* * *
A gaunt, yet well-proportioned chamber, devoid of colour, furnished with a single, darkwood wardrobe, a row of clothes pegs, a double row of narrow, leather-strapped beds.
Enrique de Vaca was standing near one of the windows, his wounded brethren sprawled asleep on their cots. Turning from the view, he smiled with pleasure at Falkan. A gesture then by Baynard, and Enrique dismissed the Englishman’s concern. ‘They’ve been drugged to dream sweet, Señor Halcón. A few days on and their wounds will be sealed, my brothers good as new. You are free to shout to the vaulting, if you wish.’
Arias said, ‘You should know, Enrique, Señor Halcón has offered me his hand.’
‘Meeting yours halfway,’ Falkan interjected. ‘How else could it be done…’
With an exactitude of courtesy, the knights shared a long-necked flask of wine, standing together to admire the view from this upper level of the castle of Monzón.
Then Baynard murmured, ‘I’m invited into the presence of Doña Amata. She is apparently unsettled in her mind. There may be reasons for this I don’t understand. But one thing she said, back there on the plain – this I believe adds to her present anguish.’ Then he looked away at the long, water-fed valley, leaving the Knights of St James of the Sword to think the thing over, to give or withhold their assent.
Enrique refilled Falkan’s glass. The Spaniard said nothing for a while, then quietly asked, ‘In the matter of our defence of the pilgrims? And the lady’s accusation? You would address her again about that, on our behalf?’
Falkan turned from the window, set his glass aside and gazed at his brother knights, his hermanos. ‘It is my intention to do so,’ he said, ‘with your permission.’
‘And if she still insists we failed her?’ Arias queried. ‘What can you do then?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Falkan told him. ‘Doña Amata will believe what she believes. However, if you allow me to interfere in this matter – and she acknowledges her error – I shall demand an apology from her, to be announced in your presence. She at least seems willing to meet me. But beyond the meeting and he shrugged.
Enrique de Vaca said, ‘A personal apology would suffice.’
Arias de Barragan said, ‘Anything less, and our fraternity would be tainted.’
And Falkan nodded, understanding them both, for nothing was more important to a knight of the Kingdoms of the West than that his aims and honour be untarnished.
* * *
If he thought to meet the Condesa de Monzón alone, he was mistaken. Guided to her chambers by first one, then three, then an emerging flock of her servants, he found himself ushered into a breathtaking temple of a room. The painted ceiling was supported by columns, each of these perfectly plastered to resemble the trunk of a tree.
The windows were blinded with tapestries, the polished floor bright with carpets, the unreal trees sprouting bracketed flares and candles.
There were also a dozen more servants beyond and around the columns.
Suddenly angry at being shepherded, young Tremellion turned on his escort. ‘I am safely delivered! Go about your business!’ Not knowing what else to do, he let his hand swing to the pommel of his sword. The servants scuttled away.
Looking forward again, he strode between the decorated pillars, satisfied that the other servants withdrew, men and women shrinking from the weapon he’d loosed in its sheath.
He found Doña Amata at the far end of the plastered and painted forest, though the woman a younger sister of the one he’d escorted from the plain…
No longer tearful, her features now spared the ravages of the sun, she was a fine, arrogant creature, her chin tipped high as he approached. Her slim body lost in an ornate, broad-armed chair, she was flanked on the left by her companion, Doña Rosalia.
Even as he came into her presence, Baynard Falkan knew he must break every rule she made. Anything less, and he too would be regarded as a shadow among the trees.
* * *
‘I trust you’ve been well-treated, my Lord Halcón.’
‘Better than you treat my compeers, Countess Amata.’
‘And have no complaints, you and your companions?’
‘Speaking for those from England, none. Though the brethren we met on the plain—’
‘A sad affair, those black-and-white soldiers being overrun by the brigands. I wish now I’d hired twice their number. Or sent my appeal to England.’
Falkan found himself grinding his teeth to the flat. He glanced at the handsome Doña Rosalia, silently begging the woman to come to his aid. But the compañera stayed where she was, her eyes on the dark-skinned foreigner, maybe wishing to help him but knowing he must do it for himself. But do it, she seemed to be saying. Do it for us all.
