Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden

by HISTORY Stephenson, Neal

  Alfonso, remaining implacably calm in the face of this announcement, approached the kneeling messenger and asked him to clarify. “Who are gone?”

  “The Templars,” the messenger said, and the cathedral was filled with an eruption of noisy voices. Alfonso raised his hand, and the voices trailed off like lines of swallows vanishing into a darkening sky.

  “All of them?” Alfonso asked.

  The messenger nodded.

  “They’re marching for Salvatierra,” a burly man with a long black beard said. Lazare didn’t recall his name, but he knew he was one of the field commanders who had met Miramamolin’s troops last fall when the first Moorish sorties had taken place in the plain south of Toledo.

  Alfonso slapped his hand against the hilt of his sword, his rings striking the pommel with a clash of metal. “Let the messenger speak,” he thundered.

  The burly man inclined his head, but the motion was perfunctory and lacking in real humility.

  “Yes, yes,” the messenger stuttered, “the Templars mean to march south, along the road to Calatrava and Salvatierra.” He glanced around at the gathered assembly. “Others mean to follow him, Your Highness.”

  “Master Ruy,” Alfonso said, and the burly man stepped forward. “How many knights march under the Templar banner?”

  “Nearly a thousand, Your Majesty,” Ruy replied. “And ten times that number in men-at-arms.”

  “And what is our latest estimate of al-Nasir’s strength?”

  “More than two hundred thousand men,” Ruy Díaz said.

  Al-Nasir, Lazare thought, finding it interesting that the king of Castile referred to the Almohad caliph by his Muslim name and not the Christianized version—Miramamolin.

  “Such odds, even for the Templars,” Marcos whispered to him. “They would be fools to face al-Nasir directly.”

  “Aye,” Lazare said. He, like everyone present, had heard stories about the Templars. Each knight was worth more than ten men on the battlefield. Only the famed Shield-Brethren had a stronger reputation for their value in battle. “They must mean to harry the Moors,” he said. “But such tactics cannot be sustained for a long period of time. The main force will surround them eventually.”

  The crusaders needed to be unified in their attack against the Moors. The Templar decision to march ahead would only diminish the chances of a Christian victory against the Almohad army.

  Alfonso dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand. “How soon can your knights march, Master Ruy?” the king asked.

  “Immediately, Your Majesty,” Ruy replied. Whether this was true or not, Lazare sensed it was the only response the man would have given.

  “What knights does that man command?” he asked Marcos.

  “Ruy?” Marcos said. “That is Ruy Díaz de Yanguas. He is the master of the Order of Calatrava. It was their citadel that fell last year—their second citadel. They lost Calatrava nearly twenty years ago. At the battle of Alarcos.”

  “What of Sancho?” Alfonso was asking of the archbishop, and Lazare found his attention being drawn back to the king. “Will he join us?”

  The archbishop shook his head. “I have received no word of his intentions, Your Majesty.”

  “We need his forces,” Alfonso said.

  Abbot Amairic leaned over and whispered something in the archbishop’s ear, and the archbishop’s eyes flicked toward Lazare. “I understand, Your Majesty,” the archbishop said smoothly. “I will endeavor to discover what is delaying the king of Navarre.”

  Alfonso nodded curtly and then let his gaze rove over the remaining assembly. “Ready your troops as soon as possible. We must not let the Templars engage al-Nasir’s forces without us.”

  Lazare was not surprised when Archbishop Rodrigo motioned that he should stay as the others departed from the cathedral. Making a polite excuse to Marcos, he wandered toward the altar and stood, hands behind his back, staring up at the crucifixion until the babble of voices and the sound of feet against stone faded. The cathedral doors swung shut, the echo rumbling through the empty cathedral with a sonorous thunder of finality.

  The archbishop sighed noisily as he walked up beside Lazare. Clasping the heavy cross that hung on a silver chain about his neck, the archbishop gazed up at the immense portrait of the suffering Christ and offered a short prayer to God. Lazare ducked his head as the archbishop prayed, echoing the other man’s final words as the archbishop finished.

