Arnau watched, heart in mouth, as one of those rams that had been used to break the outer gates was brought into the yard and ferried through the press to the tower. The ram was settled in place in the grip of a dozen burly men and the mob moved back to allow room. It began to swing, slamming into the tower door so hard that dust and fragments of mortar tumbled from the walls of the belfry into the crowd below.
‘What’s happening?’ Rafael asked, scurrying over towards him.
‘They’re going for the belfry,’ Arnau replied quietly so that his words would not carry across the church.
‘Lord!’
‘Quite. They’d given up on it, but Joana started throwing things down on them, so now they’re breaking down the door.’
Rafael leaned against the wall. ‘It will go bad for Sister Joana. For Simo too, but we all know what this sort of rabble will do when they capture a girl.’
Arnau nodded, bleakly. It did not bear thinking about. He wished they still had a crossbow. Even one bolt would be enough to end it for Joana before the worst happened, but it seemed she was to be denied even that. There was no way to help her, or Simo. He wondered where Simo was. He had to be in the tower, after all. Joana continued to rain rubble down on the heads of the crowd. She had used everything truly heavy now, even dropping the broken crossbows out, and had cast down bits of wood and boxes. Arnau watched her using a knife to try and prise a stone from the parapet. It would be fruitless. On the somewhat tenuous bright side, she had seriously injured at least three more people with her constant barrage.
On the twelfth blow the tower door cracked and burst inwards and, roaring their victory, men began to pour into the stairwell. Arnau prayed that the good Lord would be merciful and grant Joana a quick and clean exit from this world.
‘Pater noster qui in coelis est, sanctificetur nomen tuum…’
The voice was clear, light, feminine and almost musical, and somehow managed to cut through the commotion outside. Almost every figure in the yard came to a halt and looked up. Those inside the tower continued to move, as evidenced by the echoing sound of pounding feet.
‘Adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua et in terra sicut in coelo…’
The paternoster – the Lord’s Prayer – intoned in such a sweet manner. Arnau looked up to see Joana leaning over the parapet. Rafael muscled in next to him, with difficulty, finding a way to peer out of the window. They both watched, ice cold.
‘Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie et dimitte nobis debita nostra…’
The crowd were silent, as though at mass, as riveted to the clear prayer of the young nun as were her comrades at the church window. Arnau’s already heavy heart took another blow as he watched Joana climb up onto the narrow wall and stand straight, steadying herself with a hand on the stonework.
‘God, no,’ Arnau whispered.
‘Sicut et dimittemus debitoribus nostris et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo…’
The crowd was spellbound. Rafael, wide-eyed, choked. ‘She cannot. Not that. She will be denied heaven for eternity. Better to be raped.’
Arnau wasn’t sure he agreed with that, which probably made him a bad Christian, but still. He shook his head, eyes still on the girl. ‘Heaven awaits her, Rafael.’
‘But…’
‘This is not suicide, Brother. This is a nun striking a blow in holy war with the only weapon she has left.’
They watched, shivering, as Joana pulled her hands back from the stone, teetering on the parapet. Behind her, they could hear the attackers emerging from the stairwell.
‘Amen,’ Joana said, and fell.
Arnau could not look away. Even as she toppled outward, one of the men who’d climbed the tower ran over and grabbed at her arm, trying to stop her. The young sergeant couldn’t see the nun’s face, but he could quite imagine the ferocious determination on it as Joana grabbed hold of the man and pulled him over with her, toppling out into the open air.
The crowd below had been mesmerised by the scene, watching Joana, immobile. Only as she fell did desperate activity explode among the men in the courtyard, for they were still tightly pressed and there was little chance of everyone getting out of the way.
Sister Joana and her unfortunate attacker hit the gathered crowd at speed and the whole group disappeared with a roar and a number of stony, bony cracks. It was impossible to tell from the chapel window who had died, but it seemed more than likely the death toll exceeded the two falling figures alone. Filled with grief for the young nun, still Arnau’s eyes rose to the top. There was yet no sign of Simo. He peered, frowning, at the door below, and the men who’d broken in emerged, looking shaken and dispirited. Still no Simo. Arnau prayed the boy was all right, wherever he was.
