screaming and wailing of the gut-wounded man, he would be hard to hear. Arnau ran like he had never run before, barely daring to breathe. He was past the shed and hurtling off away from the farmhouse, heading north, before he even realised he was out of sight of them all and temporarily safe.

  Still, he did not break his stride. He could see the line of the river just ahead, a wide, shallow depression filled with grass and undergrowth, a few banks of shale and a pitiful flow of water at the centre. In the late winter with the thaw-water from the lower foothills of the Pyrenees, this river would be both wide and deep. Not so now.

  Something hissed past his ear and his eyes bulged as the crossbow bolt thudded into the bark of a tree just ahead. The archer had moved to one of the building’s rear windows. Why had Arnau not anticipated that? Damn it.

  Once more he broke into a zigzag run, counting off seconds as he did so. As the next bolt came, he reached the bank and half-ran, half-fell down it into the vegetation.

  Wasting no time, he immediately rose and turned to his right, pushing past an ancient tree and stumbling along the turf close to the water. The world of the farm was lost to sight, which meant he was now safe from the constant missiles at least. Likely the footmen were coming, but he had a good head start. Breathing heavily, he pounded off to the south-east, following the course downstream, back towards the burned-out mill almost a mile away.

  He had gone so
me distance when he heard the shouts of men at the riverbank, arguing about where he had gone. He worried for a moment that they might hear him, but quickly dismissed the concern. All he could hear of them was angry raised voices. The only sound he was making was the thud of feet on turf and mud, and those would not be audible that far back. Out of sight around the wide curve and through endless greenery, he was as good as clear as long as he kept running and made sure not to stray onto the gravel that would betray his footsteps.

  Breath coming in heaved gasps, feet weary and sore as they pounded along, he counted off the paces as he ran. Once, as he moved around the huge curving course of the river, he rose along the bankside a little to avoid an area of pooled water and gravel, and caught a momentary glimpse of the walls of Rourell, rising like the gates of heaven in the darkness.

  It felt as though he’d been running forever, though it could not in truth have been more than fifteen or twenty minutes, even given the difficult terrain, but his heart eased and relief flooded him at the sight of the burned-out shell of the mill rising on the riverbank ahead, smoke still pouring from the charring ruin into the sky. Here, he clambered up the slope, fearing to come too close to the mill in case others awaited action there. Heart pounding, he cut directly across the farmland in between, making for the welcoming glow of the preceptory.

  He reached the south gate and pounded on it only twice before the large portal swung open. The inset door, he noted as he staggered inside, was now barred and nailed since the loss of one of the keys. Simo shut the gate behind him and barred it, and Guillem hurried to help as Arnau fell to his knees, exhausted, in the courtyard. Moments later, doors were opening and men and women in black and white were hurtling out towards him.

  Ramon was there, and Balthesar, Mateu was trying to help him up. Then, as he started to recover and looked up, there was the concerned face of Preceptrix Ermengarda.

  ‘Brother Lütolf?’

  Arnau shook his head sadly. Finally finding his breath, he proffered the documents in shaking hands. ‘Crossbowman at the Granja de la Selva, along with other brigands. Lütolf and his horse took the first two bolts, my own horse the third. I reached safety with Brother Lütolf but it was too late. He couldn’t walk and had been struck in the chest.’

  ‘Lord above,’ Ramon breathed in shock.

  Arnau flinched, knowing that he’d not told all the tale yet and realising that he would be due plenty of penance for not revealing how his own stupidity had cost him the horse and the chance to ride on to Barberà. He would pay for that, no doubt, in due course.

  ‘I managed to save the papers, but everything else was lost. They had men in the farmhouse. Brother Lütolf took one with him, even mortally wounded. Bought time for me to flee along the river back here.’

  The preceptrix smacked her hands together angrily. ‘This is my fault.’

  ‘No, Sister,’ Ramon began, but she held up a hand to cut him off.

  ‘Mea culpa, Brother. I sent the two of you on this doomed errand, despite knowing what had happened on previous attempts to leave Rourell and make it to Barberà. I should have taken my warning from the precedent, and yet like a fool I still sent you. Barberà is cut off from us. We are alone, I think.’

  Any further conversation was cut short by the dinging of the bell atop the tower. All looked up to see Luis leaning over the parapet.

  ‘A fire!’ he bellowed, pointing off to the north.

  ‘Come,’ the preceptrix said, gesturing to Arnau and the two white-clad knights, then hurried over to the belfry, pulled open the door and began to climb the stairs within. Arnau was immediately behind her, and the others following as they climbed. It was the first time Arnau had been up the tower, and as they emerged at the top he had a moment of vertigo at the view, head reeling, stomach flipping as his knees turned to liquid. This was worse than being in the mill’s rafters by some stretch.

  ‘Show me,’ the preceptrix said to Brother Luis, scanning the dark countryside around them, but as Arnau’s senses recovered and he also looked about himself, gripping the parapet for support, he had no need for Luis to point it out. A campfire had burst into life at the farmhouse of La Selva.

