The Crescent and the Cross Read online

  D’Orbessan had interjected then, to Arnau’s dismay. Echoing Tristán’s earlier stance, he laid out a flat statement. ‘If they must be tolerated in your land, they should be made to take the cross and renounce their heathen ways. Accepting them in your midst while they worship their Satanic cult casts a pall across your order and hints at greater corruption.’

  Arnau had started to argue, but the number of heads nodding at the blond knight counted more than just the seven who usually clustered together. To push a notion of necessary tolerance was only going to be met with further resistance, he realised, and even worried that having said as much as he had, he had turned more men against him. He had to accept that he was not going to change their minds. The Franks had never had to live with the followers of Allah amongst them as had the kingdoms of Iberia and Sicily, Outremer and even the Byzantines. To the Franks, so distant from these troubles, the Moors were all one people, all an enemy.

  As they’d left to return to their own rooms that night, only some preternatural awareness had allowed Arnau to leap to one side as the piss bucket was emptied from a window above. A glance up had showed just a glimpse of blond hair as the bucket was withdrawn.

  For the majority of the journey that followed, the two Templars had managed to stay away from the troublesome knights, though trouble arose once more a few days from their destination at the town of Alcala. As the baron’s entourage dispersed to lodgings, Arnau caught sight of d’Orbessan and his cronies and could sense the potential of trouble just from the look on the man’s face. Alcala had been a Christian city within Castile for less than a century, following near four hundred years of Moorish rule. The buildings, with the exception of the churches, were still very Moorish, and would look utterly alien to the Franks. Moreover, the population of the place contained a high proportion of folk of southern colouring and with a tendency towards elements of Moorish clothing.

  The blond knight and two of his men stood in the square for a time as their travelling companions dispersed, the two Templars watching from the shadowed doorway of their own lodgings. Their gazes fell upon a figure emerging from a door across the square, his long robe of saffron yellow in a Moorish style, his head bare but face adorned with a neatly-pointed, very Moorish-looking beard.

  As the man disappeared along a narrow street from the square into the evening shadows, the three knights turned to follow him. The two Templars exchanged looks, a question from Tristán that Arnau answered with a nod, and they hurried across in pursuit. By the time they were into that narrow, darkened street, they could hear voices up ahead, some in the Frankish tongue and one desperate sounding one in Castilian.

  Hurrying on, Arnau heard a rasp from behind him and turned to see that Tristán had begun to draw his sword. ‘No. If blades are drawn, blades will be used.’ The squire slid his sword back into the sheath as they ran, turning a corner to the clarity of the voices. The three knights had cornered the man in yellow, swords up threateningly as they demanded he confess his heresy. The men looked around at the sound of the new arrivals and their voices trailed off. As their speech died away, Arnau could hear the frightened babbling of the local.

  ‘Leave the man,’ Arnau said with a certain force to his tone.

  ‘Another of your Moorish friends to protect?’ d’Orbessan sneered.

  ‘You know so little of this land, you Frankish boor. That man is no more a Moor than you. He is telling you so, but he speaks his own tongue and not yours. If you knew the difference between Castilian and Arabic, you’d be able to tell.’

  ‘This man is a Moor-lover at best,’ d’Orbessan spat. ‘Look at him.’

  ‘All I see is an innocent man facing the swords of three ignorant, blind butchers.’

  Now, d’Orbessan spun to face him, sword still in hand. ‘If the baron had not taken such a shine to you, I might be tempted to put a blade through you here and now and leave you in the alley for all your Moorish friends to find. We have come a thousand miles to save your land from the heretics, and at every turn you laud them and tell us how valuable they are. I have always had my doubts about the Templars, even in my homeland. Who knows what you do in your private little castles. But here in Iberia it is clear that you consort with the enemy. How the kings can trust you enough to invite your swords to this great endeavour, I cannot imagine.’