  “What do you think of my city?” Archbishop Rodrigo asked after he had completed the requisite attention to God. “I understand you have met some of the local scholars.”

  Lazare nodded. “I have, Your Grace. I am given to understand that Toledo is…complicated.”

  The archbishop snorted. “Philosophers see everything as being overly complex. Suffused with multiple layers of meaning and inference, even.”

  Lazare did not know the work—or inquiry—that the archbishop was referring to, and so he only nodded sagely as if he understood the distinction being made. As he glanced around, he noticed Abbot Amairic wandering around in the nave, strolling between the pillars in the back of the cathedral.

  Archbishop Rodrigo noticed his gaze. “Ah, the abbot,” he said. “Your superior.” When Lazare did not immediately agree, the archbishop pursed his lips thoughtfully. “When we traveled through Pamplona, we were not able to reach an accord with King Sancho. Hmmm?”

  Lazare nodded. “Yes, I recall that being the case. Though—”

  “Yes?” the archbishop prompted. “You may speak plainly, Brother Lazare.”

  “The lack of an accord may have more to do with a failure to actually meet than any other reason,” Lazare said.

  “Was it necessary for me to meet with the king?”

  Lazare thought back on his conversation with the kin of Navarre. “That might have depended on how you approached such a meeting,” he said.

  “And if I had failed to properly measure the king’s mood?” the archbishop said.

  “I suspect his response would have been unfortunate.”

  “Instead of…?”

  “No response at all.”

  “Did I fail then?”

  “You certainly didn’t succeed,” Lazare pointed out.

  “That is not the same as failure,” the archbishop explained. He spread his arms to encompass the empty cathedral. “That is Toledo.”

  “That sounds like philosophical wordplay,” Lazare said.

  “All negotiations are,” the archbishop said. “Every agreement made between kings and caliphs, popes and princes, is a matter of inference and wordplay. Each decides how he will interpret the words of the treaty or agreement. It is not like the word of God, which is immutable. Our words are imperfect. Do you know the theories of Plato and Aristotle?”

  “I do, Your Grace,” Lazare said.

  Archbishop Rodrigo waved a hand at Lazare’s expression. “Don’t look so surprised. I can read Latin as well as any man in this city. I am not like that overzealous abbot of yours. I can read the commentaries written by the Moorish philosophers without screaming heresy and calling for an inquisition. I can read a treatise supposedly written by Muhammad al-Nasir that calls for the death of all Christians and the destruction of Rome and see that it is nothing more than a mere forgery. Unlike your friend over there.”

  “What…what treatise?”

  The archbishop regarded him shrewdly, one hand idly tapping his cross. “I have heard that King John of England has been excommunicated, that his country is under interdict. He fears a French invasion, and cut off from the rest of Christendom, he has made overtures to others who might come to his aid…in return for certain concessions. Have you heard this story?”

  It was Lazare’s turn to hesitate. “It does not surprise me that King John seeks to make an alliance with one of the kings of Iberia.”

  “Not one of the kings,” the archbishop corrected. “A caliph.”

  Lazare stared. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why? Becau
se Muhammad al-Nasir is Muslim? It wouldn’t be the first time a Muslim and a Christian have made an agreement against a greater enemy. It happens more often than you might think in Iberia.”

  “No, John would never convert to Islam. His subjects would never convert.”

  “I suspect al-Nasir thought the same thing, which is why he turned the English envoys away,” the archbishop said. “It was a decided failure for King John.”

  “Aye,” Lazare said, clearing his throat. “It sounds like it was.”

  “You seem relieved,” the archbishop noted. “And you seem to be well-informed as to the mood of the English people. Odd for a French Cistercian, don’t you think?”

  “It is,” Lazare agreed, his breath catching in his throat. His thoughts raced, wondering how he had let himself be trapped by the archbishop. Had he said too much to Marcos? Had the translator passed along the details of their conversation to the archbishop?

