The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau stepped back, privately pushing down his own feelings on that particular rule and the number of times he had been called to break it, particularly during that dreadful year in Constantinople.

  ‘Are you done teaching him bad habits?’

  Arnau turned at the intrusion and looked up at the top of the gate, where Brothers Balthesar and Ramon leaned on the parapet. He gave them a glare, and Ramon chuckled. ‘Watch your back, Tristán. Brother Vallbona’s squires tend to be disposable and short-lived.’

  ‘I thought you two were packing,’ Arnau snapped irritably.

  ‘We were, but we were interrupted. The preceptrix has sent for the three of us. When you’re planning to romp around in the mud with your squire, you’d do well to tell someone. We’ve been all over looking for you.’

  Arnau harrumphed and gathered up his kit from the dusty ground, fighting back sarcastic comments on how Rourell was small enough that one could shout from the belfry and reach every corner.

  ‘All right, Tristán,’ he said in grumpy tones, ‘that’s enough for this morning. You’d best start getting our things packed as we’ll be leaving in a few days.’

  The squire bowed his head, then collected his own gear. The two men made their way through the gate and back into the small preceptory of Rourell, Arnau’s home now for these past fourteen years. Ramon and Balthesar were coming back down the stairs from the parapet above the gate, the two older men unarmed but wearing the white habits of brothers of the Order. The three knights, the knights of the house, fell into step as the squire made for the dormitories.

  ‘Any idea what it’s about?’ Arnau asked.

  Balthesar shook his head. ‘We have been preoccupied preparing for the coming war.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, old man,’ snorted Ramon, and turned to Arnau. ‘I cannot say what matter concerns the preceptrix, but a little over an hour ago, a man in a travel-worn cloak and hood arrived at the gate, and after a quick exchange with Jose was shown to the preceptrix.’

  ‘How do you know such things?’ grunted Balthesar.

  ‘When you are as pure as I, old man, perhaps you too will achieve enlightenment.’

  ‘Horse balls. And stop calling me old man. I have less than two months on you.’

  Arnau ignored the good-natured bantering, his thoughts on the matter at hand. What manner of mysterious stranger arrived at a Templar preceptory and was shown straight to the house’s commander? He tried not to compare it with the manner of his own arrival all those years ago and failed enough that it nagged at him. As they strolled towards the chapter house that sat beside the church, he interrupted the chatter of the other two to change the subject of his own thoughts.

  ‘Has there been any word from Barcelona?’

  Balthesar broke off a lengthy speculation concerning the species of origin of Ramon’s ancestors and turned, shaking his head. ‘No word, but they will be here when they are ready. There is still plenty of time to reach the muster at Toledo.’

  Arnau chewed his lip. To his mind, time was wearing on. It had been quite some time since the Pope had officially ratified the crusade called against the Moors in Iberia. The kingdoms of Aragon, Castile and Navarre had for the first time in memory pushed aside their internecine strife and combined to form a great crusading army against the fanatical Almohads to the south. The Pope’s involvement had brought with it volunteer forces from various Frankish lordships, who had descended upon Toledo to join the gathering army, and the calls of the kings had drawn the brothers of the two indigenous Iberian orders, those of Santiago and Calatrava, to their banner. Additionally, the Temple’s grand master had pledged a sizeable force of knights, principally from Iberia and the Frankish lands. The Templar force had begun to gather near the Alps a month ago, and had gained strength as they passed every preceptory and gathered the forces therein. By now they should be at Barcelona, resupplying to move west, collecting three knights from Rourell en route.

  Crusade.

  In truth, Arnau had become rather jaded over the entire matter of crusading during that awful year in the east, where he’d sailed with glorious notions of freeing the Holy City and forging a great Christian state that would last until the end of time, but had ended up fighting for his life in a heretical city against Christians knights who wouldn’t know Christian virtue if it walked up to them waving a flag and punched them in the face.

