Daughter of War Read online

  A figure emerged suddenly from the sea of horse flesh, the man as surprised as Arnau. A Moor with blood coating one mailed arm, his chain veil unhooked, face wild with panic as he ducked weapons and dodged hooves. His wide eyes took in the sight of Arnau in a similar predicament and for a moment they were locked there in a strange tableau, brothers in peril, sharing desperation. The spell broke and the Moor raised his shield, bringing his sword to bear even as Arnau lifted his own weapon. Then the Moor was gone, a rider plunging between them, fighting his own fight, unaware of the men struggling on foot. When the knight pressed on out of the way, hacking and slashing above, the shocked Moor was gone, disappeared somewhere in the melee, and Arnau was oddly relieved that he would not be required to kill the man who had in some way shared his fate.

  A horse emerged from the press in front of him, a bay stallion of perhaps fifteen hands, its saddle empty, spatters of blood across flank and neck.

  The young warrior looked about, frowning, expecting the rider to be recovering from a fall or bellowing as he fought back somewhere nearby. But the rider was gone. Just an empty saddle and a confused, milling horse. Arnau took a deep breath and let his shield drop. It was battered and missing parts now, anyway, and there was no way he would make it into the saddle with all this weight and two restricted arms.

  Gritting his teeth, he grasped the saddle horn and heaved. His arms were weakening with all the swinging of the mace and absorbing blows to the shield, and the first two attempts at hauling himself up were complete failures. Finally, on the third attempt, he managed to mount the beast. Gripping the reins in his shield hand, he slipped his feet into the stirrups, slightly uncomfortably, for the animal’s previous rider had clearly been a short man and the stirrups were high. Still, he was back on a horse.

  Any notion of the improved safety of his position was disabused instantly as a sword came dangerously close to ending him. He lurched back, dancing the horse out of the way, and then swung his mace. The heavy bludgeon struck the sword mid-swing and the shock up both men’s arms sent them dancing back as they grunted in pain and shook out aching shoulders. The sword came. Arnau ducked. His mace swung. The Moor leaned away. The sword came again and took links of chain from Arnau’s elbow – a sharp Moorish blade that could penetrate mail. His mace swung. They separated once again, wheeling horses. As Arnau was contemplating how he could kill a man who seemed to leave no opening, a lance came from nowhere and emerged from the Moor’s front, bursting outwards in a spray of metal rings and blood and ending the contest suddenly.

  Arnau did not wait around to watch the man die. His gaze played across the fight and once again he spotted his lord, Berenguer de Santa Coloma, hacking and stabbing in the press. The number of his knights in close proximity had diminished. The army might be winning the fight overall, but the left flank was hard pressed and Arnau’s master was fighting for his life. Another of the lords of Barcelona county was there beside the old man. Arnau recognised the white stars on red of the Lord della Cadeneta, minor nobility who owed fealty to Santa Coloma, just as he himself did.

  The young man at arms was close now, and drove the horse on through the press, pausing occasionally to swing his mace, ducking other men’s blows. He was almost back with his own company at last.

  He spotted the danger seemingly before anyone else, perhaps because of his slightly removed perspective. Great Berenguer Cervelló de Santa Coloma had pulled out ahead of the others, trading blows with a Moorish noble. The old lord was unaware, but it was clear from this far back that he was being lured away from his company. The enemy was slowly back-stepping his horse as he struggled, three other Moors closing to help finish off this Christian lion. Arnau bellowed a warning, a futile gesture between the incredible din of the battlefield and the enclosing armour that dulled any man’s hearing. Berenguer pressed forward, unaware of the increasing danger. His fellow knights were falling behind, each struggling with his own melee, and Arnau heaved on, driving his spurs into the beast in desperation. He pushed onwards gradually, closing tantalisingly on the scene, but it was clear even now that he would never reach his lord before the trap closed.

  Panicked, Arnau switched the reins to his mace hand and reached up with his left, unhooking his own chain veil even as he strove ever forward. His mouth suddenly free to suck in the fetid, stinking air of battle, Arnau again bellowed a warning. Still, Santa Coloma did not hear, his ears beneath padding and steel, his attention riveted to the cunning adversary before him.

