‘De Comminges is in a meeting,’ a voice hissed. ‘You know what he’s like when he’s disturbed. Take them to Brother Esteban.’
‘They’ve come from the south. It might be important.’
‘All the better to keep it from de Comminges,’ snapped the other.
Arnau ducked back from the door just in time and was innocently checking his mantle for dirt as the sergeant returned. ‘Apologies for the delay, Brother. I was just checking where to… I was just… follow me,’ he said, finally, turning into the building.
As they moved into the entrance hall, the other brother closed the door behind them, sealing off the sight of their horses being dealt with by the house’s staff. Arnau quickly surmised that this place was a fortress long before being donated to the Order. It bore no resemblance to the monastic setup of a Templar house, though some effort had been made to turn the entrance hall into some sort of representation of the Holy Sepulchre.
‘Who are we going to see?’ Arnau prompted.
The sergeant remained silent as he led them past a busy staff of sergeants and servants and a few local turcopole mercenaries; there was a distinct absence of white-robed full brothers. Barbera would have sent most of its senior knights to Las Navas, just as Rourell had. That Rourell had experienced a full survival rate was astounding considering the punishment taken by the Order in that press. Barbera had lost its master, and it was the basic nature of all feudal societies that liegemen rush to help a stricken master. Most of the knights who went would have died alongside their master.
Up a set of stairs, they were led along a wide corridor and to a door. As Arnau and Tristán were shown to their destination, the sergeant knocked and entered without them to announce their arrival; Arnau’s gaze swept around the house. Men dashed hither and thither about their various businesses, but one in particular caught his attention. A door, some way down on the other side of the corridor, opened and an unexpected figure emerged. He was neither knight nor sergeant, surf nor turcopolier. What he was, was a man of middling years with a neatly-trimmed goatee beard and shoulder-length hair wearing the armour of a knight, and a surcoat bearing a green tree on a field of gold.
La Selva’s man!
Arnau tried to shrink into himself, to make himself less visible. Tristán, standing behind him, remained oblivious, watching the door, and was probably far less suspicious thanks to such innocent activity. Still, La Selva’s man was clearly intent on his own business and concentrating on his path, paying no heed to all those around him, walking on along the corridor and down the stairs without a look back towards the two men. Arnau heaved an immense sigh of relief as the man disappeared from sight and a moment later the sergeant reappeared and gestured for them to enter.
Arnau stepped into the room, Tristán at his shoulder, and the black-robed brother closed the door behind them, remaining on the far side. This was some sort of office, and Arnau looked around with interest. He’d seen enough Templar offices now to be able to identify the sort of occupant of this one. He was no master, for a master would shun such a crude space, yet it was far above a clerk’s room, and individual enough to clearly belong to a man with a specific and valued role within the house.
The figure behind the desk, wearing the white mantle of a full brother with his head bared, was exceedingly tall and broad shouldered, and yet there was an odd gentleness about his features, and when he moved, he moved with the sinuous manner of an acrobat, not that of a warrior. He was weird and enigmatic. That one of his eyes had a slightly milky look and did not track the room in line with the other helped little to make him a comfortable figure.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ Arnau began, ‘for seeing me like this.’
The man narrowed his eyes at Arnau and the squire, and then moved back jerkily to sink into a seat. ‘I am a busy man, but we get few visitors at the moment. I am overwhelmed a little by playing master in the house alongside my peers but perhaps, if it is not beyond my rank, I can aid you.’
Arnau nodded his understanding. ‘I must offer my condolences for the loss of your master. I did not know him, but I saw him fall at Las Navas, and he was clearly a brave man to the end, as were many of your brothers surrounding him.’
The man seemed to wilt a little. ‘News of his demise is still fresh, Brother, and the upper echelons have yet to decide upon a successor to take control of the house. Until we receive a much needed influx of staff and a new commander, we muddle through as we can. We are short-staffed and hop around Barbera like headless chickens. I fulfil some of the roles of master until I am replaced. Please excuse me. My name is Esteban de Riol, and I am the Drapier of Barbera.’
Arnau blinked in surprise. The drapier was a figure he had come across in Acre, a man responsible for the habits, mantles and other garments of the house and its satellites. This man would have been the one who’d sent Arnau his new white habit when he’d taken it. For a man somewhere in the middle of the pecking order to have achieved temporary mastery was telling of how many had died at Las Navas.
