Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Even as Ramon hurried over and found a similar position to join in, the whole gate suddenly shook from a bang that sounded as though the vaults of hell had opened beneath them.

  Brother Ramon leaned forward and put an eye to a gap in the gate.

  ‘They’ve made a ram. A tree trunk.’

  ‘Will the gate hold?’ Arnau asked, nerves starting to rise once more.

  ‘Not for long against that,’ Balthesar replied as the whole gate shuddered once more under a second blow. Arnau felt his heart skip as a similar bang echoed across the courtyard behind them.

  ‘The west gate,’ Ramon shouted. Balthesar glanced at his fellow knight, who nodded. The older of the pair leaped down from the barricade and ran out of the passageway, heading to check the other gate. Arnau began to climb carefully up towards the blocked gate, but Ramon waved him back even as the gates shuddered once more and there was an audible crack.

  ‘The walls are safe, but the gates could fall. Get up to the roof and bring Lorenç and Ferrando back down where they can be more use.’

  Arnau dithered for a moment. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Ramon here and running off on an errand, but duty was duty, and Ramon’s squire Mateu was here, pushing the blocking furniture and bits and pieces back into position where they were shaken out of place with each blow of the ram. As the squire continually repaired the blockage, Ramon was stabbing through the gaps, trying to wound anyone without, though they had clearly largely drawn back to make room for the ram.

  ‘Go,’ snapped the knight, and Arnau turned and ran. Beside the armoury, he dived into the stairway that led up to the male dormitory. He burst out into the bed-lined room to see Carima leaning over the still form of Miquel in his cot. The sergeant hissed with pain with each movement of the sister’s hands as she bound him with care and some difficulty. Ignoring the ministrations, Arnau ran over to the ladder, clambering up through the opening and onto the roof of Rourell. He could not see Lorenç from here, somewhere at the far side of the roof’s low pitch. Ferrando, however, was crouched nearby, arrows clattering against stone and tile.

  ‘Get down,’ the sergeant yelled at Arnau, who had just emerged into the open. As if to add weight to the man’s words, an arrow clattered against the roof tiles a pace away from Arnau.

  ‘The gates are being rammed. Brother Ramon wants you back downstairs.’

  Ferrando nodded and turned, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Lorenç!’

  There was no reply. Arnau watched the colour drain from the sergeant’s face as he rose despite the sporadic hail of arrows and scurried along the edge of the roof. Arnau ran after him, flinching as another missile clacked against tile next to him. He rounded the corner to the northern side and almost knocked Ferrando from the wall top. The sergeant had stopped. Arnau looked over his shoulder and was saddened, if not entirely surprised, to see the shape of Lorenç slumped over the parapet with arrow shafts jutting from his back.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, tugging at Ferrando. The man did not move.

  ‘He’s gone, come on.’

  Still, Ferrando stood, staring at the body of his twin brother. An arrow thrummed through the air past them, then another. Arnau’s eyes drifted to the crowd of men besieging them below. Behind the men in the ditch, who were now largely moving along the walls, heading for the weak points of the two gates, several archers and crossbowmen were busy loading or aiming. He could see one crossbowman levelling his weapon and, unable to move Ferrando with words, Arnau threw himself bodily at his fellow sergeant. The two men hit the tiled roof just as the shot was taken, the bolt whipping through the air where the man had stood a heartbeat earlier and smashing through the roof tiles. For a sickening moment, Arnau thought they were both going to go over the edge and plummet to their doom in the ditch outside, but at the last moment he managed to jam a foot against the stonework of the low parapet and prevent the fall. Ferrando did little to prevent it.

  ‘We have to go. If you don’t, you’ll die too.’

  From the lack of response, Arnau was fairly certain that such things no longer mattered a great deal to Ferrando, and he grabbed hold of the man and began to heave him along the rooftop as arrows and bolts clattered into the building above and below them, their bodies almost covered by the low parapet. Finally, after what felt like hours, Arnau reached the hatch. He bundled the silent, pale, almost catatonic brother into the hole.

