The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau’s grip on his dagger tightened, as did his fingers on his reins. He readied himself, as every nuance of sound told him how close they were. The creak of leather now, then the snorting of horses, finally a light cough. Arnau’s heels came out, away from the horse’s flanks and ready. He tensed.

  The shadow lengthened, the clink, shush and jingle confirming even more than the shape of his shadow that the nearest man was the one in armour. The enemy passed the rock, and before even his horse’s neck was in sight, Arnau jabbed the spurs into his horse hard, shouting ‘Yah!’

  Across the way, the squire’s actions echoed his, but Arnau had to hope Tristán could deal with it himself, for now he had his own worries. His horse bolted from the rock’s shadow, slamming straight into the side of the shocked and panicked Moor and his own steed. Before the man could react or even cry out in alarm, Arnau struck. The narrow sliver of steel in his hand slid beneath the arm holding the reins, slamming into the chain, angled directly. It was nigh impossible for a sword or any ordinary dagger to penetrate a chain shirt, but the misericorde was no ordinary dagger. A heavy needle with a tapered point, its very purpose was to slip through any armour to deliver a mercy blow to a wounded fellow.

  This blow was merciless.

  The tip of the weapon punched into the small iron link, sliding through the hole until the increasing width of the blade simply burst the link open, which created a hole that widened continually as the blade penetrated. In the space of less than half a heartbeat the armour was rent open, a foot of tapering steel sliding between ribs as easily as it had through steel, tearing a lung in half before punching into the heart.

  The man was dead before he could gasp. Arnau, aware of the importance of speed, simply let go of the blade and swung around, freeing his mare from the enemy’s steed as he swapped hands once again with his sword, slipping it into the right. The scout that rode behind the armoured man had barely had time to register that they had been ambushed before Arnau was on him too.

  As the scout desperately tore his blade from the scabbard, he failed to defend himself in time. Arnau’s swinging blade smashed into the man’s terrified face, almost halving it as it smashed through flesh and bone. The Moor lolled back in his saddle, his head opening up like a giant obscene mouth, allowing Arnau to pull his blade free.

  The Templar’s eyes darted this way and that, taking in the situation. The two men he had set his sights upon were done for. Tristán had managed to take down the first man he faced, which in truth was as much as Arnau could realistically hope, given the squire’s youth and incomplete training. Then, as his gaze flipped to the remaining terrified scout who was wheeling his horse to flee the field, and then back, he realised that Tristán was not dispatching his man and moving on to the other. His victim was probably already dead, yet the squire stabbed and hacked and battered like a madman at his doomed opponent.

  ‘Tristán, he’s done!’ Arnau snapped, but it was too late, and any hope of finishing this before the man got away and raised the alarm was down to Arnau now. Spurring his horse, he raced towards the remaining scout, who was panicked, but had not thought with enough clarity to realise that a loud enough shout might be heard by the castle, and he was simply intent on flight.

  Arnau knew in that moment that they would be all right. The scout had turned his horse, but barely managed to get any speed from it before Arnau, racing, was on him. Needing to ensure that the man could not slip away, he rose in his stirrups and then slipped his foot from the right-hand one in time to throw himself from the saddle as his horse reached that of his opponent.

  The Templar hit the Moor at speed and tore him from his saddle, breaking his ankle in the Moorish stirrup and dropping him to the ground where, while the man was still stunned, he smacked the head on a pointed rock jutting from the ground, caving in his skull.

  The four men were down. For precious moments, Arnau dashed around, calming the panicked horses, as a chastened Tristán, realising he had almost lost this for them, made sure to dispatch the fallen men with his own dagger just to be sure. He flinched as Arnau approached, breathing heavily, as though the senior brother might hit him. Instead, Arnau clapped a hand on the squire’s shoulder.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Just remember to move on when he’s dead next time.’