  Arnau smiled. As the man had busily denounced the Templars, Arnau had watched the yellow-garbed man sidle quietly away and slip off into the shadows. At his grin, d’Orbessan turned and snarled in anger. ‘See how he helps the enemy,’ he sneered to his friend, and then sheathed his sword and jabbed a finger at Arnau. ‘For now the baron shelters you, but one day you will not so enjoy his favour, and you and I will revisit this debate at the point of a sword.’ With that, the three Franks turned and walked away, and Arnau and Tristán heaved sighs of relief at an incident averted.

  Finally they had reached Toledo and now they could forget about the Franks and go about their true business. If the count was right, and it was likely to be so, given the information to which his rank would make him privy, the kings intended to march south with the army before the end of the month. Perhaps as little as a week from now, and certainly no more than two weeks. That somewhat limited Arnau’s timing. He had examined a map at Rourell before they left and from what he could remember, Cordoba would be a good four-day journey from here at best, and that was if they could use main roads and stay in plain sight. Timing would be very tight, and the last thing they wanted was to find their quarry and return with him north just in time to walk into the middle of a war from the enemy’s rear.

  ‘To the Templar encampment, then?’ Tristán said.

  Arnau nodded. ‘We must show our faces and report in, but we must also inform them of my intention to depart almost immediately. It will not be well received, I fear, but they will not argue with my adherence to the commands of my own superior. Then I think we need to look for the Order of Calatrava. I have been struggling with the decision as to whether to reveal to them our task or to maintain our privacy, but I have come to the conclusion that the mere physical description of Calderon we had from Amal and Joana might not be enough. There will be among the knights of Calatrava gathered here men who knew Calderon well. We would be best served visiting them first before we head into the unknown.’

  Tristán coughed. ‘You will also need supplies.’

  ‘I will acquire them, or rather you will. Come on.’

  They rode into the massive camp, ogling the canvas city around them and its life and activity. The majority were Castilian, Aragonese or Navarrese knights gathered into clusters around some bishop’s banner or high noble’s tent. After some time making their way through the camp, Arnau spotted the royal banners of Aragon, though he was sure the king himself would be in the city, along with most of the royalty and high churchmen. Skirting the well-protected royal cluster, he finally spotted the white banners with their red crosses, marking the Templar encampment.

  Approaching, he was given a simple bow of the head from two knights in full battle array, including closed helmets that gave them a golem-like, inhuman appearance, with their silent acknowledgement. Passing inside they found two brothers playing chess on the top of a barrel, each seated on a low folding stool. The men looked up as the two newcomers approached.

  ‘Good day, Brothers,’ said one of them.

  ‘Well met,’ Arnau replied. ‘We hail from Rourell, a Catalan preceptory, ahead of the main column. I need to speak to someone senior in camp?’

  The knight shrugged. ‘The senior masters are all with the king on the hill. The man left in charge here is Master Riperto of Puig Guigone. His tent is the one you can see just to the left of the stack of lances.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Arnau nodded. ‘And the stables?’

  ‘There’s a corral over there,’ the man said, pointing. ‘Watch out for the black cloaks, as they share the corral.’

  Arnau thanked the man and the two brothers walked their horses on, fol
lowing those last directions. As they moved on, Tristán drew close. ‘Black cloaks?’

  ‘Knights of the Hospital,’ Arnau clarified. ‘We’re not always on the best of terms.’

  ‘I’ve heard as much.’

  The corral was easy enough to find, a two acre fenced-in area of grazing land that had already become largely denuded, hay piled in stooks around the edge, each clearly marked with a red cross on white or a white cross on black to denote its ownership. Half a dozen sergeants and two full brothers in white mantles stood deep in discussion close to the corral gate. Even as Arnau approached, his attention was drawn to a commotion at the far side of the corral. A man in a black mantle with the white cross of the Hospitallers was busy relieving himself into a hay stack marked with the red cross insignia, while two white-robed Templars ran towards him bellowing at him to stop.

