The Crescent and the Cross Read online

  At a command from a master, the gate was unbarred and unblocked, and the great wooden leaves drawn inwards for the first time since the early days of the siege. The Almohad escort had stopped with his own forces just out of crossbow range, but the small party of knights rode carefully between the shattered remnants of the defences which rose like rocky fangs towards Heaven. Three knights and a small guard of their vassals. As they approached, their expressions were grave, seemingly confirming just what Martin now expected.

  A frisson ran across his skin, a strange and unearthly feeling, a touch of the Divine upon his person, and he shivered at the meaning of it. He almost waited for the voice he knew was coming. The divine call that he had heard only once, but which had changed his life utterly, when an angel had come to him as a holy messenger whose voice had echoed within his head as clear as a sermon in church. He had been commanded by that divine voice to cast aside his earthly trappings and place his destiny with the Order. He had been in love with Joana, had dreamed of their future together at Alcaniz, and it had been no small thing to break their betrothal. But he knew without a shadow of doubt that the command had come from the Lord, and it had come to him and him alone, unheard by the others in the room. To have a destiny was to place one’s trust in the Lord.

  Now, he felt that same tremor. His head seemed to fill with a golden light and the warm echo of harmonious song. Then it came, once again in the confines of his head and without the requirement of his ears. A solemn and yet soft and soulful voice.

  ‘Therefore shalt thou serve thine enemies which the Lord shall send against thee, in hunger, and in thirst, and in nakedness, and in want of all: and he shall put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until he have destroyed thee.’

  Deuteronomy, twenty-eight, forty-eight. He reeled. No! How could he be asked such a thing?

  He was still reeling, feeling that terrible, wonderful, all-consuming presence, as the small party of Christians approached the gate, passed through and reined in before the assembled brothers of the Order. The grand master, commander of all the forces of Salvatierra, took a step forwards, bowing his head. The elegantly dressed knight on the lead destrier matched the gesture, then straightened, speaking with a clear, carefully-measured voice.

  ‘Grand Master Ruy Díaz de Yanguas, I presume? I am Álvaro Núñez de Lara, alférez to his Majesty King Alfonso the eighth of Castile.’

  ‘God be praised for your arrival, sir,’ the grand master replied, guardedly.

  ‘Yes. Well. The situation is unfortunate,’ the nobleman said with clear levels of understatement. ‘His Majesty had hoped to come to your aid and, indeed, to use this great defence as the trigger of a great adventure against the Moor. Sadly, the forces he managed to gather were insufficient to field against the enemy, and will remain so without the Papal Bull calling for a crusade that would bind so many disparate factions together.’

  ‘The king is not coming.’

  ‘His majesty’s army remains at Talavera. In a desperate attempt to break the siege and to change the balance of power in the region, his Majesty dispatched the infante, Prince Ferdinand, with a strong force to raid the caliph’s lands, attempting to draw him off.’ The nobleman winced. ‘The raid failed drastically, and the infante fell in the fighting.’

  ‘His Majesty has our deepest sympathy for his loss,’ the grand master said, without a hint of irony.

  ‘It is the belief of the court that Salvatierra cannot hold out until the spring, and there can be no attempt to bring relief to this place before that. I am afraid Salvatierra is lost.’

  The grand master’s eyes narrowed. ‘We do the Lord’s work here, even if we do so with one boot in the camp of the king. It is our duty as a bastion of Christ against the infidel to hold this place to the very last brother if we can.’

  The nobleman looked troubled now. He had clearly expected some resistance. ‘His Majesty wishes to remind you that this castle was his gift to your order after the loss of Calatrava to the Almohad menace. As such he feels that this gives him sufficient moral authority to request that you give up your defence of it.’

  ‘The king cannot ask such a thing of us. It would be an affront to God to bow to the yoke of the caliph.’