He only became aware of the presence of his superiors when the preceptrix spoke close to his shoulder. ‘Joana?’
Arnau nodded. ‘She is with God now.’
‘Better that than with them,’ the mistress of Rourell said, with feeling, drawing a nod from both the sergeants.
‘And Simo?’ Ramon added. Arnau turned to see the pale face of the knight and the haunted look to his eyes. This would be torturing Ramon, for it had been he who had consigned the young pair to the tower, believing it to be a place of safety for them. He would feel entirely responsible.
‘No sign of Simo.’
‘Let us pray for him, then,’ Ermengarda said.
‘Still they do not come,’ Brother Ramon said. ‘They ravage and loot both ranges, take the tower, but still they do not come for us.’
The preceptrix nodded. ‘It is a rare man, even among the villainous, who will willingly bring violence against a church. Remember the vengeance the Lord wreaks on such men.’ Arnau remembered it all too well. He had been part of that vengeance, in the army of Santa Coloma at the battle by the Ebro, where they had trapped and butchered an Almohad raiding party. Those Moors had had the temerity to burn a church with a priest inside, and the full weight of God’s wrath had been brought down upon them at spear point. These men would fear similar reprisals.
‘Diego,’ the preceptrix said quietly. The venerable priest wandered over towards them.
‘Yes?’
‘How is your haranguing voice? It would appear that even amid the wreckage of our monastery, the enemy are reluctant to attack a house of the Lord.’
Father Diego gave a wild yellow-toothed grin, his eyes bulging more than usual. ‘Stand back, Brothers.’
Arnau and Rafael retreated from the window, and the old priest reached up and unlatched it, opening it outwards so that he could be seen clearly, if only from a narrow viewpoint. The slit was too narrow for a person to fit through, but an arrow could pass within easily, and Arnau held his breath.
‘Behold, godless heathens!’ Diego bellowed through the window, and once more everything outside fell silent, bar the agonised wailing of a couple of men who’d lived through the falling bodies and wreckage to suffer the ongoing pain of their wounds. Arnau flinched. He wasn’t entirely sure that calling them godless heathens was the best way to appeal to them, but the words were out now, and all anyone could do was follow.
‘This,’ Diego bellowed, his voice strong and clear despite his appearance, ‘is the house of God. “How fearful and worshipful is this place? Here is none other thing but the house of God, and the gate of heaven.” Genesis twenty-eight, for those of you who care for their immortal soul. Because, and make no mistake out there among the filth of impious human refuse, the man that crossed this threshold with anything other than devout prayer in mind damns his soul to an eternity of fiery torment in the pit of the Great Adversary. Begone with you, lest the Lord strike down his wrath upon you.’
With that, he stepped back and slammed shut the window. Arnau stared at him. There was absolute silence. Even the wounded and dying outside had fallen quiet in the face of the old priest’s threat of damnation. It had been well said, Arnau had to admit. More confrontational and accusatory than Arnau might hav
e thought safe, but still, it had struck into the heart of every man out there, and the silence was that of each man examining his soul.
The silence ended suddenly with a bang that shook the very walls. Arnau started in shock at the sound, wondering what it was. The second crash, though, carrying with it the sound of splintering timber, made the source clear.
‘The chapter house,’ Luis said, running through the door from the church. Preceptrix Ermengarda was at his heel, Catarina running to join her mistress.
‘Stay in the church,’ bellowed Brother Ramon after them. ‘Sister, stay here and close the door!’
But the others had gone into the chapter house. Ramon turned to Arnau and Rafael. ‘Get the bar ready to seal that door,’ he barked, pointing at the heavy portal that connected church and chapter house. Arnau nodded and the pair of sergeants ran over to the door, locating the bar and lifting it. Arnau noted gloomily that the old loquacious priest had threatened damnation on any man who entered the church, but he’d not mentioned the chapter house.
