The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘If what you say is true,’ the first man said, ‘then Calderon survived to be captured. He could be anywhere in Almohad lands. Probably little more than a broken shadow of his former self.’

  ‘Again, I do not believe that to be the case,’ Arnau said. ‘He managed to pen a letter, and could provide sufficient coin to persuade a Moorish messenger to deliver it into Christian lands. This would require an unprecedented level of freedom and control for a Christian prisoner.’

  Once again the two men shared a look, but this time they shook their heads. ‘It cannot be Calderon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Calderon was the most pious heart in Salvatierra. A true warrior of God… to the point of madness, even. Angels speak to him in his head. He is more zealous than any Almohad. If he had been captured by them, he would have fought every hour and with every ounce of strength to be free. This cannot be him.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I have been tasked by my commander to track him down and bring him back to Christian lands.’

  ‘Insanity, if laudably so. Where do you believe him to be?’

  ‘In Cordoba.’

  The two men laughed mirthlessly. ‘True insanity. I would love nothing more than to hear Brother Martin’s voice raised in song among us once more, but he is beyond reach. You cannot hope to simply wander south to the second most important city in Al-Andalus and bring back a prisoner. You will be dead ten miles south of the border. Trust me, we lived at Salvatierra, which was surrounded by Almohad territory.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I must go. I do have some experience with Moorish lands and a passing command of the tongue.’

  Yet again the two men shared a look. ‘While my heart aches for Calderon’s fate, the increasing fraternity felt between our orders on this great crusade leads me to conclude that you throwing away your life in a doomed quest would be a grand but futile gesture.’

  ‘I believe I can reach Cordoba, with enough study of the maps.’

  ‘Maps will be insufficient,’ added a new voice, and the four men turned to see a man in a Calatrava sergeant’s mantle. His skin labelled him southern and most definitely Moorish, much like poor Amal. Arnau wondered how this man fared in a camp of crusaders. Did his companions keep him hidden away in a tent all the time?

  ‘This is Yusuf,’ one of the knights said, indicating the dark-skinned man. ‘Yusuf was one of several Moors who worked alongside us at Salvatierra until the caliph came. He is from Cordoba, as it happens.’

  Arnau frowned, and the Moor gave him a nervous, toothy smile. ‘I am Yusuf,’ he said in flawless Castilian, with just a hint of a Moorish lilt. ‘And you might pass in some lights for one of my people, and perhaps you even have the voice for it, but no maps will get you from here to Cordoba. Only a guide can do as much.’

  ‘You would guide the knight?’ asked one of the Calatravan brothers in surprise. ‘But you fled north to escape the very regime you would be walking into.’

  Yusuf smiled sadly. ‘When I came to Salvatierra it was urgently done, and I left precious things with friends in Cordoba. Now, sufficient time has passed that I can perhaps reacquire them without too much difficulty.’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘I cannot be responsible for you. I cannot imagine what is so precious that you might wish to make the journey, and I have no wish to endanger you by taking you along.’

  The knight of Calatrava waved at Yusuf. ‘He is right, though, Brother. Without him your quest is over. You’re a dead man standing. You’ll not make it over the Sierra Morena, let alone through the gates of Cordoba without Yusuf.’

  Arnau shivered. It was said with such leaden matter-of-factness that he was immediately convinced of the truth of it. Looking Yusuf in the eye, he was surprised to see no sign of nerves. ‘And you, Yusuf? You would be willing to do this?’

  ‘I understand that you are nervous to put your life in my hands,’ the man replied, ‘but before God I swear I will aid you and protect you.’

  Which God, thought Arnau, rather acidly. But still the man appeared very genuine, and there was nothing but trust and honesty showing in his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ Arnau said. ‘And you are wrong about me being nervous at following you. My nerves are over taking responsibility for your life. I merely worry about your safety leading a Christian into Al-Andalus.’

  Yusuf gave him a reassuring smile and Arnau straightened. ‘I will take my leave of you, then, Brothers, with the greatest of thanks, and I pray that when we next meet, I will be able to reunite you with Martin Calderon.’