  The archbishop, though, appeared unconcerned. “Do you think King Sancho would receive you again?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If I were to order your abbot to allow you to return to Pamplona, would he let you go? As an emissary from both myself and King Alfonso. Do you think the abbot would acquiesce to my request?”

  “He wouldn’t refuse,” Lazare said.

  A tiny smile creased the archbishop’s lips. “But that isn’t the same as saying yes,” he noted.

  Lazare nodded in agreement. “I profess I know little of Abbot Amairic’s moods,” he said.

  “You credit the abbot with too much subterfuge,” Rodrigo said. “He has the ear of the Templar commander. I suspect it is his voice that Helyssent de Verdelay listens to. The abbot is much too narrow-minded in his rhetoric, and it may be the undoing of all of us.”

  “Aye,” Lazare said, eyeing the distant shape of the abbot.

  The archbishop nodded. “Someone must bring Sancho and his army, and someone else must temper the abbot’s words,” he said. “I cannot be in two places at the same time. Which do you think I will have more success at accomplishing?”

  “Short of stripping the abbot of his office and imprisoning him, I don’t think you can stop him,” Lazare said.

  “Should I have him killed?”

  When Lazare said nothing, Rodrigo stroked his chin.

  “That is an interesting silence you offer me, Brother Lazare.”

  “Your question was one that only God can answer for you,” Lazare said.

  The archbishop laughed. “Well said.” He sobered. “Where were you born, Brother Lazare?”

  “Rievaulx,” Lazare sighed, deciding to tell the archbishop the truth. “Not far from Yorkshire.”

  “An orphan, taken in by the local abbey?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were you simply brought up by the Cistercians, or did you take the vows there as well?”

  “The brothers at Rievaulx took a great deal of interest in my education,” Lazare said.

  The archbishop waited a few moments for Lazare to offer more and, as the cathedral fell into a solemn silence, he raised his cross to his lips.

  “Very well,” the archbishop said eventually. “I will worry about Sancho and the Navarrese army. Go with the abbot. Try to minimize the impact his sermons have on the soldiers. Don Ruy is a friend. He can help you. There are too many foreign soldiers in this army. I fear that King Alfonso will not have the authority to command them should they be swayed to a different course.”

  Lazare nodded, relieved and a little surprised that the archbishop was placing such trust in him. “Why?” The word slipped out.

  The archbishop raised an eyebrow. “Why am I trusting you?” he asked. “Because all I want is to ensure the safety of the people of Toledo—of all of Castile—regardless of their faith or origin. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Lazare said.

  “See?” the archbishop said, smiling. “It isn’t that complicated after all.”

  TEN

  On horseback, Ramiro could ride much farther and still return by nightfall. As Louisa became more comfortable with Fernando and Maria’s presence, he spent more time away from the villa. He roamed throughout the hills and along the verge of the great plain, seeking sign of the Almohad army. After a week of scouting, he was confident no army was lurking in the mountains or creeping along the pass carved through the Sierra Morena by the Despeñaperros River. Al-Andalus, on the southern side of the mountains, had belonged to the various Moorish caliphs for many generations; it was the high plain on the northern side, La Mancha and the territories surrounding Toledo, that were contested again and again.

  If the Almohads were moving north, they would harry the isolated castles and cities of the high plain before taking the road to Toledo. Ramiro hoped that any army that Castile and the other Christian kingdoms could field would be enough to turn back the Almohad decisively. If the armies spent the spring and summer warring on the plain, the chances of one side or the other spilling into the foothills of the Sierra Morena would increase dramatically.

  He couldn’t move Louisa now. Maybe in a few months, after the child was born. Until then, he had to be patient. He had to stay hidden.

  In the distance, Ramiro spied a small citadel, its man-made outline clear among the rocky outcroppings that poked out like naked fingers from the verdant, tree-covered hills. Castillo del Ferral had once been a fortress of the Order of Calatrava, but it had fallen into Moorish hands after the battle of Alarcos.