  6. Impediment

  23 June 1212, Sierra Morena

  Though the incident at the castle of Salvatierra had in many ways been a disaster narrowly averted, it had provided one unexpected benefit. At Yusuf’s suggestion, they had stripped down the bodies. Leaving them exposed without proper burial sat badly with the Moor, and with Arnau too, truth be told, but there was little they could do since there was precious little time to bury them, especially in mountainous, rocky ground and without appropriate tools.

  Yusuf had shrugged off his rough travel cloak and dug the best of his gear from his pack, dressing in good quality clothing, appearing now not as a poor traveller, but as a relatively well-off merchant or gentleman. He would be the leader and spokesman of the group. Arnau, able to pass at a push as a Moor, dressed in a mix of his own gear and that of one of the scouts, taking the man’s spear and sword and arming appropriately, taking time – with some difficulty and Yusuf’s aid – to wind the long, deep blue garment into a turban and face-veil. The coup was Tristán, who was now dressed in the gear of the armoured cavalryman, his face completely hidden by the helmet with its flip-down visor. They had gone from being three poor travellers on the road to a wealthy Moor escorted by two soldiers. Yusuf would be the only one truly expected to speak, Arnau could chip in when he felt it wise to do so, and Tristán could more or less hide silent within the helm and armour.

  They had been forced to test the guise early on, for the roads now were filling with more and more people, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to simply slip from the thoroughfare and avoid them. They were heading for some pass the Moor knew through a range of mountains that cut east to west across the land, separating them from Al-Andalus and their goal of Cordoba, and with the pass being arterial, all roads began to converge on it, as well as all the traffic upon them.

  They had met a family passing north, and the father had respectfully greeted them as he moved his horse aside to make way. Yusuf had acknowledged the gesture and noted as if in casual observation the increased population on the road, much of which seemed to be heading north, which he suggested was odd, given that in that direction lay Castilian lands.

  The man had replied that the concentration of troops to the south had made locals nervous. Families were moving away from the military, for fear of forced enlistment, the potential of war coming to the area, or even simply the usual casual crimes perpetrated by any army on campaign. As they had ridden on, Arnau had registered the word ‘army’ and had felt his nerves prickle. What were they riding into?

  A little more careful prodding in conversation with other travellers confirmed the tale. Almohad troops seemed to be massing to the south, and the ordinary people were moving away from them. If only they knew that much the same was happening in Castile… They would hardly be riding north if they did.

  Feeling a little more sure of themselves in these disguises, they fell into an easy routine, passing light greetings with anyone they met, playing the congenial merchant and his guards. When someone of a relatively high status asked Yusuf what he was doing heading towards the forces of Al-Andalus, Yusuf had grinned and told the man that ‘good money can be made from armies, inshāʾ Allāh.’ The man had laughed and wished him good luck with his endeavours.

  That night, feeling rather pleased with themselves, they reined in after dark and stayed not in a hidden camp in the hills, but in a humble caravanserai along with other merchants and travellers. They still kept themselves to themselves, eating in their room, and Tristán only removed his helm when they were alone, but it was good to sleep in a bed again, and the soothing of aching bones and muscles would help refresh them for the coming adventure. Yusuf had estim
ated that it would be three days yet to Cordoba, one crossing the Sierra Morena, and then two across the plain to the city, and Arnau could feel their journey finally coming to a conclusion, albeit with impediments remaining to be overcome.

  They had woken the next morning feeling positive, though part of that positivity had crumbled when they led their horses out of the gate of the caravanserai and took in the view that had been hidden by the evening gloom upon their arrival.

  ‘God’s blood,’ muttered Tristán in the echoing hollow of his steel helmet. Arnau shot him a warning look. Phrases like that heard by the wrong ears would bring a swift end to their quest. He understood the impulse that had caused the comment, though. A half-dozen or so miles to the south, the mountain range rose like ramparts formed from the bones of the Earth.

  ‘Where is the pass?’ Arnau asked in rusty Arabic.

  Yusuf pointed to the south-east. ‘A narrow defile cuts through the entire range. All traffic in the region passes through it.’