  ‘I fear it is a fool’s errand, but I shall pray for you at the figure of Saint Jude, nonetheless,’ said the knight with a smile as his friend said something unintelligible through a mouth full of pork. Arnau rolled his eyes at the invocation of the patron saint of lost causes. Yusuf held up a hand to halt Arnau as he turned away and dipped into the tent once more. When he reappeared, he was wearing a grey cloak atop his own, with a deep cowl, and carrying a small bag over his shoulder.

  ‘That is all you need to bring?’

  Yusuf shrugged. ‘It was all we were allowed to leave Salvatierra carrying.’

  Bidding farewell to the knights, Arnau strolled alongside the Moor, who had yet to pull up his hood. ‘Will I be accepted in your Order’s camp?’ the man said, more with curiosity than nerves.

  Arnau nodded. ‘Yes. There are Moorish tenants that work Templar lands. We are not about to turn on good men because of all of this.’

  ‘Then your crusade is doomed,’ Yusuf noted.

  Arnau tried not to consider the implications of that as they made their way back to Templar territory. Passing between tents, they made their way in silence to the corral, where mercifully none of the Hospitallers seemed to be aggravating their Templar neighbours this time. Arnau and Tristán’s horses were tethered close to the gate for swift retrieval, busily enjoying the few tufts of rich grass while they could. Arnau looked about. Either the supplies were located quite some distance away, or the squire had become somehow distracted. He’d only had to collect seven days’ worth of food and water and bring them back. Likely he was still simmering over his imminent dismissal and deliberately taking his time. Arnau drummed his fingers on his belt. He would have to go and find Tristán, but the supplies would be in neutral ground outside the Order’s camp, and it seemed unnecessarily risky to take Yusuf there. He turned to the Moor.

  ‘Will you wait here while I find my squire?’

  Yusuf nodded, and Arnau explained everything to the sergeant at the corral gate, who wandered over to stand with the Moor. With directions gleaned from the sergeant, Arnau marched away through the Templar camp and emerged into an area of Aragonese nobles and their knights all in clusters of white tents. It was a simple job to locate the quartermaster, whose domain was one of the largest divisions in the transient city, stocked with wagons and guarded by the royal troops of three crowns against greedy peasants and thieves. Supplies for an army this size made rich pickings, and had to be watched jealously.

  One of the guards eyed Arnau suspiciously as he approached.

  ‘My squire came to gather supplies for a week?’ he said easily.

  The man gave him a noncommittal look and no reply.

  ‘Wearing the black habit of a Templar sergeant,’ he added. ‘A little shorter than me and fair-haired. Face like a bear chewing wasps, and probably constantly moaning. You couldn’t miss him.’

  The man nodded. ‘He’s here. In the back.’

  ‘Might I go in and find him?’ The soldier gave him a suspicious look again and Arnau held his hands out to his sides. ‘I am a poor knight of Christ, and my word is my bond. I shall take nothing but that for which we came, so help me, Lord of Hosts.’

  Subsiding, the soldier jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He was headed for the salted meat, Brother, which is off to the rear left of the compound. All signs are in Latin as the common tongue.’

  Arnau nodded his thanks and strolled in. The place was an odd mix of peace and fraught activity. Walking
the main tracks between parked wagons full of goods, stacks of crates and heaps of sacks as tall as two men, there was hardly anyone to be seen, though the background hubbub of humanity betrayed activity close by. Then, here and there, he would pass a side track, down which he could see gatherings of workers, either stacking or withdrawing stores, often laughing, shouting, pushing and shoving with good-natured banter.

  It was only as he was approaching the rear of the compound that he realised something was wrong. The general tone of the hum of life began to change. From knocking around and agreeable banter the sound altered, taking on a belligerent and dark tone, and Arnau felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. That, which he’d just heard beneath the general hum, was the sound of a punch landing.

  With a growing sense of foreboding, Arnau picked up speed into a jog, turning into a side alley marked with a sign: “CIBUM SALLIETUR”. The sounds ahead were now definitely those of fighting. His hand went down to the hilt of the sword at his side, but he let go again. Whatever was happening, this place was full of Christian knights all on crusade. If Arnau drew that sword and, God forbid, stuck it in someone here, the repercussions could be dreadful.