  Arnau shook his head. It was no wonder the Moor had managed to secure control over so much of the world when the Christians, even the Orders devoted to the Lord, could not even stop bickering among themselves over the most paltry of things. Ignoring the altercation, the two new arrivals approached the small knot of knights and sergeants. Minutes later, having delivered their mounts and pack horses into the hands of the sergeant responsible for the corralling of Templar steeds, they shouldered their bags and strode off towards the tent of Master Riperto.

  The Moorish slave who stood outside the tent could not possibly have felt more out of place than here in this sea of Christian military. He wore a simple brown smock and his eyes narrowed at their approach.

  ‘We need to see the master,’ Arnau announced. ‘Brother Vallbona and his squire from the preceptory of Rourell in Catalunya.’ The Moor nodded his head and then disappeared inside. Moments later he reappeared and beckoned for them to follow.

  They entered the gloomy interior, blinking away the brightness of the summer sun. The tent was plain and set up more like a command post for campaign than living quarters. Master Riperto stood musing over a map hanging from the far wall, and the two men came to a halt in the middle of the tent and waited patiently and respectfully.

  ‘That has to be our ultimate goal,’ the master said suddenly, tapping the map.

  ‘Master?’

  The man turned. His face was pale and aquiline, his beard a deep red and his ginger hair clipped close. He looked rather tired. ‘Ishbiliyya,’ he said, still tapping the map. ‘Ancient Hispalis, the capital of Al-Andalus under the caliph. It is no good advancing our borders mile by mile as the temporal lords advocate. That way centuries of attrition lie ahead. We should carve deep into the Moorish heartlands and take their capital. First Ishbiliyya, then Qurṭuba, Qartayannat, Ġarnāṭah and then Qādis and Mālaqah. Drive the entire menace into the sea and across the strait to Africa. A full reconquest or nothing. For so long we have been plagued by division among the Christian ranks and only able to expand in slow stages. For once we have a grand force assembled by Papal order, and we have the strength to deal a crucial blow. We should not delay, but should crush them while we can. If we do not make what we can of this now, we may never have another chance.’

  As his voice rose with each name, the master’s finger zigzagged across the map, ever southwards until it hit the sea. Arnau felt stirred by the notion, the very idea of a fully Christian Iberia, but something unnerved him. In some odd way this man reminded him of Bochard, the dangerous preceptor who had caused so much trouble in Constantinople. It all sounded good, a grand ideal and even perhaps sensible, but something about the man’s manner spoke of the same sort of blind zeal as led the Almohads to their all-consuming war on Christendom.

  Arnau cleared his throat. ‘Master…’

  ‘Yes.’ Riperto spun to face them. ‘Of course, forgive me. Recent councils of war frustrate me. You are from Rourell, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘An aberration, Rourell. A preceptory that many say should be removed. For myself, I see no reason why the fair sex should not be allowed some authority within the Order, though in a nunnery, not a preceptory.’ He shook his head and huffed. ‘Apologies again, Brother. I am all at odds. What can I do for you?’

  Arnau chewed his cheek. ‘I am presenting myself to you as senior commander at Toledo, Master Riperto. I am engaged upon a private quest for the preceptrix and am not part of the Aragonese and Catalan contingent, who will be following on close behind me.’

  He tried to ignore the bitter look from Tristán, who clearly felt devalued by not being included.

  ‘The start of such an important campaign is not an appropriate time for our sword arms to be sent out on personal matters,’ Riperto replied. ‘This is highly unorthodox.’

  ‘It is my great hope to resolve my quest speedily and return in time to take my appropriate place in the forces of Christendom.’

  ‘You will be leaving straight away? Are we to learn your destination?’

  ‘I fear not, Master. My squire here will remain in the camp and await the rest of our preceptory’s arrival, but I will leave as soon as I have gathered supplies.’

  ‘Which, no doubt, you would like me to provide.’