  Arnau felt hope surge. The Lord Ferrer della Cadeneta, just a horse length behind Berenguer, suddenly looked around, peering in the direction of the desperate, yelling voice.

  ‘A trap,’ Arnau bellowed. ‘It’s a trap! Santa Coloma!’

  Della Cadeneta peered straight at Arnau and then turned to Lord Berenguer, who was now in the thick of it, three men coming at him in a flurry of blows. He could still be saved. There was time.

  A sword came out of nowhere, a whisker from killing Arnau outright. The curved blade caught the very lip of the young man’s helmet and angled up around the curve with the shriek of metal on metal. A finger width lower and the sharp arc would have glanced off mail links and sunk into Arnau’s unprotected lower face. As it was, the blow was enough to stun him, his ears ringing, mind filled with white flashes as he rocked in the saddle. The sword came again and it was pure luck that Arnau managed to lean out of its path. He tried to strike back, but his limbs were heavy now and the mace simply would not rise far enough. The Moor he faced suddenly toppled forward in his saddle, blood fountaining up from his neck where some unseen knight had taken the opportunity of a turned back to kill another enemy of Christ.

  Arnau, still stunned and shaking his head, looked around.

  His heart froze in his chest.

  Berenguer Cervelló de Santa Coloma, the greatest knight Arnau had ever met, his lord and his mentor, was leaning back over the saddle, arms flailing, hands empty, a great rent in his chest and blood everywhere.

  Santa Coloma was dead.

  Arnau’s eyes slid from the dreadful sight of his lord to the figure of della Cadeneta, who remained in his saddle close by. The red-clad knight turned, locking eyes with Arnau, and in that instant the young soldier knew della Cadeneta had let their lord die. The man had been close enough to support Berenguer, but his failure to do so was no accident. The man’s blade was clean, shining silver in the sunlight as he pressed to attack the killers of the lord. He had done nothing to help the old man.

  It was a horrible tableau, and one made all the stranger by the diminishing ringing noise and the gradual return of Arnau’s hearing. The first thing he heard of the world was not a scream or the clash of iron. It was a clear, powerful voice singing battle hymns in praise of the Lord God. The Templar emerged from the press, his tunic no longer white, the red cross almost lost in the sea of blood that coated this glorious seraph. His sword and mail were similarly dark red, coated in the blood of the Moor. His open-faced helm showed the great blond beard he wore, streaked and stained with crimson, white teeth shining amid the gore as he praised the Lord in song.

  The raiders broke. Even as Berenguer de Santa Coloma had died to a wicked ruse, the battle as a whole had been over. The centre had pushed through and the right flank was theirs. Only here on the weighted left flank had there still been a struggle, and now the Templar was here and more roaring knights in his wake to put an end to it. The Moors, previously unaware that their comrades across the field were already fleeing, suddenly realised their peril and turned, racing from the battle. Three died as they wheeled their mounts, and Arnau watched as the last strains of the symphony of death were played upon the strings of two dozen bows.

  Newly arrived archers loosed from the hillside at the fleeing riders, having been deployed during the struggle by some thoughtful captain, though unable to release until now due to the confused press of friend and foe alike. Now, with clear targets, the archers were lethal. The arrows flew in wave after wave, bodkin point
s punching easily through the mail shirts to rip the life from the fleeing Moors, others plunging into the horses, which bucked, sending their dazed riders to the dirt with broken bones, where they were at the mercy of the Christians.

  Arnau sat astride his horse, his heart hollow. The Templar nodded at him in recognition of his clear contribution, given the damage to his helm and armour, his bloodied mace and missing shield. Any other time, he would have felt an unparalleled thrill at such a moment.

  Not today.

  Berenguer de Santa Coloma was still in his saddle, flopping this way and that, arms trailing, chest and legs and horse all soaked in his blood. Ferrer della Cadeneta had dismounted, as had other knights across the field, removing his helm as he went about administering the coup de grâce to the fallen of both forces. There was no need, in Arnau’s opinion, for the look of glee the man wore in this grisly task, his black hair soaked with sweat and plastered to his head. Arnau could feel his own scalp pouring out perspiration in the steel confines of his dented helmet beneath the steaming Iberian sun. Sweat and blood. Blood and sweat. The twin elements that formed the land of Iberia.

