The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  A space had somehow opened up around the two men without them noticing, and Arnau found himself facing Henri d’Orbessan across the scarred ground of the caliph’s compound, the knights of Christendom looking on.

  ‘Do not seek to make me the author of this mess,’ the Frank snarled. ‘It was you who left us to die, remember. “Vengeance is mine, and I shall yield it to them in time, so that their foot slip; the day of perdition is nigh, and the times hasten to be present.” Deuteronomy, thirty-two. I know my scriptures as well as my rights, Templar, and it is you who need to pay for your betrayal.’

  Arnau felt the anger rising in him. His recent feelings of guilt were ebbing now under a tide of ire at the blind arrogance of this man. ‘Revenge is a heavy crown to wear, d’Orbessan, beware lest it crush you. “Ye brethren be not avenging yourselves, but give ye place to God’s wrath, for it is written, The Lord saith, To me vengeance, and I shall yield it.” Romans, twelve. Will you not let God decide in such matters?’

  ‘He will decide, but through my blade, Vallbona.’

  The two men stood facing one another, blades out to the side, breathing heavily. Both men favoured their left leg in their stance, both had little or no use of their left arm, both were exhausted and neither bore a shield. A silence descended upon the hilltop, and the strange motionless quiet as the two men faced off almost made Arnau laugh. He was simply too tired and sore to leap into the fray again. He would win this, as he’d promised the master, but only by being careful and prepared; by waiting and letting d’Orbessan use up everything he had first. Unfortunately, the way the Frank stood watching him suggested that d’Orbessan had the very same ideas.

  ‘In the name of all that is holy, stop this,’ called Calderon, gesturing at first one of them, then the other. ‘The Almohad forces are beaten but not vanquished and here are two of Christendom’s strongest sword arms bent on mutual destruction. I say again: stop this. Preserve your strength for the enemy.’

  Arnau looked across the open space at the Frank, despite everything, offering peace with a simple change of expression.

  ‘Never,’ snapped d’Orbessan.

  Calderon made to step forwards angrily, but the combination of Tristán at one side and Balthesar at the other held the man back, the Calatravan knight grumbling in anger. He turned, seeking out anyone of senior authority. The Temple master was clearly not going to stop the duel, having given his assent to Arnau. His gaze lit upon the archbishop of Toledo.

  ‘Your Grace, will you not halt this travesty?’

  The archbishop looked around. Despite his seniority, he had no direct authority over a Templar, and even less over a Frankish noble. He offered Calderon a helpless look. ‘Only God can stop such a thing now, Brother.’

  Calderon turned helplessly back to the violent scene before him.

  ‘You will have to land the first blow,’ Arnau announced to the Frank. ‘You are the accuser and insistent upon this test, after all.’

  There was another pause. D’Orbessan knew he was right and was building himself up to an attack. Finally, with a grunted imprecation, the Frank half-ran, half-hobbled across the grass, raising his sword. Arnau watched him come, could see where the blow would land, and at the last moment stepped back and to the side, throwing his own blade in the way to halt the blow. His parry was successful but his weak ankle gave way, screaming pain at him, and he yelped and fell to a knee before he could manage a return blow. He steadied himself for the Frank’s follow-up, but it never came. Looking around, he realised that the exhausted d’Orbessan had simply run on into the crowd of men beyond him, unable to stop, and had collapsed among them.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ called an Iberian voice, and Arnau looked around to see Tibalt of Azpeitia gesturing at the pair of them. Calderon was struggling to step in still and was being held back by Arnau’s two friends.

  Standing with difficulty, Arnau gave his sword a couple of practice swings and immediately regretted expending the energy, energy of which he had so little in reserve. D’Orbessan was now staggering back out of the crowd, cursing. The two men faced off once more.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded a new voice. Both combatants turned to see the kings of Aragon and Navarre emerging from the pavilion to the scene of a duel. The archbishop of Toledo hurried across to them and explained quietly. Calderon watched the exchange expectantly, but when the kings simply nodded and settled in to watch from the highest point, the Calatravan knight grumbled and resumed his struggle.