  Something about that nagged at Arnau, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what, so they continued their journey, pulling themselves up into the saddles and walking the beasts and their spare horses out onto the road, which they followed to the south-east. At this time of the day there were fewer people in evidence and they made good time, the early morning light carrying long shadows across the brown plain.

  Half an hour’s travel brought them into the opening arms of the pass, low hills beginning to climb on both sides, a parched and dusty arroyo winding alongside them as it climbed gently. By the end of that hour, even though the sun had begun to climb, they were in shadow, the hills rising ever higher on either side. They passed the first people coming their way, who were sullen and untalkative.

  Arnau fretted as he watched the hills turn into mountains ahead of them, climbing until they became great peaks of green and grey, catching the morning sun. The pass was narrowing and deepening, becoming a gorge. Ahead, he could see two groups of travellers heading for the pass, both on foot.

  The world came crashing down as they rounded a bend in the road, around the low spur of a hill.

  The pass was guarded.

  That was, Arnau now realised, what had been nagging at him. Yusuf had stated that all traffic in the region passed through here. What better place to fortify against a potential enemy? Whether the caliph knew that the Christians were coming or not, he was wise enough to defend his lands in the best ways he could. This had to be the force of which those travellers on the road had been speaking.

  The three riders reined in, peering up into the pass.

  Almohad flags fluttered in the breeze on both sides of the pass and stone breastworks had been constructed, funnelling an already narrow pass into a single track. War machines sat glowering on every ridge and peak visible, each trained on the road. The movement visible in the pass suggested a large number of men, and though there was no sun so deep in the gorge, there was enough light to confirm a profusion of arms and armour there. A small army occupied the pass.

  Yusuf breathed slowly, rubbing his scalp. ‘I had better be at my most persuasive,’ he said.

  Arnau shook his head, pointing. Less than a mile ahead, the leading group of travellers on the road had come to a halt, a party of soldiers closing on them. ‘They’re checking the travellers on the road,’ Arnau said in a frustrated tone. ‘It is not worth the risk. One wrong move and we face the army of Al-Andalus. The pass is closed to us. Blood and bones, but that pass could hold up an army the size of the one at Toledo.’ His blood chilled. ‘You don’t think… you don’t think that the caliph already knows what’s coming? That this is his wall against which Christendom could crash?’

  Yusuf shrugged. ‘In such a grand scale of campaign, it would be a problem, yes, but there are other targets. Ishbiliyya, that your people call Sevilla, the heart of the caliphate, lies much farther west. If this pass is blocked, they can travel along the edge of the sierra to the passes there.’ Yusuf sighed. ‘I know you want to warn your army of what awaits them, but we cannot worry about what your kings might or might not decide. Our problem is our own passage of these mountains.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘How far away are other passes through the peaks?’

  Yusuf gave him a bleak look. ‘The range is hundreds of miles long, cutting across the country. It more or less separates Al-Andalus from the north and comes within a hundred miles of the sea to both east and west. The nearest other passes of which I know are some way away. Two days in either direction, and both are longer routes through the mountains. Taking the western pass would add, at an estimate, at least four or five days to the journey. The east two or three longer than that.’

  Arnau fretted. They had already been four days, with three more yet before they reached Cordoba. Unless they managed to find a way to speed up their quest, they would spend a week reaching their destination, with a further week on their return. Not counting any time they had to spend in Cordoba itself, that meant two weeks. By the time they passed this way again coming north, the army of Christendom would be on the move and might even have engaged Almohad forces here and there. The moment that army moved south, the whole of the caliphate would be seething with Almohad forces mobilising to face them, and the three travellers and their prize would be more or less trapped in enemy territory. Speed was of the essence, and even four more days was too much, let alone seven. It would almost guarantee that they would be caught up in the war, on the wrong side, upon their return.

  ‘We cannot afford such a delay,’ he breathed. ‘We have to cross here.’

