The Crescent and the Cross Page 14

  ‘I trust Yusuf to work out a way of fleeing the city, but we cannot concentrate on that for we don’t know the place, Tristán. We need to concentrate on healing Brother Calderon here so that we can get him out somehow.’

  The squire nodded. ‘But what next? How do you heal a madman?’

  ‘I think we make him confront his fears again, the same way they did in the first place. What just happened to him is the start of it, I reckon, not the whole. We have to wait for Yusuf and see if he remembers anything of use.’

  ‘Shall I gag him for now?’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘Hopefully he’s got his screaming out of the way. Just be ready to clamp him shut if you need to.’

  ‘Al-Hafiz?’ Calderon suddenly said, quietly, an almost childlike tone to his question. Then his brow folded and he stared at Arnau. ‘No. You are not the purveyor of truths. Not the… no. Not that. Never that.’

  He suddenly cringed into himself, fear-sweat beading on his face. Arnau took just a step towards him and dropped slowly to a crouch. ‘Not what, Calderon? Never what?’

  ‘They are not my truths. The truths that are lies and the lies that are truths, questions within questions and answers that conjure more questions, and all the time, it is there, the fear. I would fall, as Lucifer fell. As Iblis fell,’ he corrected himself, and then fell silent, looking confused.

  ‘Iblis?’ Tristán asked quietly.

  ‘I think he’s the Moorish Satan.’ He turned back to Calderon. ‘You would fall, like an angel? But for what?’

  Calderon fixed him with a strange look. ‘I could always have fallen. It was always there. But Al-Hafiz was always there to catch me. To hold me and drive out the demons of fear. Because the truth set me free.’

  ‘This Al-Hafiz played upon your fears, Calderon. He did not save you in any way, but made you think that was so. He did not set you free, he imprisoned you. Look to those truths that are lies and lies that are truths. Let the answers conjure more questions.’

  ‘I never fell,’ Calderon said, though seemingly to himself now, his gaze dropping to his own navel. ‘I never fell in all these days with Al-Hafiz.’ He then fell silent. Arnau considered prompting him further, but he could not escape the impression that Calderon was now fighting some kind of internal struggle completely independent of the two Templars, and interfering might not be wise. He left the bound man lying where he was and returned to Tristán, and the two men sagged back, each lost in their own thoughts. Arnau fumed and mused on how everything had gone so wrong since their arrival and how in the name of Heaven and all the saints he could put it right. It seemed such an impossible, huge task.

  After a time, he wandered over to the window, removing the cross from the sill, unsure whether its displaying was a good or bad thing for the stricken knight. He was about to turn and pack it away once more when he spotted something out in the darkness of the street below. Squinting into the night, he watched a figure approaching. The presence of a relatively well-dressed Moor on the street of a Moorish city should not really draw any attention, but a man on clandestine business moves in a certain way, be he Moor, Frank or Catalan. The figure came drifting along the street like a ghost and slipped into a shadowed doorway almost opposite.

  Arnau watched carefully.

  ‘Something interesting?’ asked Tristán from behind and Arnau waved at him.

  ‘Hush a moment.’

  He stared at the shadow. After a few heartbeats, the man’s head dipped forwards out of the shadow, and Arnau examined the face in that brief moment. He’d not taken their visages in during the short encounter earlier, but he would be willing to bet the face was one of Farraj’s two arrogant sons. Certainly he was the right age, and he was a well-dressed civilian. The face disappeared back into the shadows.

  Arnau turned. ‘I think our host’s sons are up to something.’

  ‘The traitors.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Arnau added, leaning into the window. ‘Here comes Yusuf.’ He battled for a moment with the decision whether to somehow shout a warning to their friend. If the zealous, hate-filled young man was so willing to disobey his father, would he be above attacking their friend? A knife in the darkness of an alley. Yusuf would hardly be able to fight back, even if he were not taken by surprise. He was a scholar, a man of peace, eschewing weapons and violence.

