‘This is foolish, Vallbona. You know how easily I can kill you. You throw away your life for nothing. And if by some strange trick or miracle you did manage to kill me, you know what doom you would bring down upon yourself and this weird sect with whom you have thrown in your lot. My death at the hands of the Templars would wash through the nobility of Aragon like a tide of disapproval. Already this preceptory and the witch who runs it are distrusted. The king ignores it, for your swords have always been of use to him against the Moor. But when your blades are turned against his own knights? Things will change, Vallbona. Baron Alberto de Castellvell and the great Lord Bernat d’Entenza would both heap blame and ignominy on you for this.’
He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Though the point is moot, since you will be fertilising the fields as carrion by then.’
‘Sheathe your tongue and brandish your sword instead,’ Arnau said loudly, ‘for it at least that’s clean and does not reek of horse dung.’
It was a cheap jibe, but well timed, for it brought another blaze of anger into the man’s eyes and turned a number of mercenary hearts further from their former master. Around the edge more of the bandits took the opportunity while unobserved to slip away through the preceptory gates and vanish.
Arnau looked della Cadeneta up and down. The man was still as a rock, waiting. No tells. No signs. He was an expert with the blade. Arnau would have to be better than he’d ever been to win this day. He had to display no tells of his own. It had been little more than a week since they had arrived at Rourell, fugitives, and yet in such a short time, so many changes had been wrought, both around and within Arnau. A week ago he had only thought himself strong. Now, he knew it, for he had learned from the best.
Lütolf. The German had pressed him. Annoyed him. Irritated him. Wounded him. Badgered him. Chided him. Shouted at him. Taught him…
As with the move from a secular life to the simple ways of the Poor Knights of Christ, Arnau divested himself of that which he did not need. As he’d put away a rich surcoat with the black lion of Vallbona in favour of the monochrome black of the sergeant, so he let the trials of the preceptory around him go, melting away from his cares and his consciousness. As he had put aside the sword that had been his grandfather’s in favour of a plain blade from the Temple armoury, so he let his ties to Santa Coloma go, his connection with Berenguer and Titborga. As he’d given over his money and his signet and anything of the self, so he let go of Lütolf of Ehingen’s death and the shuddering form of the dying crossbowman nearby. As he had pushed away the idea of nobility and succession, of family and women, so the crowd of mercenaries around him fell away into meaninglessness.
He was a Templar. That was what mattered. Ferrer della Cadeneta was the enemy, and there was nothing else in the world right now. The serenity and certainty that flooded him must have shone from his eyes, for something in della Cadeneta’s demeanour changed in that moment. Doubt crept into the man.
I shall sing without end the mercies of the Lord.
In generation and into generation, I shall tell thy truth with my mouth.
His mother’s favourite. Psalm eighty-nine: the learning of Ethan the Ezrahite. He came to a halt in front of della Cadeneta, a sword-and-arm reach away, mind already rattling ahead through the psalm…
I shall build thy seat; in generation and generation.
Lord, heaven shall acknowledge thy marvels and thy truth in the church of saints.
Something about his was clearly off-putting to della Cadeneta, whose lip had acquired a twitch.
Arnau was calm. He was at peace and there was nothing in him but the word of the Lord and the readiness to do His work.
Della Cadeneta broke. He was fast. God above, but he was fast. That sword came from a dipped waver to neck height, slicing forward in the blink of an eye, a cobra strike. Even the German brother would have broken a sweat facing the Lord della Cadeneta. Arnau simply leaned a hand width to his right and the blade whispered through the air above his shoulder.
Lütolf had been a good teacher. The best, in fact, for all his faults. For while the German had put him on his backside in the dust in this very position days ago, it had taught Arnau something important. It was not enough to be calm and ready to avoid or parry the enemy blow, he must be ready to return the favour.
Arnau pivoted on his right foot, the momentum from his lean adding to the speed, and spun, his blade flicking out horizontally.