Readying the bar, they waited by the door and Arnau peered through it, immediately wishing he hadn’t. That second blow from the ram had cracked open the chapter house door and, even as the preceptrix had entered her place of council with Luis and Catarina, brigands had been pouring through it. Ramon, sword in hand, grabbed Luis and physically propelled him back towards the church even as he prepared to fight the tide of villainy flowing towards him. The preceptrix, immediately realising her mistake and the peril in which she’d placed herself, ran into the room and skittered to a halt, backing up and rather inexpertly drawing her husband’s heavy blade from her side. Catarina spun to flee also, but fortune was not with her, and she slipped, turning her ankle and collapsing to the floor with a yelp.
‘No!’ the preceptrix bellowed and made to go after her, but Ramon was there, waving her back towards the door. Arnau watched in cold fear as Luis and Ermengarda retreated hurriedly towards them, while Brother Ramon ran towards the approaching mercenaries, where Catarina was struggling to rise, whimpering at the pain in her ankle.
‘Get up, girl!’ Ramon shouted at her. He stepped beside her and caught the swinging sword of a brigand with his own, knocking it aside. ‘Get up!’
But she did not. Whether she could not, or had simply frozen in panic, Arnau could not tell, but she remained on the flagged floor of the chapter house. Luis and the preceptrix pushed past the doorway into the church, and Arnau willed the girl to rise. Still she did not.
Ramon caught another lancing blade and delivered a riposte, drawing blood from an unseen figure in the crowd. The enemy slowed their advance, wary of that bloodied dancing blade and the white-clad knight who wielded it. Another man took a step forward and jabbed with his sword. Ramon spun and hacked down with his own blade, taking the hand off at the wrist and then falling into a prepared stance, sword at the ready for the next man.
‘Get up,’ he hissed urgently at the young nun. Still Catarina did not move, sobbing as she held her ankle. Arnau knew what was coming. They all did. There was a tension building. The men facing Ramon were nervous about pressing their attack, well aware of the deadly skill of their opponent, but soon something would snap, and they would come at the Templar en masse. When that happened, Ramon was dead. There was simply no way he could hold off that many adversaries.
Another sword. Another parry. Another warning wound.
The tension was almost at breaking point. Arnau felt his fingertips drop to the hilt of the sword at his side even as his other hand maintained his grip on the locking bar. The preceptrix, standing close by, cleared her throat. ‘Ready yourself to seal the door, Brother Arnau. Nothing more.’
His fingers left the weapon and he gripped the bar, though his gaze remained locked on Ramon.
A man slashed with his sword and caught the Templar knight’s habit, ripping a wide hole in it and sliding with a nerve-jangling sound across the mail beneath without penetrating. Ramon grunted and delivered a response with gusto, his blade cutting the man just above the thigh, sending him falling back with a cry of pain. The mood was ugly. Any moment now…
Ramon reached down with his free hand and tried to grasp Catarina.
‘Take my hand,’ he hissed. She looked up, eyes rolling in terror, but someone in the crowd must have grabbed her good foot, for the shape of the young nun suddenly jerked away across the floor and disappeared, screaming, into the crowd.
Ramon bellowed his fury, desperately reaching, trying to grab the white habit as she was yanked away from him, but she was gone. The knight howled like a wounded beast and swung his sword in a mighty arc, biting deep into flesh and raising screams of pain from the mob. The preceptrix called for him, but Ramon was deaf to all but the song of battle. He leaped forward, sword biting, cleaving, slashing, stabbing, a fine mizzle of red rising to fill the air of the chapter house like fog. Cries of agony rose above the sounds of swordplay, and Arnau almost lost sight of the knight for a moment as the enemy made to surround him and cut him down, but even in such blind fury, the Templar was good. He back-stepped twice, keeping the enemy from cutting him off. There was a new cry as one of the mercenaries landed a blow on Ramon, and he bellowed something for which he’d need to do penance later, but still he was up, still fighting.