  Before he realised what he was doing, Arnau had dropped from his horse and ripped his own helm free, letting it fall to the blood-soaked, hoof-churned mud. He was storming across the gore-strewn field towards della Cadeneta, fury rising with every step. He pulled the chain coif from his head and threw it aside angrily, along with the woollen cap within. His own hair ran with sweat, but he felt not the cool of the air upon his face, for hot rage filled him.

  ‘Bastard,’ he spat as he closed on Don Ferrer, the Lord della Cadeneta. The man was unaware of his approach and busily rifled through the clothing of a fallen Moorish noble.

  ‘You let him die, you stinking shit,’ snarled Arnau. His fingers tightened on the mace. Still, della Cadeneta had not seen or heard him.

  ‘Santa Coloma!’ the young man bellowed, beginning to raise the mace, unable to stop what had to be done. He would be executed for it, of course, but it would not be hell that awaited him for the death of a fellow Christian, for this was the administration of justice, not murder.

  The mace reached its apex and suddenly, before Arnau could swing it and put an end to the cowardly bastard, his world became crimson. He stopped suddenly, stunned, as the Templar’s horse filled his vision, hiding the figure of della Cadeneta from sight. The young man blinked as his eyes slid up across the blood-slicked beast, past the blood-slicked mail and into that angelic, bearded, blood-slicked face.

  ‘“From the fruit of a man’s mouth he enjoys good, but the desire of the treacherous is violence,” so the Book of Proverbs tells us,’ the Templar said, eying the raised mace. ‘We are done with death now this day. Put down your hand.’

  Arnau did so. It was almost impossible to resist that imposing, authoritative tone, especially as it cast the word of God at him like a weapon. The mace slumped to his side and the Templar nodded. ‘You have done the Lord’s work today. Glory in your success, for the raiders we sought are vanquished. Rejoice.’

  And then he was gone, steering his mount onwards to raise the spirits of other men across the battlefield. Arnau shook his head, almost breaking the spell of peace the Templar had laid upon him. He felt the burning desire to lift his mace once more as he saw in the great warrior’s place Ferrer della Cadeneta watching him with narrowed eyes, misericorde dagger in hand, soaked in the blood of both Christian and Moor.

  ‘See to your lord,’ della Cadeneta barked at him, waving a cursory hand towards the lolling body of Berenguer de Santa Coloma. Arnau almost argued. Almost refused. Santa Coloma was that man’s lord too. Yes, della Cadeneta was a knight who outranked Arnau in society as a swan outranks a pigeon, but nevertheless the swine was not Arnau’s master to order him about so. His fingers tightened on the mace once more, but the sound of the Templar’s voice singing quiet songs of peace and glory robbed him of intent. Casting daggers with his eyes, he turned his back on della Cadeneta and walked over to where two other men were reaching up to try and lift the body from the saddle. Arnau went to their aid and another soldier joined them a heartbeat later. The four men lifted the body of the nobleman down and laid him upon the blood-soaked grass.

  He half-expected the Templar to be there again, but as they folded Santa Coloma’s arms across his ruined chest, instead the priest who had blessed them at the column before the battle appeared, standing in front of the body and administering the De profundis in a clear, musical tone, along with a single splash of holy water. One of the men laid out three cloaks atop one another, and with care and respect they waited until the priest had finished his rites and moved on, then lifted the body onto the cloaks and used them as a form of stretcher to lift the lord and bear him from the field.

  Half a mile from here, close to the great Ebro River, the wagons waited, along with the camp followers and the infantry. Back at the wagons, the Lord de Santa Coloma would be tended by the women, who would anoint the body and wrap it in one of the many shrouds awaiting the dead. There was little point in washing the lord yet, with a hundred miles of travel to go between here and Santa Coloma, but at least properly anointed and shrouded the body might retain some dignity along the journey. Burial would have to take place at the lord’s home, of course.

  Hefting the burden and slowly carrying Santa Coloma from the field of battle, Arnau’s gaze wandered across the grisly remains of Christian and Moor alike, all brothers in death. Now, as the heat of battle drained from him like the rapidly cooling bodies, those heretics lying mangled on the grass once more became a thing to be pitied. Especially with the knowledge that this particular personal tragedy could have been avoided but for the negligence – or even deliberate wickedness – of a Christian.