  ‘Climb the damned ladder,’ he snapped, horribly aware that every heartbeat spent on this roof threatened death from a dozen barbed arrow heads. Ferrando’s head turned, the eyes glazed and uncomprehending. ‘Down!’ snapped Arnau, pointing into the gloomy interior. An arrow passed above them so close he felt the air vibrate. Ferrando, still dumbstruck but spurred into mechanical action by the sight, grasped the ladder and half-climbed, half-slid down it into the dormitory. Arnau dropped in after him, thanking God that they were both still unharmed despite a number of close shaves.

  ‘What happens if the gates fall?’ he asked Ferrando as they stood at the bottom of the ladder. His eyes were on Carima as she completed her ministrations of Miquel. Ferrando remained silent, staring blankly at him.

  ‘Are the gates in danger?’ Miquel called across from his bed, then hissed in pain.

  ‘Probably. They’re being hit with rams.’

  ‘There’s only two safe places to fall back, then,’ Miquel said. ‘The belfry and the chapel. Can’t fit many in the belfry, though. The chapel can be closed off, along with the chapter house. If the gates fall, that’ll be where the preceptrix rallies us.’

  ‘And then the dormitories will be open to them. You can’t stay here.’

  ‘He shouldn’t exert himself,’ Carima said quietly.

  ‘If he doesn’t, and the gates fall, he’ll be hacked to pieces,’ Arnau replied flatly.

  ‘Help me with him,’ the nun said, and Arnau rushed over and helped gently lift Miquel from the bed. With his grunts and squeals of pain, they helped the wounded sergeant over to the stairs and then down them into the courtyard. There, Arnau left the pair to it as they lurched and hobbled over to the chapel, while he hurried back towards the south gate in the passageway.

  He felt a chill of panic as he took in the situation. The gates were still taking a battering, but the heap of tables and crates had largely tumbled away and been pushed inward, and Mateu could do little to stop it now. The gates were about to go; that he could tell even with his limited experience of sieges.

  ‘Where are the brothers?’ Ramon bellowed urgently from the gate.

  ‘Lorenç is gone. Ferrando is useless.’

  No further explanation was necessary, and Ramon nodded his head, resigned. ‘This is becoming desperate.’

  ‘I’ve sent Carima and Miquel to the chapel in case the gates fall.’

  ‘Good man.’

  His words were punctuated with a huge ligneous crack as the entire barricade slid inward across the flagstones with a low rumble. The locking bar had given way, and a gap a foot wide had opened between the leaves of the gate. As Ramon began to jab his blade in and out of the gap, holding back the mass of men outside, Mateu clambered through the pile of timber and put his shoulder to one leaf of the gate, putting all his weight into an attempt to push it back home. It was futile, and Arnau could see that, though perhaps his fellow sergeant felt he should make one last attempt to hold the portal.

  ‘No,’ bellowed Brother Ramon, waving his free hand at Mateu as he stabbed once more.

  ‘We can hold it,’ grunted Mateu, feet braced, back against the gate, pushing hard. Remarkably, Arnau watched the gate slide back a little, the gap narrowing. ‘Help me,’ Mateu yelled at Arnau, and the young sergeant ran towards the blockage and the contested gate, but once more Ramon waved him back. ‘The gate’s lost. Get back. Mateu, go!’

  Still the black-clad squire-sergeant grunted and heaved. ‘We can—’

  His words were cut short as a great, heavy axe blade crashed through the timber of the gate and deep in
to Mateu’s back, smashing through ribs and spine as easily as the wood they were pressed against. Mateu spasmed for a moment, then grinned, and dark blood poured from his mouth. He gave a deep sigh and expired, still pinned to the wood until the man outside heaved back his axe with difficulty and the sergeant slumped to the ground. Brother Ramon stared down at his squire for a moment, and then gave a savage roar and redoubled his flurry of blows through the gap in the gate, dealing steely murder to anyone who dared come close.

  ‘The gates are falling,’ called a voice from behind Arnau. ‘Fall back. To the chapel!’

  Arnau turned, eyes wide, to see Preceptrix Ermengarda standing in the courtyard, her husband’s sword belted at her side like some warrior queen of old. His astonished eyes turned back from the preceptrix to Ramon, who was stabbing and thrusting and cutting through the narrow gap in the gate like a man possessed, roaring his anger as he did so. Arnau watched in horror the blades of axes smashing through the timber of the gates and beginning to tear apart the leaves.