He almost had the man then, in that first exchange. As he spun, so his blade would have cut deep into della Cadeneta’s arm had the man not pirouetted away with the same grace and simplicity as Arnau’s pivot.
Both men came to a halt, swords thrust forth, facing one another again, their positions having swapped so that della Cadeneta now faced the tower, while Arnau faced the church and the gathered Templars therein. He focused for just a moment on the figure of Brother Ramon, and that almost brought his demise. Della Cadeneta, faster than a lightning strike, swung his blade low and deadly, aiming for the legs below the hem of the mail hauberk. Arnau reacted late, and only just in time, lurching back in a clumsy manner, and even then the lord’s sword tip caught on the rings of Arnau’s mail leggings, close to that vulnerable spot above the mail, where the chausses were tied up. Slow. Distracted. Everything the German knight had chided him for. His attention wandering, just as it had done with that reflection across the fields.
God, who is glorified in the council of saints, is great and dreadful over all that be in his compass.
Lord God of virtues, who is like thee? Lord, thou art mighty, and thy truth is in thy compass.
Arnau felt the tension drain from him once more.
Perhaps he could use this? Use della Cadeneta’s recognition of such easy distraction?
He allowed his gaze to focus on a point slightly off to the right, above his enemy’s shoulder. Sure enough, della Cadeneta struck at Arnau’s left, where his blind side would be had he been truly distracted, and not dissembling. In fact, his eyes had been defocused, allowing him a wide field of vision.
As della Cadeneta’s sword lashed out, Arnau lightly sidestepped and slashed out with his own sword. He was rewarded with a grunt and, as they dropped into position facing one another once more, their positions reversed again so that he was now facing the tower. Arnau could see the marks in the mail of della Cadeneta’s left bicep. He’d not drawn blood – the man was so fast and swords were near impossible to put through mail – but it had been a palpable hit and would have bruised badly and perhaps done more damage besides. Of course, the man was bright enough not to fall for the same trick again.
But della Cadeneta had lost all his smug certainty. He was no longer convinced of a guaranteed win and a simple victory over his young adversary. And whatever his threats that his death could bring disaster to Rourell in the form of retaliation from the Aragonese crown and its nobles, the realisation that that would be of precious little consolation to a cooling corpse was settling into him. Good. Arnau was growing more confident and calmer by the heartbeat, while della Cadeneta was sliding into uncertainty.
There was a long pause, a second of inactivity and silence that dragged out to another, and another, as the two men watched one another warily, both now well aware of the dangers they faced, both respecting the other’s skill and ability no matter how little respect they may have held for the person as a whole. The birds cawed high above. Cicadas in the fields. But within the walls of Rourell, there was no sound. It was as though every soul held their breath, waiting.
Arnau moved first. Keeping himself calm and free from distraction, he had continued with his mental recitation of the eighty-ninth Psalm, but the Lord himself seemed to have given him the moment to strike.
For mine hand shall help him, and mine arm shall confirm him.
The enemy shall nothing profit in him, and I shall slay his enemies from his face, and I shall turn into flight them that hate him.
He slashed. His blade slammed into chain links point-first, and
in a moment of heaven-sent miracle he must have found a weak point, for it broke them. The tip punched into the metal and sheared through the padding and fabric below. But it was a hollow victory, for the Lord della Cadeneta had seen it coming at the last moment and leaped aside, and the blow scored only a hot line of pain across the man’s side rather than being the killing blow Arnau had intended. Moreover, he was struck with a horrible challenge as he saw his enemy’s response coming while his blade was still trapped in della Cadeneta’s mail hauberk.
He twisted and leaped back, yanking his sword from the shirt with difficulty. He felt the muscle in his arm tearing at the dreadful effort of extricating the sword, and simultaneously sensed the enemy blade striking his other arm. The pain shot up both limbs, one from the pulled muscle in his sword arm, the other from the enemy’s blow. He couldn’t tell what damage della Cadeneta had done, but his arm had gone dead. It was agonising, but numb. Had it been hacked off? One look confirmed it was still there, and the mail sleeve was intact. The rings had dampened the blow, so it must be broken. Damn.