Luis suddenly ran past Arnau, ripping his sword from its scabbard and leaping into the fray even as the preceptrix ordered him to hold back. Arnau lost track. He saw swords swinging and flashes of white and black habits amid the brown and grey, and then suddenly a miracle occurred. Ramon and Luis emerged from the chaos, backing towards the door, staggering but intact. Their swords, running with blood, coated with hair and gore, wavered threateningly at the press of men who slowly advanced at the same pace as the pair backing away.
Arnau prepared himself, nodding at Rafael. The two men, white and black together like pieces from a chess board, fell back through the door and, even as the brigands roared and rushed for the church, the two waiting sergeants slammed the portal shut and pushed the bar home into the metal brackets.
‘Will that hold?’ Arnau whispered, listening to the fists thumping on the far side.
‘For a while at least,’ Rafael replied as the two sergeants backed away from the door, trembling.
Arnau turned to the survivors, eyes wide. The preceptrix was busy upbraiding Luis for disobedience even as her eyes thanked him for his timely action. There was no doubt among them that Ramon would now be gone had it not been for Brother Luis’s blessed insubordination. Even then, Luis was limping and his shield arm was drenched in blood. Ramon seemed intact barring one wound, though that injury was bad and was to his sword arm. He’d managed to hold the blade up threateningly as they backed through the doorway, but as soon as the door was closed and locked, his arm had dropped, shaking, the sword falling from his trembling fingers. The cut to his upper arm was so deep and long that Arnau could see the white of bone. The muscle had been badly damaged. There was simply no way Ramon would lift a sword with that hand for some time, if ever again.
‘We cannot win against these odds,’ the preceptrix said, suddenly.
‘That’s nothing new, Sister,’ called Balthesar from his makeshift hospital bed. ‘We always knew there would be too many of them, from the moment the campfires lit.’
‘True. But we have fought back to our last redoubt. If the church falls, so does Rourell and every soul therein. There is still one chance, but for it work we need to shake the attackers off. To make them doubt and reconsider their course. To harry the snake’s tail until it shows its head. Faith will be our weapon now.’
Arnau frowned. How faith could help them, he could not imagine. ‘Would that I could turn back time,’ he murmured.
‘What was that, Brother?’ the preceptrix asked, and Arnau flinched. He’d not meant it to be heard. He turned to the powerful mistress of Rourell, feeling chastened and sad.
‘I wish I could turn back time. To the night we fled the farm and came here. I would urge my lad
y to ride on for Tarragona and not bring this terror to your door.’
Ermengarda fixed him with a look that made him feel extremely uneasy. ‘Young man, feel not regret nor guilt. Remember that the protection of the innocent is the very purpose of our order. Forget the farms and the reconquest and the maintenance of the monastery and focus on the fact that without that very simple vow – to protect those in need – we would not be here to help. And the situation may appear dire, but we are yet far from lost.’ She turned back to the others. ‘Father Diego, would you lead the congregation in a little reminder of the purpose of this edifice?’
‘You have anything in mind, Sister?’
‘Psalm thirty-seven, I think.’
Arnau stared. Sing? They were trapped, wounded and with no hope, and the preceptrix would have them sing songs at the enemy? And yet a memory rose from deep within, an image of a glorious Templar leading a charge, singing psalms as he rode down the Moorish bandits. Perhaps there was a place for that glorious union of song and steel together, after all.
Father Diego’s voice rose in its perfect tone, and within a heartbeat every throat in the chapel joined it.
‘Do not thou follow wicked men; neither love thou men doing wickedness.’
Arnau almost smiled, picturing what would be going through the mind of every man out there with even a hint of a conscience. Already there had been consternation at the thought of attacking a church, then with the death of Joana in such a violent, visible manner and the haranguing of the priest, there would be many hearts quailing at what they must do next. And now here were voices raised in song of sacred scripture, urging them not to obey a wicked master.
‘For they shall wax dry swiftly as hay, and they shall fall down soon as the worts of herbs.’
Daughter of War Page 27