  ‘The king is better acquainted with the turning of the world than you, good Brother,’ Núñez de Lara replied in an odd mix of confrontation and conciliation. ‘He would no more wish to hand Salvatierra over to the Moor than you, sir, but there is more at stake here than a castle. In the coming months the Pope is expected to call for the Crusade. When that happens, Aragon, Leon and Navarre will join us, and possibly Portugal and the Franks. The Temple has already pledged their support, as well as the Hospital, and the Order of Santiago. The army that will march against the caliph will be the greatest Iberia has ever seen. It would be foolish to squander the King’s right hand, your Order, here in a hopeless folly when he will have true need of you on the battlefield in the days to come. We do not ask this lightly, but what the king requests is for the benefit of all.’

  The grand master still looked uncertain, unhappy. He glanced around at the gathered brothers, each of whom bore his own opinion openly on his face, all different, all conflicting. Martin knew what would happen. What must happen. He could still hear the final bars of that divine melody echoing around the back of his mind. He had to submit, and not only to the King’s order to surrender. Shalt thou serve thine enemies, the voice had told him, and that was most definitely not the king of Castile.

  It came as absolutely no surprise when the grand master finally gave a regretful nod. ‘It shall be as you say, Alférez, and I pray that this day will grant us the path to victory you suggest. Have you pressed for terms?’

  Núñez de Lara nodded. ‘The caliph is feeling merciful, or so he tells me. He has agreed to allow each member of the order to leave Salvatierra and return with us to Castile, carrying only what he can hold.’

  The grand master sighed. ‘We must leave the horses?’

  A nod.

  ‘This is a poor end to a devout defence of Christendom.’

  ‘It is not an end, Brother,’ the nobleman reminded him. ‘It is but a corner.’

  ‘Still it burns in the blood.’ The grand master turned slowly, addressing the gathered brothers. ‘You heard the alférez. We are granted free passage from this place with what we can carry. You know your duty. Do not delay. The caliph is a devious man, and may renege on his agreement at any moment.’

  Wordlessly, the gathering broke up. Each man went to gather what was important to him. As Martin Calderon marched purposefully through the midst of the chaos, he watched men dropping the crossbows, which were bulky and only of real benefit in a siege. They would gather their weapons, their armour, their robes and effects, and whatever they could carry of value. The civilians among them would gather what possessions they cared to save.

  Martin somehow knew, though, precisely what he needed to do. Broken by the yoke of the Almohad, he would have no need for sword and shield, for helmet and hauberk. Passing the entrance of the dormitories and the armoury, he walked into the spacious and austere chapel instead. The altar was basic and unadorned, the cloth upon it suited to a life of poverty and simplicity. The cross was no great gilt affair such as the bishops in the cities cleaved to. It was a simple wooden cross with an effigy of the weeping Christ upon it, and of all the more value for its plainness. Martin reached across the altar and gathered up the cross, hefting it onto his shoulder where he held it with reverence, hoping that this was no affront to the memory of the Christ who had carried a full-sized version around the Holy City to his place of execution.

  Moments later he emerged from the church with the cross, otherwise dressed only in his mantle and mail and with his sword still buckled at his side. As he passed through the gathering of brothers, each carrying arms and armour and gold and treasures to keep out of the hands of the Moors, he garnered looks first of confusion, and then, with the dawn of understanding, of respect and reverence.
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br />   It took less than a quarter of an hour for the entire garrison to assemble once more at the gate, each with their burden of gear and treasures. Many looked at him oddly, clearly wondering why he had a free hand when he could be carrying something of use or value. Only Martin knew why.

  He remained silent, preparing himself for what was to come, as the grand master gave the order and, at the heels of the royal embassy, the knights of the Order of Calatrava left their beleaguered fortress.

  Martin Calderon was a son of the True Church and a man of unbridled faith. Once, years ago, he had abandoned everything he had loved in his mortal life at the call of the Lord, and now he was being called to do it again. He had no idea why he must submit to the Moor, and the very notion both appalled and terrified him, but the Lord had spoken and commanded him to do it, and he was not going to betray the command of God. With luck, one day his brothers would understand.