  Arnau watched, tense, hoping that this was not the young man’s plan, ready to shout a warning the moment he saw the lad move. Instead, in surprise and relief, he watched Yusuf pass the shadowed doorway, oblivious and without incident.

  Arnau remained at the window but waved at Tristán, his eyes still on that door. ‘Yusuf is coming up. Get him in and close the door.’

  A minute later, the Moor entered the room, gasping in surprise as the squire pulled him inside and closed the door behind him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘One of our host’s sons is up to something,’ Tristán hissed at their guide. ‘He must have slipped out of the house right after you left.’

  ‘I… I have some supplies in case we need to leave in a hurry.’

  ‘I think we may have already passed that time,’ Arnau grunted. ‘The lad is hiding in the shadows, keeping an eye on the house. He’s waiting for something. I have the distinct feeling we don’t want to be here when it happens.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Is there any other way out of the house?’

  Yusuf shrugged. ‘There may be another exit. There will be no other door from this side of the courtyard, nor to the left or right, for the adjacent houses meet wall-to-wall. If there is another exit, and this is far from certain, then it will be at the far side, through the family’s own rooms.’

  Arnau huffed. ‘Then we cannot trust to that. We may end up trapped there, bringing further peril to Farraj.’

  ‘Unless the old man is in on this trouble too,’ the squire noted sourly.

  ‘I don’t think so. He put his sons in their place over the subject. We have to leave. Yusuf, I know you just left there, but I need you to go to the stables and get everything ready to leave. Where are they?’

  ‘About twelve buildings down the road to the east. Open gateway. You cannot miss it.’

  ‘Good. Get there and have everything ready. We will somehow get Calderon out of here. I’m not sure how we’ll do it yet, but we’ll meet you at the stable.’

  ‘And then what?’ Tristán asked.

  ‘I have no idea. We shall solve that riddle when it comes to us. For now, we need to move before the worst happens. Go.’

  Yusuf nodded, grabbed his new bag of supplies and his own kit, then departed. Arnau watched him emerge into the night below and turn, heading down the street. Arnau had deliberately not told the Moor about the boy lurking in the doorway, for Yusuf hurried past without any sign he knew of the watcher’s presence. At least the lad remained as yet unaware that his presence had been noted.

  ‘We need to somehow get Calderon and our bags out of here and to the stable and without our unfriendly observer seeing where we went.’

  ‘I could cross the street and put a misericorde through his eye. He’d not be a problem then.’

  Arnau drew in a hissed breath. ‘Sadly it may yet come to that, but Farraj is a good man and, though his sons see us as enemies, I would rather not live up to that by killing them.’

  ‘Then how do we do this?’

  ‘I might be able to put him out temporarily so that we can slip away. That would work out best for all. But we would still need to move very fast. Can you carry Calderon?’

  The squire peered at the prostrate knight, frowning. The man was still now, though his eyes darted this way and that and his lips moved constantly as if in silent prayer. ‘If he’ll let me then yes, I reckon.’

  ‘Then let’s do that. You take Calderon. I’ll deal with the lad in the shadow, and then we’ll run for the stables.’

  ‘What about our kit?’

  ‘There is nothing in it we cannot do without. We shall simply live up to our nam
e: the “poor knights of Christ”.’

  The squire grunted something discontented, but walked over to Calderon. Arnau tore his gaze away from the street for a moment to help, scurrying over to the bound knight. ‘Calderon, I know that you think we’re wrong and that we’re here for ill purposes, but you also know that I am a man of the Temple, and so you know that I will not lie to you, for I swear by my vow. Whatever you believe and whoever you think you are, the men coming for us will kill us all if we do not get out of here. If I unbind your legs, will you walk? My squire will help you.’

  Calderon’s eyes fixed on him and the silent war within him seemed to wage a little stronger before he finally nodded.

  ‘Do you really want to free him?’ Tristán asked quietly.