  But this was different. This was his homeland. In the south, the old taifas that had promoted understanding and peace had gone, ground beneath the wheels of the Almohad war machine as that avid, bitter ruination of a caliphate sought to conquer the peninsula entire, to crush the Christians and the Jews who had existed so long here and to impose their own strict and vile strand of the Mohammedan religion. This was no troublesome war of conflicting values or misunderstandings and uncertainties. This was a crusade of God’s own warriors against a heathen foe who wished for nothing other than utter domination and the burning away of all signs of the Christ in Europe.

  This was a war a man of God could both understand and desire.

  By the time the three men passed through the door of the chapter house, Arnau was feeling better. His irritations had been washed away by a sense of righteousness and duty and pious desire.

  Which is why he faltered on the threshold at the sight of the three figures within.

  The chapter house was plain, the only decor being designs worked into the golden stone of the walls and the stone bench that ran around three sides facing the seat of the preceptrix. Other than the oblong of light pouring in through the door, the only illumination came from two high windows, which let in insufficient light and kept the interior gloomy. The preceptrix would not hear of the lighting of lamps or torches before sunset, for such luxury and waste, she said, was unseemly for a house of ‘poor knights.’

  Arnau paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the low light level to be certain of what he was seeing. The preceptrix was sitting in her chair, white mantle carefully arranged in folds over her knees, her hair held back and covered by a wimple, her expression as serene and unreadable as ever. Off to her left stood Sister Joana, one of the more recent occupants who had flocked to the preceptory over the years since Arnau and Balthesar had brought the relics from Mayûrqa.

  Joana was a sad-looking little waif. In truth older than she appeared, she had not smiled, to Arnau’s knowledge, since she had arrived on the doorstep from her home at Alcaniz, seeking a place to retreat from the world. She had been jilted by her betrothed and had fled north, her future torn from her cruelly, to find sanctuary and love of a different kind at the house of Rourell. She had been here for two years now, but the air of damaged sadness about her had never departed. Something seemed to have aggravated it now, though, for as Arnau’s sight adjusted he could tell that she had been crying, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, her face pale and waxy.

  Yet it was neither the imposing figure of the house’s mistress, nor the sight of the sad sister close by, that gave Arnau pause. That honour fell to the figure at the far side, clearly the man of whom Ramon had spoken, who had arrived, cloaked and travel-worn an hour ago. The man turned at the entry of the three knights.

  He was a Moor.

  Arnau had seen people like him often enough to be able to weigh him up pretty well upon sight. Moorish skin was a common enough sight, for there were converted Moors living and working all across the Christian kingdoms. Arnau had even heard a tale of two Moorish brothers who had taken the cross and the vows of the order, though he had yet to hear any proof of this seemingly bizarre heresy. Still, he would not refute it on principle, for, after all, a woman could not run a house of the Temple, and yet Rourell stood testament to that fallacy. Other Moors stayed on in the Christian kingdoms as slaves, some actually so and owned by Christian lords, some nominally so, but living more like tenants and workers upon the vast estates of Aragonese noblemen, or even the Church, than actual living property.

  This man was none of those. His
cloak had been well chosen, for beneath it he wore clothing that identified him most clearly as an occupant of Al-Andalus, that great Moorish province that covered the south of the peninsula in the name of the Almohad Caliph. Indeed, his skin was a little darker than most, betraying an African origin in his youth, or the lives of his parents at most. As he turned, Arnau saw he had the same fluid, sinuous movements as the courtiers of the Almohads. And perhaps the thing that most labelled him Almohad in origin was the unease, even fear, visible on his face at merely being in this place, as though the walls alone might burn to the touch.

  Arnau’s freshly-acquired certainty and optimism over the idea of bringing the Word of God to the heathen on the edge of a blade melted away and ran down into the cracks in the stonework as once again he was forced to admit that men were still men, and that perhaps not every infidel was beyond saving.

  At a gesture from the preceptrix, Balthesar closed the door behind them, deepening the gloom further. The three knights walked halfway across the room and then fell into line, standing before the preceptrix like a white-clad parody of the three magi. ‘You sent for us, Mother Superior?’