  They emerged beyond the ruins of the outer defences and into that nerve-wracking open ground before the lines of the Almohad multitude. There was a truly strange silence. The breeze was barely noticeable and yet managed to blow enough to make a pennant snap flat, the sound echoing across the plain. That wide passage through the enemy lines remained. As they approached, the king’s man spoke quietly. ‘This is an uneasy peace and a fragile agreement. Offer neither insult nor resistance, lest you condemn us all.’

  In the silence of his head, Martin addressed the Lord. Please, Heavenly Father, do not bring suffering to these men for what I must do, for it is in Your name that I do it.

  In that weird, uneasy stillness the column of knights and their companions moved, the only sounds the occasional flap of a flag, the rustle and shush of men standing at attention and the crunch of boots on grit as the brothers of Salvatierra trudged, disconsolate but proud, between the ranks of the enemy who had kept them fastened up in the fortress for so many months. Of the few Moors among the refugees, two broke from the column and hurried towards the nearest Almohad commanders, hands raised in surrender, babbling placations in their own tongue. The others remained in place, trudging forwards, eyes locked only on the men in front, preferring subservience to a Christian to that of a zealot from their own kind.

  As they moved into the gap, Martin’s eyes strafed the lines of Almohad infantry. It did not take long to find what he was looking for. There were plenty of flags with the red and the black and white check design of the Almohad Caliphate, but here and there men stood with other banners. Green with a curved white sword, or, as the one he now locked his gaze upon, black with a white legend in the Arabic script. A holy banner to the enemy. As sacred to them as the cross cradled in Martin’s right arm.

  When he moved, it was suddenly and at speed. He had snatched the standard from the Almohad warrior’s hand before the man realised what he was doing, and then thrust it aloft as he walked forwards purposefully to rejoin his column. This was why he had needed a spare hand.

  ‘What are you doing?’ barked a regional master among the trudging knights.

  ‘They said anything we can carry, Brother,’ Martin replied in a flat tone.

  Consternation had broken out among the enemy ranks. The men were unsure what to do. They had been ordered to grant free passage to these Christians, but this constituted an insult to Allah on high. Before any commands could be given, half a dozen Almohads in mail broke ranks and rushed Martin, bowling him over and knocking him to the ground before he could reach his compatriots. Brothers in the stumbling line turned, ready to leap to his aid, but all around them the Almohad host was tensed, hands going to sword hilts and spears tilting towards them.

  ‘Hold your places,’ snapped the king’s emissary. ‘Your man has damned himself. Help him and you risk us all.’

  With a distasteful expression, the grand master echoed the nobleman’s command, forbidding his men from falling out of line. His one concession was to turn and call to Martin.

  ‘Bow your head, give your apology and beg for freedom.’

  But Martin Calderon had no intention of doing any such thing. He had his own orders direct from Heaven, and they superseded any Earthly command. Instead he lay on the ground, tucked into a ball, curled around his cross with his fingers still gripping the Almohad standard tight. He held on until long after his brothers had all passed and found their freedom. He held on until he was bruised and barely conscious from the beatings that rained down from all sides. He held on until all he could hear was hissing in his ears and the thunder of his own pulse.

  Then came a command in Arabic and he was hauled to his feet, numb fingers now unable to retain either of the two sacred burdens. The banner was lifted by a man with a wedge-like, unforgiving face, and turned until the butt of the staff faced Martin. The stout ash pole smacked into his forehead and everything went black.

  2. The Call to War

  4 June 1212, Rourell Preceptory, Catalunya

  ‘Bastard!’

  Tristán spat dust out in clumps and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he spun and brought his sword up one more.

  ‘Control your temper, and your tongue with it,’ admonished Arnau de Vallbona as he tightened his grip on his shield and swung his own blade a couple of times to loosen up his wrist. His new squire was good at what he did, but his anger would land him in trouble, had done a number of times, in fact. He was still too impulsive, and no matter how much Arnau tried to coax, persuade or just plain batter it out of him, it remained a driving force in the young man.