  ‘But look,’ Luis breathed in anguished tones, pointing east now. There, another blaze had begun close to the burned-out mill – on the bridge itself, by Arnau’s estimation. He spun, and his stomach lurched again. Another fire was sparking into life where Rourell’s access track met the main road. With sinking spirits, he turned slowly. More fires were bursting into life here and there. Within another minute there were a score of them all around, circling the preceptory – on the road, by the river, in the fields and farmhouses. Arnau felt a chill fill him from the floor up despite the warmth of the summer night air.

  ‘Brothers,’ the preceptrix said, her voice a troubled whisper, ‘I fear we are under siege.’

  Part Four

  Temple

  Chapter Sixteen

  How much time had passed, Arnau couldn’t say. The preceptory had exploded into a flurry of activity following the revelation at the tower top, and Arnau had expected to be given immediate and important tasks, but as a new arrival with no specific remit he seemed to be temporarily overlooked, no one asking anything of him. Consequently he hurried around, lending a hand when anyone shouted. He was immensely grateful when the preceptrix called a consejo de guerra sagrada – a council of war – in the chapter house and he suddenly had something official to do.

  ‘We are in a weak position,’ Ermengarda d’Oluja said with that same gravitas as any king or noble planning a Crusade against the infidel. ‘Rourell was briefly a house of twenty-one souls, though since we have lost Brothers Carles and Lütolf, and poor deluded Maria, we are now eighteen. We cannot know how many there are of the enemy, but there are more of their campfires than we are people, which suggests a dreadful math.’

  All nodded at this. In recent encounters,the thugs of della Cadeneta had numbered anywhere from four to a dozen. That suggested perhaps two hundred men facing them in all.

  ‘Moreover,’ the preceptrix added, ‘eight of us are women, children, or old men. And do not be mistaken – I run this house as any general commands an army, and I will not be disobeyed or bargained with, but my arms are simply not made by God for the swinging of a sword.’

  Arnau’s impression was rather different, and he noted the way the preceptrix’s eyes fell upon her husband’s blade hanging on the wall while she spoke, even as she openly dismissed the notion of wielding it.

  ‘Nor,’ she continued, ‘are Simo’s, or any of the sisters – the consorors. Even Father Diego’s time to swing a sword is now sadly passed. We are hopelessly undermanned. I have planned my last throw of the dice and, while I will not tell you what I roll or where, we cannot rely upon its efficacy. Therefore while eight of us are not made for rude war, we must needs be prepared to raise what arms we can against the enemy. We must fight to the last – man, woman and child, we will defend Rourell, for we are sons and daughters of the Lord God and of Saint Mary and we will not submit to the wiles of the wicked. It might be that very stance which has brought this upon us, and some might have turned away those who brought trouble to Rourell. Not us. We are the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, and we SHALL PREVAIL!’

  This last was shouted like a war cry, and even in the desperate circumstances, Arnau felt the power and pull of it.

  ‘Brother Balthesar, you will see to the fortification and preparation of the preceptory against attack. Luis will see to the arms and equipment. Those of us who cannot supply a sword arm can surely lend our strength and our will in other ways. Everyone will deal with their usual roles, but must place themselves at the disposal of Balthesar and Luis, should they require us for anything. Brother Guillem, I would like you to remain behind for now. Everyone else, be about your work. Prepare for battle.’

  Arnau stepped out and looked up into the indigo vault of heaven. The night was almost past and dawn close. It was hard to imag
ine anything other than a lazy summer’s day was coming to Rourell. He sighed.

  ‘Regrets, Brother?’

  He looked around to see Mateu standing beside him, stretching.

  ‘Always. And in droves. But not about coming here, other than for bringing this to your doorstep. To save one girl, we may have condemned a whole monastery.’

  ‘That is not the way to think of it, Arnau de Vallbona. Had we been uneasy at the idea of taking you in and standing against the wicked, we could easily have turned you away. But that is not the way of the order. Our very function is to protect the innocent from the wicked. It was for that purpose the great Hugues de Payens sought the creation of the Templars. Who would we be if we turned away a stricken woman for our own safety?’

  Arnau nodded. ‘Still the guilt rides me.’ The silence suggested that Mateu had no answer for guilt.

  ‘Guillem is busy with the preceptrix,’ Brother Ramon said suddenly, right behind them. ‘So I want you two to go to the stables and prepare your horses, as well as mine and Miquel’s. Then go to the armoury and get yourself armed for battle. Meet me back by the west gate as soon as you are done.’

  Arnau frowned at the knight. ‘What are you planning, Brother?’

  ‘I intend to put the fear of God into the enemy, Vallbona. I, you two and Miquel. The rest will be busy.’

  ‘The preceptrix wants us to be on hand for Brother Balthesar,’ Mateu reminded him.

  ‘Balthesar has enough people to move carts and lift sacks without us. We will not be long, but I want to give the enemy something to think on. Get moving. Horses and armour.’

  Sharing a worried look, the two sergeants hurried over to the stables, found their steeds, as well as those of Miquel and Ramon, and began to tack them up.

  ‘Is this a good idea?’ Arnau murmured as he adjusted his saddle. ‘I mean, Brother Ramon hasn’t checked with the preceptrix, has he? And the rule of Rourell is hers entirely.’

  Mateu shrugged. ‘You’ll get used to Brother Ramon. He’s a little… unpredictable… sometimes, but he’s shrewd, and the preceptrix trusts him utterly. If he believes we should rile the enemy a little, he’s almost certainly correct.’