  ‘It’s really a matter of necessity, not choice,’ Arnau replied, unfastening the belt around the man’s legs. ‘Come on.’ Though they could not take the bags, Arnau found their swords and removed them, then hurried back to the window, wanting to check whether the young man still lurked in the shadows.

  Fretting, he watched, waiting for a sign of the face dipping back out of the darkness, as the squire across the room grumbled, helping the bound knight to his feet. Calderon remained blessedly silent.

  Finally, their watcher’s face emerged from the shadows momentarily, and Arnau was about to signal Tristán to move when he realised that the face was looking the wrong way, west along the road, rather than east towards Yusuf and the stables or straight across to the house. A sinking feeling settling into him, Arnau leaned to look left.

  Four men were hurrying down the street. Confirmation of the watcher’s identity came as Arnau recognised the other brother among the new arrivals. The other three were armoured men with white cloaks and red shields. The same colours as men Arnau had seen on the walls above the city gate this morning.

  ‘God’s blood, but we’re trapped.’

  ‘What?’ Tristán turned, still grunting as he hustled Calderon towards the door.

  ‘The two boys have brought friends. City guards.’

  ‘Can we get out into the street before they arrive?’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘They’re here now. Damnation, but we’re properly trapped. By the time we get down to the courtyard, they’ll be in. We’ll not even get across into Farraj’s rooms.’

  Tristán staggered over to the door and wrenched it open.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Arnau hissed.

  ‘We can’t stay here to get caught. If we’ll meet them going down, there’s only one other way to go.’ With that, the squire led his charge from the door and turned to the left along the arcaded balcony outside.

  Arnau stared after him, glanced out of the window to see the two boys and three guards converging on the archway leading into the house. As they looked up, Arnau dipped back away from the window and ran after the squire. Out on the balcony he paused for a moment to take it all in. They would never get across the courtyard in time. Tristán had been right, though presumably his direction would only lead to them becoming trapped again somewhere else. There was no other feasible option, however. He noted the waist-high urn on the balcony and toyed with the idea of pulling it open to slow down pursuit, but reasoned that thus far they would assume the Christians to still be in the room, and searching that would slow them more. Shutting the door to maintain the illusion, he ran after Tristán, who had turned a corner.

  Following him, and disappearing out of sight of the courtyard, he saw another flight of stairs heading up. He frowned. As far as he knew the building was but two storeys. Still, the stairs were undeniable, and the squire was already climbing them. Arnau raced after him, carrying the two swords. He caught up by the time the squire had reached the top of the stairs.

  They emerged into the sultry night air in the heart of a rooftop terrace filled with lush plants in decorative pots and a tank of water. His momentary elation at their unexpected escape route was swiftly torn away as he realised that the terrace covered only this side of the courtyard building. The other three were of sloping, red-tiled roofs. A quick glance told him that the houses to either side were the precise reverse, each having a roof terrace, but both at the other end of the house. It made sense, really, so that a man could not simply step from house to house using the terraces. It did somewhat halt them in their tracks, though, with nowhere left to go.

  ‘What now?’ asked Tristán.

  ‘Why in God’s name are you asking me? This is your plan.’

  The two men fell silent, and Arnau felt the tension rising almost to the breaking point. He could hear the noise of men below now. Angry shouts and the clattering of a door. They had searched the room, then, and knew their quarry had gone. It would take only moments for them to locate the refugees. Was there perhaps a way down to the street? The very idea of trying to get Calderon down a drainpipe with his hands bound was laughable but still Arnau hurried across to look over the edge, just in case.

  As he’d feared, there was no way down. These houses did not use gutters and pipes down to the street. Instead, everything was being funnelled inwards to catch the rain in the courtyard. Movement below caught his eye, and he spotted two figures marching purposefully eastwards along the street. One of the brothers and one of the soldiers, by the looks of it. They had to be going after Yusuf at the stables.

  Arnau found himself cursing in a most ungodly way. That left only two guards and one of the lads coming after them, but Yusuf was in terrible danger, and he would be lurking in the stables as instructed, awaiting the two of them. Arnau could only hope their friend was bright enough to hide or flee. There was nothing they could do to help him now. They had their own problem.