  ‘Apologies, Brother,’ Tristán grunted. ‘An automatic response when I swallow half an acre of soil.’

  ‘Take it slow this time. We’ll mime it out and I’ll try and show you where you went wrong.’

  The two men separated and stepped back, Tristán still spitting grey muck. A moment later Arnau nodded at the squire and took a step forwards, shield coming up facing him, shoulder forth as though ready to barge his opponent. Tristán loped forwards, trying to keep to the same slow step as they moved through the action once more, this time in slow-motion practice. Arnau closed, sword held back but ready to swing, shield still braced and facing his opponent. As he neared, Arnau brought his sword up and forwards. Instinctively, Tristán’s shield came round to take that blow, his own sword coming up ready to rain down a blow on Arnau’s head. At the last moment, the older Templar pivoted on his left leg, his sword arm dropping back and his left hand now punching out with the shield instead of bracing behind it. The shield swept around, slamming into the squire’s own shield and sword together, knocking him off balance and sending him lurching, even in slow motion, off to his left.

  As Tristán dropped to a knee, cursing beneath his breath in the belief that Arnau couldn’t hear him, the older knight simply dropped his blade until the point rested on the squire’s shoulder.

  ‘It’s over again. Now what did you do wrong?’

  ‘I wasn’t fast enough. I should have moved quicker, then my sword would have been out of the way.’

  ‘No. I already knew what I was going to do, and I could see how you were moving. I knew how you were going to react, and I’d just have moved faster and done the same thing. Your problem is that you are reacting with instinct and not sizing up your opponent. I already saw how you would move, while you simply waited for me to come and then tried to block me. I was like that once upon a time, Tristán. A German knight taught me at great length how much is to be gained from paying attention to your opponent.’

  He stepped back and waited for the squire to rise. ‘Look at me. What can you tell from how I stand and how I bear my arms?’

  Tristán frowned. ‘Your sword is back. You’re not committed to any single strike like that. You could bring it up and over, around, almost anything but a lunge. Your shield is on your shoulder, braced as though to take a blow. You’re in a defensive position, but able to turn that to an attack.’

  ‘Good,’ Arnau nodded, ‘but despite having seen me do it three times now, you’ve missed the critical thing. Watch as I step forwards
. Watch my shield.’

  The squire did so, narrow-eyed in the morning sun. Arnau took two steps forwards, and Tristán bit his lip. ‘Your shield is loose.’

  ‘Precisely. You need to spot details like that. If my shield was truly braced on my shoulder, I would have my arm through the first strap as well as my fist gripping the second. Pressed against my shoulder, it would be locked there. That it moves as I step tells you that no matter what it might look like, the shield is not braced.’

  He stopped and turned, holding out the shield. ‘I have only a grip on the strap. I am using it more as a buckler than a body shield. That means that I am free to manoeuvre it unexpectedly, to swing it round and punch your weapons aside with it. If I had my arm through both straps, I could only swing it outwards, not across in front of me.’

  ‘But that’s cheating,’ Tristán said defensively. ‘You could only do something like that if you plan ahead – if you have an idea of who you’re facing. In battle you couldn’t possibly leave your shield so unsteady.’

  ‘There are differences, my young friend, between battle and a sword fight. True, in battle much of what you learn in your training here will be moot, because there is neither time nor space to employ such measures, but there are three reasons you must learn, regardless.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Firstly, and take it from me that this is God’s plain truth, there will be times in life when you find yourself pitted in combat against a single opponent, and when you do, it is likely that your life will be at stake. You need to be able to employ every manoeuvre, and even every underhanded trick you know, to win. Secondly, it is a matter of discipline. You may not be able to employ all of what you learn on the field of battle, but regardless, you will have learned to be adaptable, innovative and observant, and that is worth more than a lance of cavalry. And thirdly, because I command it, and one of the prime tenets of the Order is obedience.’