  He rounded the last corner sharply and took everything in at a single glance, already half prepared to move once he confirmed what was happening. Tristán was at a stack of barrels at the far side of a small open space, pressed against the timbers by a man in a blue tunic who, even as Arnau burst onto the scene, punched the squire in the gut.

  Two more men stood in the place, one close to the combatants, clutching a stout club and watching intently, waiting for the chance to use his weapon without endangering his friend. The third was at Tristán’s bag, rummaging in it.

  Arnau burst into life, racing straight for the man with the club. His pounding feet drew the man’s attention and he turned to meet this new threat, bringing his club up ready. Arnau ploughed into him, his hand grasping the man’s club just above his own grip, and he jerked the length of ash, smacking the man right between the eyes with his own weapon. With a yelp, the attacker collapsed against a pile of bulging bags, swaying. Arnau gave him no time to recover. Grasping the man’s head, he slammed it back against a solid-looking sack, and there was a satisfying thud as the man sagged, his eyes rolling upwards.

  Tristán seemed to have regained the edge now and was giving as good as he got from his attacker. Leaving him to it, Arnau ran for the man at their gear who was now rising and looking left and right, trying to decide whether to stay and fight or flee. Cowardice, or perhaps common sense, got the better of him and he ran for it. Arnau considered giving chase, but instead ran over and delivered a hefty blow to the back of the head of Tristán’s opponent. The man fell to the ground, crying out.

  The squire rubbed sore knuckles and spat on the fallen man.

  ‘Bastard.’

  Arnau looked Tristán up and down. A couple of bruises and what looked as though it was going to blossom into a colourful black eye, but that was all.

  ‘Did you hear him as he fell?’ the squire asked, pointing to the heap.

  Arnau nodded. ‘A word I could not repeat in polite company.’

  ‘Said in Frankish.’

  ‘Were they all Franks?’

  ‘I only heard two of them speak, but yes.’

  ‘I looks to me as though d’Orbessan has influence. These men were not part of the column we travelled with, I’m sure.’ He frowned. ‘Lord, but the man must move fast. And why would they rummage in the pack if they were just here to teach you a lesson?’

  ‘Thugs from the other Frankish contingents,’ grunted Tristán hurriedly, waggling his jaw and wincing. ‘I reckon that Frankish pig-pizzle has been watching us since we got to camp and the moment we separated he set men on me.’

  Arnau nodded, still looking uncomfortable with this turn of events. ‘Plans change. I hate the idea of taking you into enemy lands, Tristán, but I can’t leave you here. They’ll kill you for sure.’

  ‘Bastards.’

  ‘Quite.’ Arnau’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I thought for a minute that this was nothing to do with d’Orbessan and that you’d simply found a few Franks and started a fight just so I would decide to take you with me, I would be less than happy. You understand that, Tristán?’

  The squire gave him a glare of indignant innocence that did not entirely wash away Arnau’s suspicion. Still, it was done. He would have to take Tristán with him after all. ‘I have another travelling companion for us,’ he said with a sigh, as he swept up their fallen bag, ‘courtesy of the Brothers from Calatrava.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It seems they knew Calderon. They’ve given us a guide to see us to Cordoba. A Moor.’

  ‘Joy of joys,’ grunted the squire and spat a wad of bloody saliva onto the unconscious form of one of the Franks.

  5. Terra Incognita

  22 June 1212, Salvatierra

  Arnau had been more than a little nervous now for five days. Life had become a precarious balance between speed and caution. With the army almost gathered in Toledo, and their supplies ready, the march south to war could begin any day, and the last thing the three travellers wanted was to be trapped in Almohad lands while the two great powers began to clash. It was imperative that they reach Cordoba, find and extract Calderon, and return with him to Christian lands before the war began in earnest. Thus speed was of the essence, and they pushed as hard as they dared, using their spare mounts to the limit.