‘The pilgrims who fled,’ Falkan introduced, ‘aren’t they the ones for whom you should feel the greatest sorrow, Doña Amata? Or, failing them, the survivors? Or then the knights who died in your service? Or those you’ve lodged in your castle? Or us, the foreigners, who broke our journey to see you and your band safe home? Spill your tears where you will, Condesa, but don’t pretend you were failed in this mission. It’s you who stamped the date to it, am I wrong? You who decided how much you’d spend by way of escort, am I wrong? And you who sat in charge of this pilgrimage, riding back on a horse that belongs to the Knights of Santiago. Contradict, but am I wrong?’
Attracted by Amata’s appearance, yet incensed by her behaviour – and the two mixed together, inseparable now – the young knight jabbed a finger to indicate her sins, then strode forward across the bright-carpeted floor.
Doña Rosalia concealed her smile of comprehension. She moved calmly to defend her mistress, halted in the face of Falkan’s anger. She waited to see Amata rise from her chair and say no, she’d no wish to contradict him, she regretted her outburst. But surely he could understand. A woman who’d gone to pray for the soul of her husband, surely a man like Falkan could understand…
And then she edged away, the compañera, leaving her mistress to plead with the Englishman… Agree she owed an apology to her escort… Catch at his hand and draw him through a shadowed door at the far side of the interior, imitation forest.
* * *
From the moment they were alone, they knew how things would be. Pliant and unresisting, Amata allowed Baynard Falkan to disrobe her, lead her to the canopied bed, then make love to her with a hunger that neared brutality. If she suffered, she did so willingly, moving against him, her fingers stretched wide on the broadness of his back. She cried aloud, though not as a woman in terror, their bodies pulsing to the rhythm of their needs…
When it was over they lay for a while, sprawled in languid embrace. Then came together again, their appetites reawakened, not caring that they were strangers in all but this.
* * *
The following morning Baynard sent word to Enrique de Vaca and, as witness, Arias de Barragan. The Knights of the Order of Santiago presented themselves before Doña Amata, Condesa de Monzón, to hear her voice her apologies for the accusation she’d levelled against them.
By way of recompense, she offered a valuable gold-wrought casket to the Military Order, a purse of coins to each of the four survivors, the same as a mark of respect for Baynard Falkan.
Arias de Barragan said, ‘Should you ever have need of us, Condesa, we four whom God’s seen fit to leave alive, you have only to send word to our encomienda.’ Then he turned in surprise as Enrique murmured, ‘For myself, it must be otherwise. I intend to seek my release, then follow the route these others are taking, Halcón and his friends. I’ve had time to think it over, brother Arias, and desire to see the sword of Santiago raised for the Cause in the East.’
He glanced then at Falkan, who said quietly, ‘Follow us, Señor de Vaca, and you’ll be coughing in our dust. Better you should ride alongside. If you agree.’
The briefest pause, necessary in these matters, and then a nod of acceptance from the Spaniard. ‘A courteous offer, Señor Halcón. Th
ough you must remind me to slow my pace, lest my own dust sets you coughing.’
* * *
They stayed two more days at Monzón, time enough for the wounded Knights of St James of the Sword to gather their strength for the ride to the encomienda near Tarragona.
For reasons of her own, Doña Amata kept to her private chambers.
Yet on the final evening Falkan was making a leisurely circuit of the castle, his trained eye taking in details of the defences, when Doña Rosalia made her way along the skirting path toward him.
A word of greeting for the knight, a glance to parallel his own and then, ‘Could it be held, in your opinion, Señor Halcón? If the Moors were to once again invade?’
Falkan shrugged. ‘It’s a well-designed fortress, Doña Rosalia – in my opinion. But grander places than this have been overwhelmed; lesser castles held against whole armies. Monzón is only a shell after all. A carapace. Much would depend on the animal inside.’ Then he laughed aloud. ‘By God, I sound pompous. But military architecture – I’ve an interest in it, and you hooked me with your question.’