He fell into position facing della Cadeneta once more, trying not to reveal just how badly injured he was after that dreadful exchange. His sword came up and the pain in his damaged muscle was intense. He felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
Give me the strength to see this through, Lord.
And I shall set his hand in the sea; and his right hand in floods.
He shall inwardly call me, saying Thou art my father; my God, and the up-taker of mine health.
That he was. God was in him, giving him the strength to go on, determination overriding all his difficulties. Once more the pair had changed places during the blow, and Arnau was facing the belfry again. He was determined not to be distracted, and yet he seemed doomed to be, for something moved behind della Cadeneta. Arnau allowed his eyes to defocus once more so that he could take in everything, foreground and back, centre and periphery, without blinding himself to any of it. A figure flashed into sight in the shadowy interior of the belfry. In the gloom it was little more than a black wraith, and no detail could be made out other than the basic shape. But that shape alone sent a songbird of joy and hope flying free in Arnau’s soul, for it was a small figure, and there was only one person in all of Rourell that size.
Simo was alive.
Arnau allowed his focus to close in once more on della Cadeneta, a new strength flowing through his damaged arm, and once more something must have shown in his expression, for the wicked lord before him suddenly looked momentarily afraid.
Della Cadeneta dived, his sword swinging wide but low as the man made a brutal effort to duck beneath any potential parry of Arnau’s and go up under the hauberk for a killing blow to the groin. But the young sergeant was ready. Readier than he had ever been, in fact.
And I shall set his seed into the world, and his throne as the days of heaven.
Forsooth if his sons forsake my law; and go not in my dooms.
If they make unholy my rightfulnesses and keep not my commandments.
Arnau’s blade dropped, caught and turned that of della Cadeneta, and he spun and danced away with an almost cursory flick of his own sword in answer. As he came to rest once more facing the church, Arnau noted with satisfaction the line of the cut he had scored along della Cadeneta’s cheek, blood sheeting down his chin and neck from the wound. The man looked shocked.
I shall visit in a rod the wickednesses of them; and in beatings the sins of them.
And in that next moment, he knew he had won.
For della Cadeneta’s attention was torn from the fight momentarily as Simo emerged from the belfry, roaring his anger. A heartbeat was all it took. Ferrer della Cadeneta’s eyes ducked left and focused on the source of the audible rage: the young man in the tower door.
Arnau struck.
It was not an elegant blow. He could not swing wild. His arm’s strength was spent, the muscles too damaged to control such a blow. Besides, he knew how little chance there was of cutting through the mail. It had been miraculous to achieve it once. Instead, he lashed out, his sword leaping forth like a lance. He knew the chances of getting a sword tip through the links of mail were infinitesimally small, but sometimes a weapon did not need to scythe through flesh to kill. His own favoured mace was capable of killing through mail as easily as through wool, and he took his cue from that.
The blow landed in the dead centre of della Cadeneta’s chest, even as the man’s gaze whipped back in shock to his predicament. Arnau’s arm might be tired and wounded, the blow unable to penetrate the mail. But he had leaped with it, elbow bent, putting every ounce of his strength behind it. The tip of his sword disappeared into the rings of the mail hauberk, the blow so heavy that it drove steel and padding and fabric all inwards against della Cadeneta’s chest. There was a horrendous cracking sound from within, muffled by the man’s clothes and armour, along with a number of lesser bony cracks.
The man’s sternum had shattered.
Arnau fell back, exhausted, the last vestiges of strength falling from his arm, just as his sword fell from his fingers.
Della Cadeneta looked down in horror. His mail shirt was intact, the white and red surcoat atop it a little torn. But the damage had been done within. The lord took a deep breath, but nothing happened. Somewhere deep inside, his lungs flapped, unable to fill with anything but blood, shattered ribs sticking through them.