  ‘We’re trapped,’ hissed the squire, somewhat unnecessarily.

  ‘We can fight them,’ Arnau said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt the boy, but I have no such problem with the guards. There are only two of them now. Leave Calderon out of the way and we’ll take on the guards. Once we have them down, we can get out of here, and hopefully save Yusuf, who’s about to be in a lot of trouble.’

  Tristán turned the bound Calderon and moved him towards the edge of the roof, out of danger of any fighting, but as soon as he took the first couple of steps, suddenly the knight was rattling off curses under his breath and struggling, fighting against the squire. Tristán swore and fought to control the thrashing bound man, and with a desperate look towards the stairwell, Arnau hurried over to help. Between them, they managed to restrain the man to some extent, and marched him to the wall.

  ‘Calderon, listen to us, you need to stay here, out of the way.’

  But the knight had other ideas. Suddenly he burst from their grip like a bull through a gate and was free. Tristán dived on him and tackled him to the floor, Arnau there at almost the same time. Calderon went down like a sack of grain, thudding into the low parapet that ran around the roof terrace, Tristán and Arnau both on him. Their weight and momentum very nearly carried all three over the edge and as Calderon tipped onto the low wall, looking down two storeys into the courtyard, he issued a horrible scream, his eyes widening, pupils dancing.

  Arnau and Tristán managed to right themselves, pulling the bound man away from the edge.

  ‘Well I think we’ve found one of his fears,’ grunted the squire as he pushed the terrified, shaking knight down to his backside on the floor, where he could no longer see over the edge. Arnau nodded. When the man had been talking about falling, it had clearly not been in any way metaphorical, nor was he talking solely about the Devil. What had the imam done to him? Whatever it was, this was at the heart of it.

  At that moment two figures emerged from the stairwell, each armoured and with their weapons brandished, each gripping a sword. At least there were no crossbows. That made a change, at least. There was no sign of the boy and, at a sudden thought, Arnau glanced back down to the courtyard. Sure enough, the lad who’d sold them out was hurrying across to his father’s house, either to make s
ure their family stayed safe or to hide and thereafter deny all knowledge of any involvement.

  Two on two.

  Arnau tossed Tristán’s sword across to him, and the two men paced slowly backwards as they drew their blades and cast the scabbards away.

  ‘Remember what you were taught,’ Arnau said quietly.

  ‘Watch the man, plan accordingly,’ the squire replied.

  Arnau glanced over his shoulder. They were running out of terrace to retreat across as they prepared. Gesturing to Tristán, he began to veer away, separating and allowing plenty of room for them both. He had to leave the other man to the squire. He couldn’t afford to pay attention to anything but his own opponent.

  The guard held his sword out to the side, low, left arm mirroring it, almost inviting Arnau to attack. He watched the man move. The guard favoured neither leg noticeably. His blade was not held out in a position indicative of any intended strike. Arnau sucked his teeth and began to sidestep, the pair beginning to circle, each sizing the other up. The man had a curved blade, common among his people. They were designed for a different style of fighting to a Christian longsword. The curved blade was excellent for cutting, yet poor for stabbing, the Christian blade more useful for the latter, but less for the former. It meant that he could effectively discard the probability of a lunge.

  Sure enough, as the guard launched his first attack, he spun on one foot, bringing the scimitar round in a deadly arc, rising from knee height to midriff as he turned. Arnau was prepared for him, and stepped back and to his right, slamming his own sword out to meet that spinning nightmare. The weapons met with a clang and a shudder-inducing rasp for just a moment before separating once more.

  Arnau did not give the man a chance to recover. Using the momentum from his last movement, he spun in a similar manner, but as he turned to face the man, coming out of a spin, rather than his sword being held out to the side for a slice, he pulled it back and into his side and gripped the hilt with both hands. The blade lanced out like a missile, the power of both arms enhanced by the speed of the turn.