‘I intended to,’ the compañera said calmly. She gazed away to the south before asking, ‘Could you see yourself as that animal, Señor Halcón? Commanding the defence of Monzón?’
Mistaking the point of her question, he said, ‘I’d be of little use if the Moors attacked tonight. But perhaps, if I had the time to study the place, probe its weaknesses, test the value of the garrison—’
‘And given that time?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose—’ Then, thinking he understood, he raised a hand, palm outward, pushing gently at the air. ‘I’m offered the command of Monzón? Inexperienced as I am, and a foreigner? But Spain is renowned for its leaders. The condesa could find—’
‘Yes,’ the woman told him, her voice pitched for only the two of them to hear. ‘But you’d not just be its commander, Señor Halcón. You’d have more intimate a station than that. More, how can I put it, all-embracing a position?’
‘As her husband?’
‘As her husband, nothing less. That’s why you’ve been accosted on this path. Why the condesa dare not face you again, fearing your response.’
He thought of telling the fine-boned compañera about the death of Sir Geoffrey, in ambush. About the vengeance he would one day visit upon Ranulf. About the woman who’d brushed her lips against his – no others counting, save for the moment – the one who had said they might meet again in the Holy Land. The woman whose image stayed in his mind, Ardelet’s daughters forgotten, Inés a pretty memory, even Doña Amata no more than a sweet oasis in the desert of his desires. He thought to say, ‘In so far as I command anything, I have already made my choice. Her name is—
But no, it was not necessary to let Doña Amata hear the name Christiane…
‘You will tell the condesa this, Doña Rosalia. That her willingness to have me as her husband all but blinds me to my resolve. Yet I’ve vowed to assist the Cause in the East, and do so in the name of Tremellion, and will seek no wife till it’s done. If she cares to see me again, which I doubt, I will vow to remain in the unmarried state until I have honoured my obligations to Tremellion, to England and to Christ.’
Doña Rosalia let a wry smile shape her lips. ‘She’ll be impressed by that, Señor Halcón. It will go some way to softening the blow. You’re too young for her anyway – in my opinion. I’ve a few men in mind who might prove themselves worthy of the condesa, and Monzón. Even so, I think it best if I tell her tomorrow. And you and your companions leave at dawn.’
Chapter Fourteen
The early departure came as no surprise to the riders. There were seven of them now, the English Crusaders and the Knights of St James of the Sword. Of the Spaniards, Arias de Barragan and his two scarred companions would accompany Enrique de Vaca as far as the encomienda, where Enrique would bid them farewell.
He foresaw few problems with the master of the garrison, the comendador mayor. Present him with the gold-wrought casket, and he’d surely release de Vaca from his duties. It’s not as if I’m reneging on my vows. I shall still fight for Santiago, be it on the islands of the Mediterranean Sea, or far away in the East.
Convinced his request would be granted, he invited Falkan, as a brother knight, to visit the gaunt, unembellished stronghold of his Order near Tarragona.
Curious to see the workings of a true military household, the Englishman stripped off his shabby, traveller’s clothes, and donned his hauberk, helmet and surcoat. He looped the sword-hangers to his belt, buckled the belt and scabbard, then pulled on a pair of studded, wrist-length gloves. He was still no match for a white-coated, black-armoured Knight of Santiago, but at least he wouldn’t be mistaken for a leper.
* * *
Even as they reached the encomienda, Falkan was caught off guard. The time he’d spent abroad in his youth, the places he’d seen, the skills and knowledge he’d absorbed – none of them had prepared him for this.
From the very first, the stronghold broke the rules. There was no climb to the castle, no zigzag path as at Tremellion, no moat or drawbridge or gatehouse. Instead, the path dipped downward, curving to a pair of ten-foot-high, ten-foot-wide lapped-iron doors, the entrance to a mine.
‘Were I to dare attack your house,’ Baynard volunteered, ‘the first thing I’d do is flood it.’
‘You would?’ Enrique retorted. ‘And with what? The rain falls infrequently here, my dear Halcón, and what does come is channelled there – and there – by those gullies. Flood the entrance and you’d need half the country, bearing buckets.’