  ‘Ramon!’ he bellowed. The knight paid him no heed, killing and maiming.

  ‘Brother Ramon!’ he yelled again. Finally, the knight stopped slamming his sword out and paused for a moment. A blade whipped in through the gap and almost took Ramon’s life until he fell backwards into the pile of chairs, tables and crates. He tumbled painfully and gracelessly down the barricade, stumbling to a halt next to Arnau. The sergeant flinched at the sight of the knight. Ramon was unwounded, but pale as a ghost beneath the layer of blood and filth of battle.

  ‘Mateu—’

  ‘Mateu is dead,’ Arnau said, sharply. He turned to see that the preceptrix had gone, hurtling over towards the west gate. Across the courtyard, Luis had closed the doors of the chapter house and was standing by the chapel door, waving people inside.

  ‘Come on,’ Brother Ramon said, sanity finally settling back into his eyes. With Arnau close by, he ran back out of the passageway and into the open. Arnau’s heart sank as he glanced across to his left once they had emerged into the light. Others were retreating from the preceptory’s west gate, led by Brother Balthesar, but the old knight was limping and staggering, one leg barely able to support him, drenched in crimson. His sword was nowhere to be seen, nor his shield, as he used his left arm to cradle his broken right. His skin, where it could be seen through the gore of his victims, was a worrying grey through loss of blood.

  The preceptrix was standing before the chapel, waving him on. She turned to shout back inside over her shoulder. ‘Carima, prepare yourself for more wounded. Catarina and Titborga, lend a hand with the injured. Everyone else inside and secure the perimeter.’

  There was something powerful about the sight of the preceptrix with a sword strapped to her, and for a moment he understood how the powerful male nobles of Aragon might take against such a woman, threatened by the sheer strength of a woman of God, who they felt should be meek and obedient. There was certainly nothing meek about the Amazon standing at the heart of Rourell and bellowing out commands even as her monastery fell around her.

  With a crash, the south gate’s destruction was complete, the barrier of furniture pushed aside. A similar tale was being played out at the west, and men were beginning to pour through. Almost all the denizens of Rourell were in the church now, and as Balthesar limped through the doorway, helped by Brother Rafael, Arnau and Ramon dived inside with the preceptrix, Luis hauling the door shut and heaving the bar into place to seal it.

  The interior of the chapel was dim, but Father Diego appeared a moment later through the adjoining door to the chapter house with a burning taper, which he used to light the candles around the church.

  ‘Should we not bar that door?’ Arnau asked.

  ‘The chapter house door is also sealed,’ Ramon replied. ‘Should they break in there, then we will seal this one. Better not to confine ourselves more than we must.’

  Arnau looked around. Carima had set up a small hospital area near the altar, using pews. Upon one lay Miquel, moaning softly. On another rested Balthesar, silent as the nun worked on his wounds. Catarina and Titborga were helping as much they could. Brigida stood close by the preceptrix, eyes wide with panic. Luis and Rafael were checking the windows while Father Diego, having now lit the candles, sat with Ferrando and talked quietly to him, trying to heal the mental hurt the sergeant clearly suffered.

  That was it. That was what remained of Rourell in addition to Arnau. Discounting the two wounded men, and Ferrando who, it seemed likely, would be of little help in the coming hours, they numbered nine in total. Three sergeants, one knight, three nuns, a priest and the preceptrix.

  His heart suddenly turned to ice. And Joana. And Simo. Trapped in the belfry and separated from the rest.

  Never had Arnau felt more in need of courage and guidance than right now. The world faded around him, the noise and the desperation, the panic and the smell of blood. Arnau walked through the midst of it all, past the makeshift hospital and to the altar with its image of Saint Mary, where he dropped to a knee and began to pray for the deliverance of so many innocents whose lives had been overturned by the arrival of the three desperate fugitives from Santa Coloma.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The muted sounds of victorious savagery were clearly audible through the church door. Preceptrix Ermengarda and Brother Ramon were involved in a muttered council of war in the corner, the three nuns were hard at work dealing with injuries, and the rest were checking weapons or praying as they deemed fit. Arnau, however, had neither the patience nor the will for either right now, and so he stood at a narrow slit window to one side of the church door, peering out, wishing the window was of coloured, decorative glass rather than being plain and clear, and therefore making him horribly visible should some enemy crossbowman decide to take a shot.