  Arnau braced himself as d’Orbessan came again. He could not pivot on his ankle, he now understood, or at least not without ending up in a heap on the ground. This time, instead, he stepped forwards and met the Frank’s blow with his raised sword, wishing he had the use of his left hand. The shock from the meeting of blades echoed right through him and he staggered back, the Frank lurching forwards with him, both men dangerously close to pitching over onto the ground. At least Arnau had managed to retain his footing this time. Puffing as though he’d climbed a mountain, Arnau let the man come and, without room to bring his sword to bear, twisted his wrist and stabbed, slamming the sword’s pommel into the Frank’s useless left arm. D’Orbessan screamed, but the howl quickly became a roar as he leapt forwards, bringing his own sword hilt down on Arnau’s left shoulder, delivering a heavy, excruciating blow. They were among the crowd of watchers now, and the audience atop the hill opened up what space they could, trying to get out of the way of the two battling men.

  Arnau had lost sight of his friends, but that was fine. He had to concentrate anyway. Tears streamed from his eyes at the pain, but sufficient space had opened up beside him, and he swung his sword out wide, bellowing shapeless noises. The sword connected with the Frank’s mail-protected hip, and for just the blink of an eye, Arnau thought he had won out, until a similar blow from d’Orbessan slammed into his left arm and he heard the bone break.

  Howling with agony, he staggered back, watchers melting out of the way to make room. Had the Frank been capable, he could have finished the Templar then, for Arnau was all but spent, and the agony from his shoulder and his broken arm were so powerful that they had buried the pain in his ankle, saving that for later. Fortunately, he seemed to have done something equally critical to the Frank, who was struggling to stand, crying out in pain every time he put weight on his left leg.

  D’Orbessan rose and took a step forwards, almost falling face-first, the weakness of his left ankle now exacerbated by a crippling pain in the hip. He managed three steps towards Arnau, dragging his left leg and half-yelping, half-cursing. Arnau took as deep a breath as he could and straightened. His arm was agony, and every tiny movement seemed to feel like a fresh break.

  ‘Lords, can you not see that this is done?’ bellowed Calderon’s voice from somewhere nearby.

  The Frank swung, his blade tip just ripping into the chain shirt covering Arnau’s chest, tearing into the metalwork, not quite penetrating but prising open a few links, which fell away in a glittering cascade amid shreds of his white mantle. Arnau’s return blow missed d’Orbessan by only an inch and both men staggered, trying not to fall, then paused, heaving in breaths, before turning to face one another again.

  Arnau was done. He knew it. So was the Frank, and the man would be lucky to walk away from this, but, while d’Orbessan was no better a warrior than Arnau, he was infused with the strength that only hatred can grant. Arnau prepared himself for the next attack. His eyes were streaming now, and every shiver was agony. He tried to lift his sword and it took three goes to bring it up to head height, the aches and pains screaming at him.

  The Frank came like a bull, albeit an injured one. He lurched forwards, all but hopping, his useless left leg dragged along. His sword was held high for a chop downwards. If the man could hold the sword high long enough to land the blow, it would knock Arnau’s own blade aside and then either strike his head or his other shoulder. Either way, he was done. It was a distinct possibility. Both men were at the end of their st
rength. It was simply a question of whether the Frank still had sufficient strength for one more blow.

  He closed his eyes.

  There was a furious roar and then the anticipated clang of steel, but no shock through his own blade and up into his arm. His eyes sprang open.

  Calderon was between them, having deftly parried d’Orbessan’s blow, his face thunderous with fury.

  ‘No,’ the Calatravan knight snapped angrily.

  Arnau blinked, stepping forwards, his own sword still raised.

  ‘No to both of you,’ snarled Calderon, turning and using his sword to knock Arnau’s aside. ‘Fools. This is not a test of truth or a trial of honour. This is now simple idiocy, and if the masters of neither Church nor State will stop it, then I will.’

  The Frank snarled something barely intelligible and raised his sword regardless. Calderon’s left hand shot out, mailed fist wrapping around d’Orbessan’s sword just below the hilt. He jerked his wrist and the blade came free from the Frank’s hand easily. The man was as spent as Arnau. His attack may just have failed anyway.