  The silence that filled the room as Balthesar’s words died away was tense, uncomfortable.

  ‘I did. I am faced with a problem, Brothers, and I fear there is little time in current circumstances to convene a full convent or to send for instructions from the mother house. I need the advice of my knights. This man is Amal.’ Her hand reached out, indicating the Moor. ‘Amal has come to us from within the lands of our great enemy bearing a letter, at great personal risk.’

  ‘A letter, Mother Superior?’

  ‘A personal missive. It would appear that our dear sister Joana’s former suitor, the knight Martin Calderon, is not dead as was believed.’

  Arnau frowned. ‘I am unfamiliar with his story, Mother. He was presumed dead?’

  The preceptrix nodded, her gaze slipping sideways towards the puffy-eyed Joana. ‘The reason for Joana’s predicament has been somewhat difficult and beyond our moral judgement, despite the damage done to our sister. Sir Calderon heard the calling of the Lord and regretfully parted from our sister, taking his vows with the Order of the knights of Calatrava. While Joana has heard nothing from her former betrothed since the day of their departure, however, I have sufficient contacts in that Order and took it upon myself to remain informed as to Brother Calderon’s activities. Last autumn, he was one of the knights who carried out the heroic defence of Salvatierra against the caliph’s army. While the bulk of the defenders were given safe passage to Aragon upon their surrender, Calderon’s name appears on the roster of the fallen.’

  That rather explained the state of poor Sister Joana, Arnau realised. His gaze flicked once more to the Moor. Calderon was apparently not dead, though.

  Balthesar frowned. ‘Respectfully, Mother Superior, why would you concern yourself with the man? Quite apart from his treatment of Sister Joana and the gulf now between them, of what interest might such a man be when we have the crusade looming?’

  The preceptrix nodded, her face taking on a troubled expression, eyes flicking momentarily towards the Moor in their midst. ‘You are all aware of what little concern I have for appearances and popularity. These things should be beneath an order such as ours. Unfortunately, Rourell in general and myself in particular are viewed as troublesome even among our own order’s ranks, let alone in the secular world. In recent months three local nobles have laid claim to lands maintained by Rourell, suggesting that they were annexed without lawful consent. All three claims have failed, and I continue to fight Rourell’s corner, but such claims are indicative of a growing trend of belligerence among our peers. Given that our own mother house cannot be relied upon for unswerving support, I have put forwards the notion of a hermandad with the Order of Calatrava. A pact of brotherhood, specifically with the Calatravan fortress of Alcaniz, the home of both Joana here and the knight Calderon, would grant us sufficient links to the orders of both Calatrava, and through them Santiago, to hold our own against attempts to devalue and damage Rourell, and even perhaps build further bridges.’

  ‘I was unaware that our reputation had reached such a state,’ Balthesar said, brow still furrowed.

  The preceptrix sagged a little. ‘I try to keep such matters at bay without troubling my knights. You must be free in these dangerous days to focus upon war with the Almohad without having to devote your attention to such low and banal politicking. Rourell is comfortable enough these days in finance and population that I and a few sisters and sergeants can deal with such matters.’

  The three knights stood silent, absorbing the truth of this, and acutely aware of the presence of an outsider during such a delicate discussion.

  ‘Might we see the letter?’ Ramon asked, changing the troublesome subject.

  The preceptrix glanced at Joana, who blanched. ‘I think not,’ she replied, addressing Ramon. ‘The letter contains a little personal correspondence. However, the principle reason for the letter is a warning. The letter has come from Brother Martin Calderon, and Joana here has confirmed that it is most certainly in his hand and using his tone. Calderon is somewhere deep in Almohad lands, and yet contrived to pen a letter and bribe this man with sufficient moneys to secure his services.’

  ‘A warning?’ prompted Balthesar.