  The enemy had flooded into the courtyard from both gates, crashing like the tide against the interior walls. The sight was stomach-clenching, though the one small mercy Arnau could identify was that the entire mob seemed to fit in the courtyard, which surely had not been possible when all this started, and pointed to the serious depletion the Templar crossbows and swords had wreaked on the enemy. They must have almost halved. Of course, that still meant they were hopelessly outnumbered and trapped in a church awaiting death, but still, it was something.

  As soon as the rough thugs filled the yard, they began to spread out and search. Men pushed through every doorway and disappeared inside. Arnau watched with anger through the narrow window as all the meagre goods belonging to Rourell were dragged from their places and fought over by snarling mercenaries, like a hungry wolf pack with a fresh carcass. Anything that took no one’s fancy was simply discarded and trodden on. Bedclothes dropped from high windows to be torn apart, horses brought from the stables and taken away with saddles and tack, the few spare items from the armoury distributed among the attackers. Fortunately, the preceptrix had had the foresight to have the armoury largely emptied, and its contents were here, in the north end of the church. They may be trapped in a chapel but at least they were well armed.

  Arnau’s eyes had repeatedly shifted to the top of the belfry, where he knew innocent Joana and young Simo hid. Briefly, once or twice, he saw a head appear at the parapet to check what was happening and then disappear once more. He willed the pair to stay hidden and not draw attention to themselves. His heart had thundered in his throat as he watched three of the enemy work at the tower door, trying to force a way in, but the timber was too thick and too well sealed, and they soon gave up, especially as it became apparent that the defenders of Rourell were holed up in the church and chapter house.

  Soon they would turn their attention to these buildings, but for now they were content to loot and destroy with wanton abandon. Arnau watched sadly as the last few possessions of his former secular life were dragged from the stores and fought over. His shield, with the black lion of Vallbona, disappeared in the hands of a toothless bandit with lank hair and a wicked grin. He would not have been a
ble to keep the equipment anyway, mind. In due course the shield would have been repainted plain Templar black and white and added to the armoury. His fancy clothes would have been distributed among the poor, which, oddly, was exactly what was happening now, though not in the way he’d envisaged. Somewhere, Titborga’s possessions would be being ravaged too. Since neither had attended the ceremony that would see them officially part of the order and the records were not yet lodged with the mother house, they remained officially secular nobles, and it was not yet the place of the preceptrix to divest them of the trappings of their former life.

  There would be no trappings now.

  A shout of anger and alarm somewhere in the centre of the courtyard drew Arnau’s attention, and he focused on a small knot of shouting men. It seemed from the commotion that someone was wounded. He watched the gathered figures help a man to his feet, his head covered in blood, his feet unsteady. What was happening?

  His blood chilled as a second man suddenly screamed, his head half-caved in, blood and brains spattering his closest comrades. Arnau’s gaze travelled up the stone wall to the top of the tower in perfect unison with a score of eyes at the yard’s centre. Joana was leaning over the parapet, having just dropped something heavy into the crowd.

  No, Arnau thought, unable to shout, unwilling to bring this nightmare scene to the attention of the others, for there was nothing any of them could do about it. His gaze remained riveted on the parapet of the belfry even when Joana disappeared from it. There had been no sign of Simo, which could be good, or bad. He began to wonder what had happened to the young nun when she reappeared suddenly, casting the heavy bronze bell she had removed from its beam over the parapet. The bell fell and shouts of warning saved a man’s life when he leaped out of the way as the deadly falling missile thudded into the ground, breaking the flagstone. In the tower, Joana cursed them all, imploring almighty God to strike them down for their villainy. It was all bravely done, but while she had removed two more of the enemy from the fight, she had also made them aware of her presence.