  The defeat at Alarcos had been tantamount to cutting out the heart of the order, and afterward, the rest of the body—the outlying citadels of Malagón, Benavente, Caracuel, Castillo del Ferral, and Calatrava itself—had sickened and died.

  He had removed most of the markings on the saddle that would clearly identify it as Moorish, though there was little he could do about the shape of the saddle or the swords that hung off his right side. His robe and hood were plain and uncolored by dyes. If he were spotted, his mere presence would incite some curiosity, but he had no intention of being seen.

  The wind shifted as he approached the base of the hill, and it carried the scent of cooking fires and the faint echo of voices, speaking Arabic. A Muslim garrison. There was no way to determine how many were quartered there without approaching the walls of the citadel, and Ramiro did not plan to get that close.

  He found a small glade where his horse could graze, and he found a comfortable position beneath a sprawling oak which afforded him a view of the peak of the hill. The Castillo del Ferral was about a half-day’s ride from his villa; if he returned immediately, he could make it back before nightfall. But he settled in to watch the citadel.

  Diego and the other deserters had said they had been fleeing the Moorish capture of Puertollano, which lay twenty miles or more to the north and west. There was no reason for those men to have gone south—toward Al-Andalus and the Moorish caliphate—unless they had been diverted by the presence of a sizeable Moorish army. It was possible they had been making for Valencia, but fleeing along the southern edge of La Mancha was not the most direct route. And then to stumble into the hills and run afoul of the garrison at Castillo del Ferral seemed like ill luck indeed, but Ramiro could not fathom any other way the men could have ended up near his lands, roasting one of his goats. The wounds suffered by the one who died had been fresh—a day or two old at most, which was in keeping with what Ramiro knew of stomach wounds. In all likelihood, Diego and the others had gotten lost, their sense of direction woefully incorrect, and they must have mistakenly thought the citadel housed Christian soldiers.

  It had been built by Christians, but to believe that Christians still held it was a dangerous mistake in these times and in these lands.

  Ramiro leaned back against the tree. The wind blew lightly against his cheeks and forehead, and he inhaled deeply, smelling the faint wetness of a distant storm. The voices of the Moors were a distant buzz, like the sound of grasshoppers during the hot summer months. He blinked
slowly—once, twice—his mind wandering through memories of other citadels. Eventually, his eyes closed and he was swallowed by the past.

  There was only one sentry pacing slowly back and forth atop the southern wall. A brazier at the eastern end of the wall provided a beacon in the moonless night that the sentry returned to time and again. Ramiro crouched behind the bole of an oak near the edge of the tree line, watching the sentry. The man took twenty paces in one direction before pausing and turning back. After a few iterations, Ramiro turned his attention to the rough stone of the wall, gauging the route he would take up its surface. The wall was not that tall—he estimated it wasn’t more than three times his height. Provided he could find purchase on its surface, he thought he could climb it before the sentry completed one circuit of his watch.

  When the man reached the farthest point from the flickering beacon of the brazier, Ramiro scuttled out from the cover. He darted to the wall and leaped up to grab the first handhold he had been eyeing. The knob held his weight, and he hoisted himself up to a pair of protruding edges where he could rest his feet. He reached up, straining to his left, and found his second handhold. He moved his legs up and continued his rapid ascent. Just below the top of the wall, he stopped, clinging tightly to the surface. He heard the faint scrape of the Moor’s boots as he walked past, and he quickly hauled himself up to the top of the wall. He padded up behind the sentry, and when the man turned, he stood upright and shoved his knife into the man’s throat.

  The Moor’s eyes grew large, and he opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn’t get any air. His eyes got bigger and his hands scrabbled at Ramiro’s arms, but his grip was already weakening. As the man’s legs gave out, Ramiro knelt too, twisting the knife up and to the left to make sure the Moor’s throat was cut.

  As the man gurgled into death, Ramiro surveyed the interior of the citadel. There were a handful of tents scattered around the interior, and from the tumbledown keep came the glow of a weak fire. There were no sentries posted inside the walls. Apparently, the Moors felt the walls and a single sentry to patrol them were protection enough.