  ‘If it is not a trouble to you, Master.’

  ‘Oh, it is. But I shall do so nonetheless. What do you require?’

  ‘Food and water for a week’s travel would be preferable.’

  The master sucked his teeth and then bent over the desk, dipped a quill and scribbled something quickly on a piece of paper, then held it out. ‘Take this to the stores and they will see you equipped.’

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ Arnau replied, grasping the paper.

  ‘Hurry back to where the Order truly needs you when you are done.’

  Arnau bowed and the pair backed out of the tent.

  ‘That could have gone better,’ Tristán muttered as they emerged into the warm summer air, ‘and I don’t like the idea of slumming around here waiting for the others while you ride off to certain death.’

  ‘It could also have gone a lot worse, and you need to stay here. You don’t look Moorish, can’t speak Arabic and… and you have a tendency towards outbursts. I cannot afford to take you with me. Now take this.’ He handed the chit to the squire. ‘We still have half a day of light left and no time to waste. I am bound for the Order of Calatrava. Go and secure our supplies and then meet me back at the corral as soon as you’re done. I want to be on my way south as soon as possible.’

  Tristán took the note and left, grumbling as he went, hunting the store compound. Arnau spotted the nearest full brother, delivering instructions to a sergeant, and walked over. The man was happy to direct him to the Order of Calatrava, with whom the Templars had no arguments, and moments later Arnau was leaving the Templar camp and making for the banner with the ornate red cross ornamented with fleur-de-lys. In truth, were it not for the florid shape of the order’s cross, it would have been hard to tell that he was no longer in a Templar camp, so similar was it all. Brothers in white mantles strode around, nodding their greeting to Arnau when they spotted him, standing out as he did only by the plainness of his cross, and perhaps the travel wear of his cloak.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he called out to a pair of such men.

  ‘Good day, sir knight.’

  ‘Good day. Perhaps you can help me with an odd request, Brothers? I am trying to locate any men who were at the siege of Salvatierra.’

  One of the knights of Calatrava snorted. ‘Throw a pebble, Brother, and you’ll hit five. Why?’

  ‘I am seeking information about one of your men who took part in the siege.’

  The two knights shared a look, and one beckoned as they turned and strode over to a cook fire where the smell of frying pork made Arnau’s mouth water. ‘Perucho here and myself were both at Salvatierra. The “saviour of the land” indeed! We endured ten weeks of barrage and assault and walked away with nothing but our swords and our pride at the king’s call, so that we could be here now.’

  ‘I understand,’ Arnau said. ‘I have no wish t
o force you to cast your memory back to that surrender once again, but I am seeking one of your number, a man who was there, but who appeared upon the list of the fallen.’

  The two men frowned at one another and then turned back to Arnau. ‘If he fell, then he will be in the ground at the castle, way behind the Moorish lines.’

  ‘For now,’ added his companion, crossing himself.

  ‘Yes, for now. Salvatierra will be an early target of the crusade. Perhaps then you can pay your respects to your friend.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Arnau said, worrying about revealing too much, ‘we do not believe that he is dead.’

  The more talkative of the pair sucked his teeth and scratched his head. ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘Brother Calderon.’

  The two men stepped back, one folding his arms. ‘Calderon? You seek Martin Calderon?’

  ‘Yes. He cannot be dead, for he sent a letter to a former amour who now serves at our preceptory.’

  ‘A letter? And you are sure it is from him?’

  ‘Almost certain, yes. His once-betrothed believes it to be in his hand. Why? What happened to Calderon?’

  ‘He threw away his life. As we marched away from the castle, he attacked the Almohad bannermen and stole one of their holy flags. They take as dim a view of that as we do when they defile the cross. The last we saw they were beating him to death in the sand even as we walked away.’

  ‘We wanted to help him,’ the other man said, ‘but tensions were high, and the king’s man would not have us risk everything over one brother. The caliph was close to having us all killed, I fear.’