‘You are to be commended for stepping up to the role.’
Esteban snorted. ‘A task few would accept happily. All the responsibility with none of the benefits. And soon enough I will be dropped back into relative obscurity. My esteemed colleague,’ – the stress indicated no love lost there – ‘Brother Bernard de Comminges seems to think that command is naturally his and that the succession will fall to him. He shares the role with me for now, though he spends most of his hours looking north and dreaming of crusade and has little time for day to day realities.’
Arnau felt something shift in his logic and connections. De Comminges looked to crusade in the north? To the north, beyond the Pyrenees, lay the land of Occitania, the territory of the Cathars. For some reason, Arnau could picture this De Comminges as joining the enemy, fighting the army of God for the heretics, just as the baroness’s husband had suggested. It was entirely unfair, of course, but still he couldn’t shake the notion, and was suddenly immensely glad he’d been seen by Esteban instead.
‘I am afraid that I am here on somewhat delicate business,’ he started, then made a sudden and unexpected decision. He’d planned to approach his task through normal channels, hoping that those in charge were not part of some great conspiracy against Rourell. Now, aware that Barbera was more chaos than order, he decided perhaps he could brazen this one out instead.
‘The records concerning the various land acquisitions for Rourell that Brother de Mont is investigating? We need to collect all appropriate files and take them to the preceptory for the furtherment of the case.’
He held his breath. If he’d judged this wrong, that was an almighty mistake. Watching Brother Esteban, he was relieved to see more worry than anger on the man’s face.
‘Of course,’ Esteban replied. ‘Please, let me show you to the records’ section. You find us in something of disorder, I’m afraid. Normally I would have Brother de Mont show you, but since he is the man who sent you, the notion is somewhat farcical.’
He laughed in a tired voice, and Arnau joined in dutifully as Brother Esteban strode across to the door and motioned for them to follow him. As they returned to the wide corridor, something drew Arnau’s gaze back to the door he’d seen earlier. It remained open and now a knight stood in it, gazing away towards the stairs. He wore the white mantle of a full brother and had the build of a warrior. His hair was iron grey and though Arnau could not see his face from this angle, he felt there would be an almost feral fierceness to it. This, then was Brother Bernard de Comminges, the Templar who favoured a crusade in the north. Arnau frowned for a moment. He knew this man. The man had been at the court of Santa Coloma when Arnau had been but young.
He shivered as the man suddenly turned in the doorway and appeared to look straight at Arnau. Recognition coursed through him, for this was definitely the man he remembered, though older and somehow harsher. A younger and more naïve Arnau would have quailed at the sight, might have either fled to seek aid,
or rushed headlong into disaster. The man he had become knew that more was to be gained from remaining safely anonymous right now.
He turned away, trying to keep his movement casual and innocent, and followed Brother Esteban alongside Tristán. He could only imagine things going from bad to worse if that man was placed in full command of Barbera. Could he be behind the current troubles, along with La Selva? The men almost certainly knew one another, after all, even if Comminges was not a local demesne that Arnau knew. That he had frequented Santa Coloma suggested that his lands could not be too distant. Damn it, but conspiracies always had Arnau connecting threads all over the place, even when there was only supposition and guesswork behind it.
Brother Esteban led them through the house of Barbera, which seemed to exist in a case of permanent semi-organised chaos. Finally, he produced a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked a door, ushering them into the room. The library of Barbera was a grand chamber with a high, vaulted ceiling and several large arched windows that let in a great deal of light. One of them stood open, and Tristán wandered over to it and peered out as Arnau turned slowly, taking in the immensity of the task ahead of him. Every wall except the one with the windows was occupied by racks and shelves and cabinets, all filled with leather wallets and books and scrolls. Between two windows a vast map occupied the bare stone, covering territory from the caliphate in the south of the peninsula, across to the county of Provence and north to the lands of Anjou and Blois. The centre of the room was occupied by a large empty table, and from it yet more shelves radiated out towards the walls. There had to be thousands of records here.
‘I trust you know what you’re looking for, Brother,’ the drapier said, removing the key to this room from his ring.
Arnau sighed. ‘I do, but I do not know the system of filing here.’
‘It remains a mystery to me, also. Brother de Mont is in charge of the library. There are a couple of sergeants who help him from time to time and who might be able to help. I could send one of them to you?’