  ‘“Not yielding evil for evil, neither cursing for cursing, but on the contrary blessing; for in this thing ye be called, that ye wield blessing by heritage.” First Peter, chapter three. “See ye, that no man yield evil for evil to any man; but forevermore follow ye that that is good, each to the other, and to all men.” First Thessalonians. “Brethren, henceforward joy ye, be ye perfect, excite ye and teach ye; understand ye the same thing; have ye peace, and the God of peace and of love shall be with you.” Second Corinthians. Need I go on?’

  There was an astonished silence around them now. Interrupting a duel like this was unheard of, yet somehow the air of sacred authority that seemed to flow out from the knight of Calatrava silenced all argument. The Templar master nearby was nodding his head sagely. The archbishop had gone pale, perhaps shocked at hearing the scriptures quoted by a knight in an effort to stop the duel when he’d admitted that he could not do so.

  ‘You, Frank,’ Calderon barked, ‘claim this man to be a coward. His actions have shown such an accusation to be false. You will put up your sword and accept my judgment that this matter is settled, or I shall call you out against my own blade for it.’

  D’Orbessan glared angrily at the knight but said nothing. If Calderon was serious, then the Frank was in trouble. He would not last even moments against the brother in the state he was in. If Arnau thought that the Calatravan had come to save him, though, he was obviously mistaken, for Calderon let go of the Frank’s sword, dropping it to the ground, and turned immediately to Arnau, jabbing out with a finger.

  ‘You, Brother Vallbona, are a man of God. It is beneath you to accept a base challenge like this, whatever your masters allow. You should know better.’

  Arnau sagged. Damn it, but why did the admonishment sound so sensible now, as though Arnau had sought this?

  ‘D’Orbessan, return to your baron and have your wounds seen to. Vallbona, your place is with your brothers.’

  As Calderon stepped aside, Arnau feared for just a moment that the Frank would come for him again, for the glint of malice in his eye made it clear that this was not over. Two other Frankish knights emerged from the crowd and helped the limping, injured d’Orbessan out of the circle of the duel. Arnau staggered again and suddenly Tristán and Balthesar were there, grabbing him, holding him up.

  ‘You just cannot stay out of trouble, can you,’ the older knight said as he smiled.

  ‘At least it’s done with,’ Tristán sighed.

  ‘Not entirely,’ Arnau hissed. ‘He’s not finished with this. I fear I’ve just made a true enemy.’

  ‘Then he’s likely to get lost in the crowd or grow aged in the queue for revenge, the way you make enemies,’ Balthesar snorted. ‘For now, the fighting is over. It’s time we got your injuries seen to and that arm splinted.’

  19. Al-Andalus

  4 August 1212, Ubeda

  Arnau flexed his left hand and moved the arm. It still hurt like hell, but it was definitely on the mend. Slipping it back into the sling, he glanced down at the paper on the table where his account was now complete.

  He had begun by writing of the recovery of Calderon from Cordoba, of their discovery of the mountain pass, and then of the battle that had been so nearly lost, but which had finally signalled the beginning of the end for the caliph Al-Nasir. He’d told of the aftermath of the battle, of the sacking of the Almohad camp, how the caliph’s banner had been sent to Rome for the Pope, of how the killing of the fleeing Moors had gone on into the night, hunting down those who continued to hide, so that the enormous force of the caliph was devastated, their corpses piled in huge mounds for burning.

  He’d not spoken of the duel. He’d not even mentioned d’Orbessan, who had quit the crusade the next day, accompanying his master, the wounded Baron de Roquefeuil, back to their homeland. His was a face Arnau had not missed in the ensuing days, but the knowledge that the man lived and harboured a canker in his heart over the Templar sat badly still. Of Calderon he had spoken only briefly, telling of the man’s part in recovering the banner of his order. It was rumoured that the man might be raised to mastery of his own commandery when they returned to the north.

  He wrote of how Balthesar had survived without injury, of how his own wounds had kept him from the fray, and regretfully of how Ramon was still being treated by surgeons, how he might or might not make it to winter.