Baynard glanced up at the squat, dominant walls. He thought fire might be the next thing to try, looked again at the massive iron doors and held his tongue. Even if an invading force could pile enough faggots near the entrance, and live to set them alight, the flames would probably anneal the overlapping plates into a single, rock-framed shield.
Already impressed by Monzón, he halted in silent respect before this stronghold of the Knights of Santiago.
Their approach remarked throughout the last five miles, the doors were opened, the riders greeted by no fewer than twenty armed defenders. Enrique addressed them and the men came forward, separating Guthric and Quillon from the rest.
The constable took it hard, being herded by foreigners, and waited for one of the men to slap his horse. Then he leaned down and with the flat of his hand cuffed the defender’s helmet, growling as the Spaniard spun backward, dizzied by the blow.
Members of the garrison closed in on the Saxon. Enrique snapped at them, supported by Arias, and the watchguards of Santiago halted, glowering.
Falkan said, ‘A welcome like this, de Vaca, and you’d suppose we had indeed brought buckets to flood you out.’ Their new-wrought friendship was suddenly in peril, the Spaniard noticing Falkan tighten his reins, ready to pull his horse away.
‘You must understand,’ Enrique said quietly, ‘this is not a castle like others.’
‘Nor one that welcomes callers, so it seems.’
The young knights stared hard at each other, Enrique secretly pleased by the way his freyles had issued from the tunnel, Falkan content that the Saxon had cuffed the interfering watchguard. Then something flickered in their eyes, and they spoke in unison.
‘The invitation—’
‘So long as I’m assured—’
‘is still offered, Señor Halcón.’
‘my men are safe, Señor de Vaca.’
A nod from the Spaniard, a gesture of agreement from Baynard Falkan, and the men dismounted. Then, with Arias de Barragan and the two who’d been wounded by the brigands, Santiago and Tremellion strode into the underworks of the castle.
A series of wide, ill-lit tunnels. Thirty yards in and the rocky floor was replaced with tight-fitting boards. ‘If the enemy were to get past the doors,’ Enrique explained, ‘they’d find these boards chopped through. There’s a pit underneath, its sides smooth as marble. We have five like that. And see up there? Th
e first of several grilled gates we can wind down from the roof. And further in – yes, you see them, Halcón?– another pair of iron-plate doors. We can also fill the tunnels with smoke if we need to.’
‘As well protected as this,’ Baynard grinned, ‘a man would sleep well at night, Señor de Vaca.’
‘We do,’ Enrique said evenly. ‘Why else build a castle, if not to be protected?’
His attempt at humour crushed by the Spaniard’s logic, Baynard said, ‘What’s he like, the master of this encomienda?’ And for an answer was told, ‘He himself designed the defences.’
They climbed a long curving slope, turned a zigzag of corners, then emerged without warning into a featureless inner courtyard, its sunlit floor covered with fine white sand. Falkan recoiled, all but blinded by the glare. He guessed it to be another example of the Master’s defensive cunning. Penetrate this far into the castle – an unlikely event in itself – and the attackers would find themselves groping, sightless, in the yard.
Enrique de Vaca put a hand on Baynard’s arm. ‘This way, amigo mio. We have still some distance to go.’ He guided the visitor to a corner of the courtyard, Arias and the other two following, the five men once again plunging into a maze of shadowy passageways.
* * *
Another hundred yards, maybe more, and they entered a long, vaulted hall in the heart of the encomienda. Part of it underground, Baynard supposed, for the lower edges of the windows were twelve feet above the level of the floor. No more than square apertures, they narrowed in the thickness of the stone.
Their eyes once again accustomed to the gloom, the knights were met by the Master’s bodyguard, an expressionless group who came forward to bar their way.
‘You know us,’ Enrique said curtly. ‘I would speak with the comendador mayor.’ He waited as one of the guards made his way to the far end of the hall, rapping twice on the door of a small inner chamber. A murmur of words, the guard returning to say, ‘In a while, Señor de Vaca. When he’s ready.’
The Edge of the Blade Page 13