  ‘But you know we’ll not get through that lot,’ Tristán muttered behind him.

  ‘Quite. We are at an impasse. Halted.’ He dropped to hushed tones and lifted his face. ‘Be Thou, O Lord, our protection, who art our redemption; direct our minds by Thy gracious presence, and watch over our paths with guiding love; that among the snares which lie hidden in the path wherein we walk, we may so press onwards with hearts fixed on Thee, that by the track of faith we may come to be where Thou wouldest have us; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’

  Yusuf cast him a sidelong glance. ‘With luck, Īsā will listen to you even if you are standing beside me.’

  Arnau snorted. ‘Sometimes, when I speak to men like you, Yusuf, I just cannot work out where heresy ends and piety begins.’

  ‘Just be grateful then, Christian, that Allah can still hear me when I stand next to you, for I suspect I have your answer.’

  Arnau frowned, turning to him. ‘You have?’

  ‘I fear, like all soldiers, you are thinking on the scale of armies.’

  ‘I still do not understand.’

  ‘You look at the pass and at the mountains to either side and you see only an impenetrable range with one gateway. But we are not an army. See how the locals lead their herds in the high places?’

  He pointed and Arnau followed his gesture. A herd of goats was just visible as dots on the craggy hills above the western edge of the pass. Arnau squinted at them and shook his head. ‘I’m not convinced. Just because one farmer can get his animals up to a high pasture does not mean he can lead them across the entire range safely, let alone men on horses.’

  ‘But it does not mean that he can not. Where is your faith, my friend?’

  Arnau swallowed. Could it be done? A day’s travel or thereabouts over the highest places of the Sierra Morena? ‘What do you advise?’

  Tristán made a choking sound. ‘You’re not seriously considering this, Brother?’

  ‘If we try that pass, we are guaranteed to fail. If we head east or west for another pass, the delay will trap us in Almohad lands when the war has begun. What choice do we have? We must put our faith in the Lord.’

  The squire looked less than convinced, but his silence confirmed his unhappy concurrence.

  ‘Whatever we do, we must do it out of view of the soldiers in the pass,’ Yusuf said. ‘Come.’

  He turned and began to walk his horse back along the ro
ad. With Tristán following on in a disgruntled silence, Arnau prayed they were doing the right thing, prayed also that Yusuf knew what he was about, and followed the Moor. For half an hour they rode at a slightly faster pace, leaving the pass behind until they were far from the fortified gate to Al-Andalus. All the way, Arnau kept an eye out over his shoulder for pursuit, though blessedly he saw nothing.

  For a little more than another half an hour they rode west along minor tracks and across parched fields and barren scrubland, all three men keeping their eyes locked on the hills to the south. Here and there small tracks led up the slopes, and each time, Arnau felt a small glimmer of hope, but each time Yusuf decided against it, for there was no sign of animal or human life on the peaks, suggesting that there was nowhere accessible beyond the lower slopes. Finally, a larger road up into the range hove into view, and Arnau could see the dotted shapes of animals up on the high green peaks. His arm shot out with supressed excitement.

  ‘Look.’

  ‘See what other than goats awaits us on that path,’ replied Yusuf, nodding in that direction. Arnau squinted, and after a few moments he noticed it. Difficult to spot initially, as grey as the rocks surrounding it, a squat fortress sat atop the highest point, its field of view excellent. ‘It would appear that the caliph is wise enough to guard even the lesser approaches to his lair.’

  Arnau felt his spirits sink further. ‘It may be that we are doomed,’ he sighed.

  ‘Faith, my friend,’ Yusuf said again. ‘Could it be that I, a pragmatic teacher, might tutor a monk in the subject of faith?’ He gave a wry smile, and Arnau bit back a retort the man certainly didn’t deserve. They rode on once more, the mood of the two knights sliding ever further into dismay with every mile that passed. Almost an hour later, out of sight of the pass, that high castle, and even local villages, Yusuf held up a hand and reined in.