  Della Cadeneta.

  The man had better keep both eyes open from now on…

  Chapter Two

  Arnau climbed the chapel steps with a sombre expression to the accompaniment of dirge-like chanting from the ornate room ahead. Each step seemed to him to be a position in the hierarchy of Aragon. This heavy, worn stone was Arnau and the house of Vallbona, a small, struggling and poor fiefdom near Barcelona. The second step with the groove from some careless spur-wearer was the chapel’s owner, the Lord Berenguer Cervelló, who was currently being carried over it on a rich, fine funerary pall, wrapped tightly in white linen and smelling of strong, sweet spices to disguise the stench of a body brought a hundred miles under the Iberian sun. The third step, slightly less worn and with an ancient mason’s mark visible in the corner, was the Lord Bernat d’Entenza, to whom Santa Colona himself had owed fealty and who was a close confidante of the fourth and final step: Pedro the Second, Count of Barcelona and King of Aragon. The nearest thing on the Iberian peninsula to God himself. Steps to power, and sometimes to grief.

  Pedro the Second was not present, of course, for the funeral of his loyal knight Berenguer, who had died at the hand of the Moor in the service of his king. Pedro himself was far too busy establishing himself and his new rule, having succeeded only two years previously. Pedro, pious and in close league with the Pope, had enough on his plate, formulating plans to extend Christian control over Iberia, unlike his fellow monarchs Phillip and Richard who fought endlessly for control over their contested lands in France. Instead of the Aragonese king his favourite, and distant, cousin Bernat d’Entenza had travelled to the castle from his own fortress in Fraga. Arguably the most important and influential nobleman in the king’s court, it would be seen as a mark of the regard in which Santa Coloma was held that such a noble might attend, even without the presence of the king. One might also point out a loose familial connection between the great, departed Berenguer lying tight-wrapped and pungent on the bier and the bored-looking Lord d’Entenza, who would likely be the man to administer the estate of Santa Coloma now, with only a daughter to inherit, regardless of how shrewd and impressive that young woman might be.

  The bier reached the top step and was placed in the heart of the cha
pel while the various nobles, knights and men at arms took their places. The common folk stood outside in the courtyard, silently standing vigil for their lord. The chapel felt cold after the searing Catalan sun, and even in his heavy, fur-lined mantle displaying the rather obscure lion of Vallbona, Arnau shivered. His gaze played across the figures. Most were solemn, their faces downcast. Only five were not. Six, Arnau realised, if he counted himself.

  The priest, of course, busy eulogising the great lord, had an upturned face, eyes upon heaven, where Berenguer’s soul now resided, as his delicate voice drifted up in haunting tones to coalesce around the vaulted ceiling like smoke. Bernat d’Entenza, rather callously, had his scribe with him and was carrying out some unnamed business in whispered tones during the proceedings. Neither of them looked particularly sombre. Ferrer della Cadeneta, may the Lord send him rot within, had not once shown an iota of respect, his gaze repeatedly flicking between the preoccupied Lord d’Entenza and the last figure whose eyes had not once touched the ground.

  Titborga Cervelló, daughter of Berenguer and heiress of his estate.

  The lady of Santa Coloma had reached fifteen years of age only the week before her father’s death, though it would have been a blind and short-sighted man who considered her but a girl. Something of an enigma and a prize at once, she was already a year past the age when one would have expected her to marry, and yet, surprisingly, remained untrothed. Arnau had watched Titborga grow over the seven years he had served Santa Coloma, watching the young woman advance in leaps and bounds with every visit from his home in barren Vallbona. Possessed of the same wit and will as her father, she was a voracious reader and orator, able to talk rings around the most loquacious courtier. She had been an able administrator even by twelve, handling the estate in conjunction with her father after her mother’s passing. She was a mistress of the board at both backgammon and chess, as Arnau himself could attest. Blessed with smooth, pale skin and lustrous dark hair that fell in waves, she was a picture of beauty. And now she was the inheritor of the entire Santa Coloma estate. Her suitors would be queuing at the door once a respectful period of mourning had passed, probably sooner.