He heaved another desperate, experimental breath. Still no air filled his lungs. He dropped his sword, the contest forgotten.
Arnau collapsed to his knees. Simo ran over and grabbed him to stop him falling flat on his face, and the two men of Rourell watched della Cadeneta, eyes wide, desperately sucking on air that could not help him as he slowly drowned in his own blood.
It took some time, which Arnau considered part of divine justice playing out. Della Cadeneta, increasingly panicked, clawing at his throat, trying to extricate himself from his mail hauberk and failing dismally, arms shooting out imploringly to the mercenaries he had hired. Arnau’s gaze roved across the courtyard, and he was interested to see how few there were left. Many more had melted away during the fight, realising the game was up and that it would profit them not at all to be the ones standing here when it was all over. Of the dozen men still there, not one moved to help the stricken lord.
In a last, desperate, attempt, della Cadeneta reached out imploringly to Arnau. The young sergeant watched him die. As his body finally gave in, he collapsed first to his knees, eyes rolling wild, then they simply slid up into his skull and he topped over to lie motionless on the ground.
‘Lord, where be thine eld mercies, as thou hast sworn to David in thy truth?’ Arnau said quietly, skipping to the end of the psalm as Simo helped him painfully to his feet. ‘Lord, be thou mindful of the shame of thy servants, of many heathen men, which I held together in my bosom. Which thine enemies, Lord, did shamefully; for they despised the changing of thy Christ. Blessed be the Lord without end.’
He stepped carefully past the prone figure of his enemy. His eyes rose from the body to the few remaining gathered men and he motioned Simo to halt.
‘Remember this,’ he shouted to the few mercenaries in the yard. ‘The Lord demands respect and fear, but He can be forgiving. Go home thankful and raise families in His light.’
He turned away from them once more and, with Simo helping him, shuffled back towards the church, where the preceptrix, Ramon, Titborga and the rest stood with expressions of deepest sympathy and of great joy for the safe return of the boy.
It was over.
Rourell had prevailed.
Arnau de Vallbona was no more, but Brother Arnau had been born anew and baptised in blood.
And it was over.
Chapter Twenty
Arnau de Vallbona, Templar sergeant, stood in the dusty ground and looked down with an air of sadness. The Rourell graveyard had been so small and unobtrusive that he’d not previously known it existed. There had only been thre
e burials there since the preceptory’s founding, and only one of those was recent: Lütolf’s squire – Simo’s father. Now the German knight lay beneath a blanket of dirt beside the sergeant who had served with him in life. Simo shed no tears. Perhaps this past week or more had wrung from him every drip of grief he could muster and he had been left dry, though the lad had displayed shrewdness and an instinct for survival in the tower, when he had deliberately stabbed himself in the shoulder and lay there, swathed in blood and with a knife still jutting from him, apparently dead and ignored by the bandits who walked repeatedly across him.
Lütolf and his predecessors were not alone in the small graveyard either. The brothers had been busy digging for hours. Lorenç’s grave lay close by, his brother Ferrando immobile at its foot. The mason had not spoken a word since the death of his twin. Both Father Diego and Carima had proclaimed that it could be a permanent state, something broken in his mind with the loss, but both had vowed to use every hour God sent to return their brother to the fold.
Mateu lay next to Lorenç, and Brother Ramon, already frustrated at the bandages and salves and sling that held his arm tight until it healed, stood beside his grave, saying farewell to the man who had been his squire and his friend. Arnau was torn between Mateu and Lütolf’s gravesides, and stood between them, for one had become, against all odds, both teacher and friend, and the other had been the first welcoming voice at Rourell, the man who had helped Arnau find his feet that first day.
Carles finally lay at peace, buried with his brothers. Joana too, beside him, and Catarina, for there was no call for chaste separation in the grave, after all. Six dead, and all because of the greed of Ferrer della Cadeneta and the desperation of Titborga and her man at arms.
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