  He wrote of how the army had turned east once they were beyond the Sierra Morena, had taken three fortresses with little opposition, and had marched on the city of Baeza to find it almost empty, its garrison and population having fled at word of the crusaders’ approach. As a warning to the remaining forces of Al-Andalus, the city had been fired and all but demolished, its grand mosque dismantled stone by stone.

  At Ubeda they had found a panicked garrison formed of the town’s own people and those who had fled Baeza together. Arnau wrote sparingly of the two week siege and the town’s capture, of the immense lines of slaves being sent back north to help repopulate the war-torn fields of Castile and Aragon. In none of it had Arnau had a part, of course. It had taken a week before he could properly put weight on his ankle, and it would still be months before his arm could be said to be mended, not to mention the cracked ribs and the cuts and bruises that still blossomed across his body.

  Much of the upper Guadalquivir was now under Christian control, though maintaining these lands would be troublesome, and it was said that the kings would seek to offer terms to the caliph to see them through the autumn and winter without the need to risk disaster. They had achieved an incredible victory, certainly, but every man was well aware how their reduced army would have difficulty holding all these gains should the caliph manage to rally his forces from over the water and bring them to bear. A truce was a generally agreed sensible solution.

  Still, Alarcos had been avenged and the caliph knew now that his dreams of Iberian conquest had turned to dust. The Christian kings had begun to conquer south instead.

  All of this he had put in the letter.

  He checked over his information, how carefully he had written the whole thing, the terms in which he had couched it all. This was no time to risk giving away anything of import. Nodding his satisfaction, he signed the bottom, affixed the seal of the Order and dripped wax over the folded letter. Sliding the papers into a wallet, he then slipped that into the case and held it up. The three men, each well-armed and hale, waited patiently.

  ‘Rourell, yes? Northwest of Tarragona. You deliver this to Brother Guillem and no other.’

  The leader of the trio nodded his understanding and took the letter. Arnau watched them mount up. Three men should be a safe enough group to ride north once more through the newly conquered lands to deliver the account. What happened when it arrived, he was not so sure. He was not even sure the account was important anyway.

  His hand slipped down to the letter that had reached him this morning with those same
three men, penned by Guillem, the sergeant at Rourell whose duties included the office of scribe. If he was any judge, the brother had used the request for an account of the activities of the three men and their squires solely in order to convey one subtle and very important piece of information.

  He picked up the letter again and read through it. He’d previously been hoping that the kings would continue to push and perhaps take Cordoba and had been taken aback at talk of a truce, yet now he wished for nothing more. A truce with Al-Nasir would allow them, after all, to return home.

  And they needed to return home.

  He read the words in the letter from Guillem yet again.

  The preceptor wanted an account of his knights’ actions.

  The preceptor…

  He felt a chill run through him again. What had happened at Rourell while they had all been fighting in the south?

  Historical Note

  First and foremost, this book is a tale of war. The Reconquista of Spain began with a hero called Pelayo at the Battle of Covadonga in the early 8th century, which halted the remarkable Muslim ‘blitzkrieg’ that had seen all but the far north of Iberia subdued in the space of little more than a decade. Conversely, the war to recover the peninsula would take seven centuries. Between Pelayo’s time and that of Arnau and his comrades, the Reconquista had been a painfully slow business, very much a case of ‘two steps forwards, one step back’. Hampered in part by the divided nature of the Christian kingdoms, who could rarely agree long enough to fight together, and in part by the fervent strength of their Moorish neighbours, the Christians continually encountered setbacks and more troubling disasters in their advance south.

  One such, encountered in an earlier book in this series, was the disaster at Alarcos, which hit the Christians so hard that all advance halted for decades. With the arrival of the new regime under the Almohads, Alarcos was their crowning achievement. In that victory they signalled their intent to revive the initial conquest and to drive the Christians north, and they might have done so were it not for the fact that internal strife in North Africa had forced them to turn their strength that way instead. Still, the north had done nothing in the meantime, and the Almohad caliph must have felt fairly comfortable that he could pick up where he left off, march north and wipe out his Christian enemies in short order.