  ‘In truth it serves as a warning for more than just Joana. As the forces of Christendom gather in Toledo for a great campaign in the south, it seems that the caliph has similar ideas. Calderon warns of a vast army gathered beneath the Almohad banner, including fresh forces from Africa, poised to invade the kingdoms of Iberia. Such warning will perhaps influence the strategy of the kings and grand masters. However, Calderon clearly cares not for warning the crowns of Iberia. His warning was for Joana alone, urging her to flee north to Frankish lands, telling her that the force set against the north will roll across the peninsula like a tidal wave. It would seem that despite his calling to vows, Calderon still feels sufficient affection for Joana to wish her far from harm.’

  ‘What could he offer to persuade a Moor to come here?’ Balthesar asked, narrowed eyes turning to Amal.

  ‘A keeng’s ransom,’ replied the Moor, speaking for himself in thickly accented Aragonese. ‘Mair moneys than I would earn in foor lives, weeth the promeese that the ladee would match eet.’

  The preceptrix sighed. ‘Calderon paid Amal a small fortune, suggesting that the donative Joana brought to Rourell would allow me to match it upon receipt of the letter. Needless to say it did not, though I have agreed to pay the fee regardless. It lowers our treasury somewhat, but we are in a much better financial position than we have been for a long time, and have all we need for the coming year – and without six bodies as they are away on campaign, we can ease our expenses sufficiently that it will cause us no discomfort. The question that concerns me is not the information that this missive contains, which will be passed on to the higher authorities in due course. My problem is what to do about the mysterious Brother Calderon.’

  ‘Mother Superior?’

  The preceptrix looked uneasy, something Arnau couldn’t remember ever seeing in fourteen years at Rourell. ‘I have already given my word that my three knights and their squires will join the Order’s column as they pass through the area and commit to the campaign under the aegis of the kings of Castile and Aragon. Yet I am beset with worry for Brother Calderon, and for the potential effects of my decision concerning him. Calderon is a brother of Calatrava and was enrolled in the Order at Alcaniz, the very monastery with which I am attempting to tie ourselves in a hermandad pact. If we can return to his order one of their lost brothers, it will swell our reputation considerably, and will add much impetus to the potential of a pact. If, however, the Order of Calatrava learns that we were aware of Calderon’s survival and did nothing to help, it may destroy all I am working to achieve.’

  She sagged once more. ‘The vultures begin to circle above us, Brothers, and I fear we need all the sup
port we can get. I am loath to commit a man to what seems such a frivolous and dangerous quest, and yet the potential return of securing the support of an entire monastery and potentially a fellow order against our gathering foes makes such a commitment much less fanciful.’

  ‘What do we know of Calderon’s recent history?’ Balthesar asked.

  ‘More than half a year ago his companions were marched away from Salvatierra on the Castilian king’s order. Calderon is marked as lost in the siege. Yet now it appears that this is not the case, and he remains in Almohad hands in the south. Where did you say you came from?’ She turned with this last to Amal.

  ‘Ees Coordubah,’ he replied.

  ‘Cordoba,’ the preceptrix confirmed with a nod. ‘It seems likely that he is being treated with reasonable care, for had he been chained in a dungeon he could hardly hope to send a message, let alone pay well for its delivery. However, he is still in Almohad hands, and once our armies meet on the field of battle and the contest for the future of the peninsula begins in earnest, we cannot be certain of his ongoing safety. I would welcome your advice on the matter, Brothers.’

  Balthesar straightened. ‘Quite apart from any temporal or political angle, it is our duty to bring this man back to the world he knows. We should not let a man of God languish in Almohad chains while we glory in our reconquest. And it is clear that I am the man for the task. I speak the language, am familiar with the lands, and I can, at a push, even pass for a Moor, and I have achieved just such a feat in our mission to the island taifa for the relics.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘In principle you’re quite right, old man, but the problem is that you’re rather infamous in Almohad lands. You’d been gone long enough from prominence that you could risk Mayûrqa, but what you did on that island can only have enhanced your already impressive reputation. Even now across the south of the peninsula Almohad mothers put fear into their little murderers with tales of your exploits. You would be taken long before you reached Cordoba. I have a smattering of Arabic, perhaps enough to get through, and my colouring is dark enough to pass.’