  Yet the knowledge that every mile took them further into enemy territory and further from any hope of aid or support made them more than a little careful. They took lesser roads south, rather than arterial routes, and as soon as they saw the dust of travel ahead, they veered off from the road and sought shelter until the other travellers passed.

  The first day they had managed to avoid all contact with other road users. To the south of Toledo, even in what were nominally lands that belonged to Castile, they still dared not make themselves known, for these borderlands shifted like desert sands between the control of the Christians and the Moors, and one never knew who might be watching or listening.

  Indeed, these lands had been owned by one side or the other several times over the past decades, and the occupants were an odd mix of Christian and Moor living in small enclaves, apart from one another, yet close and at peace, for neither could be certain when they might once more be controlled by the other. Such was the case for many hotly contested border lands.

  Initially, Arnau had still harboured doubts about their guide. It was natural, he told himself as he chided himself over such worries. Placing one’s trust in a Moor to guide them secretly through Moorish lands was going to make one nervous, after all. Tristán clearly harboured more than just doubts. Wherever they moved that first day, Arnau had noted how the squire kept the rear position, one eye always on their guide. The road had not been busy, for the locals could not help but be aware of the massed forces of Christendom gathering less than a day north, and only urgent business took a man out into their potential path. No traders now plied their way north or south along these roads. In a full day of travel, avoiding all built-up areas, they had only had to secrete themselves away from other travellers four times.

  That first night, as they camped in a hollow a mile from a small village, Arnau had tried to pull down the wall of mistrust. He had spoken of the Moors he had known around Rourell and how they and the preceptory had shared a respect born from the old days of mutual tolerance. After some time, he had finally got round to asking Yusuf about himself, and the Moor had been surprisingly forthcoming.

  Arnau had listened sympathetically to how the man had been a scholar, a teacher in Cordoba. He had studied the great philosophers and thinkers of the world from the days of Socrates down to the present, and his knowledge, as he spoke, was clearly broad and deep in its capacity. His learning had come from the pagan ancients, from Jews, from early Christians, and from Persians and Arabs alike, which, he claimed, had given him a somewhat open
and tolerant view of the various cultures. He had acknowledged how each later people had largely expanded upon the learning and knowledge of their predecessors regardless of the change in faith, and how the great thinkers of Islam owed more of their knowledge to the pagans of Greece and Rome than to any man born since Mohammed walked the Earth.

  As such, he had accepted commissions in Cordoba from any faith, teaching Moor, Christian or Jew alike. As the Almohad restrictions clamped down and their rabid zeal increased across their domain, the Christians and the Jews had been ousted or forcibly converted to Islam, and so he continued to teach them. But the nature of the zealot is to ever increase their focus, and soon it became unacceptable to even be seen consorting with these converts for the simple fact of their perceived impurity. Yusuf had continued to teach as long as he could until he was denounced by frightened neighbours as a lover of the Christ, and the authorities ordered his arrest.

  Yusuf had fled Cordoba with a few personal possessions and nothing more, running north. Sadly, he had left the vast majority of his manuscripts with a friend in Cordoba, unable to carry them as he fled in haste. They represented, in his opinion, an incomparable collection of texts from many cultures and if they fell into the hands of a more rabid Almohad imam, they might well be burned. Their retrieval would ease Yusuf’s heart.

  Fleeing the domain of the vicious Almohad lords, Yusuf had hoped to find some enclave or stronghold of the old ways, where a Moor could live without denunciations and hatred. He had found no such place in Al-Andalus and it had only been when he found himself exhausted and starving, climbing the lower slopes of Salvatierra, that he finally found sanctuary.

  While the people who shared his God promulgated mistrust and anger, the soldiers who were nominally his enemy took him in without question, fed and housed him. The knights of Calatrava, occupying a fortress within the lands of the Moors, were more pragmatic than he had ever expected, and there were more than a dozen men and women like him living in houses on the plain below the castle, earning their keep by supplying the knights with what they could not grow or manufacture themselves, while accepting the protection and support of the Order. Yusuf had been happy at Calatrava.