Arnau shook his head. ‘No, thank you though. I will find them.’ He could truly use help, but while he instinctively felt that he could trust Brother Esteban, he had no idea who else might be involved in all of this. Better to rely upon only himself and Tristán.
The drapier bowed his head and proffered the key. ‘Then I shall leave you to your work. The bells will call all brothers to service, and I presume you will be attending, though I shall understand if you are too deep in your work to break off. When you are done, kindly lock up and find me in my office and I will see you out, or arrange for rooms should you need to stay longer.’
‘Thank you again,’ Arnau said, taking the key as the smiling knight retreated through the door and shut it with a click.
‘An impressive view,’ Tristán noted, leaning out of the window. ‘This is the arched façade we saw from below, above the cliff. I can see right to the pass. Even with our current wealth, this place makes Rourell look like a country farm.’
Arnau nodded. ‘It is impressive, but let us not be distracted. That being said,’ he added, wandering over to the wall, ‘the map interests me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve been working out everything from memory so far, trying to mentally place the lands of names I know, and to actually have a good map laid out before me is interesting. See here how the daughter houses are all marked, including Rourell. There is no subdivision of the lands between noble houses, for it would become too cluttered, but see the land of our opponents are shown, Albiol and La Selva, and beyond, in the mountains, Mora d’Ebre and the lands of Castellvell. We are effectively surrounded by our enemies, when one adds Barbera and Tarragona to the milieu. Even locations as far afield as my own home and Santa Coloma are wrapped up in all of this.’
His eyes strayed to the north. In reality very little distance separated his ancestral lands, though they now belonged to the Order, from the troubled world of Occitania across the mountains. His gaze played back and forth across the land, taking in all those great names, some of which were as far afield as Catalan. Lordships and cities that he had visited in his youth, lands that had enjoyed a union with Catalunya and the county of Barcelona.
Albi. Beziers. Carcassonne. Tarbes.
His brow creased as his gaze stopped dead at one name just north of the mountains, deep in Occitan lands.
Comminges.
Suddenly, the notion that Brother Bernard de Comminges favoured a campaign in the north made a great deal of sense. He was one of the lords of that war-torn land. Arnau felt his skin prickle. Could the man possibly subscribe to the Cathar heresy, even as he wore the cross of the Temple? Such a thing should be unthinkable. The Order was the very sword arm of the Pope, after all, yet the more Arnau learned these days, the more he saw that the world of both Church and Temple seemed a vastly corrupt thing, pasted over with but a varnish of piety. Everything the peculiar Lord Montcada had said that had seemed so unlikely at the time now felt an awful lot more believable. Yes, that iron-grey brother becoming master of Barbera could only bring about disaster.
‘I think we need to get to our work and leave here, and soon.’
‘Why?’ Tristán wandered over to the map. ‘What have you found?’
‘The man effectively running this place is from here,’ Arnau said, stabbing a finger at the map over Comminges. ‘I think Montcada was right. I think there are elements in the Order who favour the Cathar heretics, possibly have even been working with them all the time against the Pope’s forces. Men like de Comminges who were, or still are, lords of Occitania. He appears already to be in league with La Selva because I saw that lord’s man just now. And if de Comminges is also to any extent in league with de Mont, then things have become ever more convoluted. Whatever the case, I do not want to be within the reach of de Comminges any longer than I must.’
‘Then let’s find the records we seek and leave,’ Tristán said, turning from the map. ‘Where do we start?’
Arnau sagged. ‘I have no idea whether there is a guide to all this or not, beyond the contents of de Mont’s head. Are they organised chronologically or by region. Or by house. Or… gah, this is dreadful.’
The squire squared his shoulders. ‘You know the names and the geography of this area. Wait here and listen.’
Arnau frowned as Tristán hurried off to one corner, where he peered into the racks.
‘Cabrianes,’ he called.
Arnau shook his head. ‘Don’t know that one.’
‘Pont de Vilomara?’
‘Familiar. Somewhere near Manresa, I think. North of Barcelona.’
‘What about Falset?’
‘In the mountains to the west of Rourell.’
‘Then they’re not geographically sorted,’ Tristán confirmed, ‘as those are all together in line.’
‘Do they have dates?’
There was a pause and a papery shuffling, and the squire finally replied. ‘Several dates, but I presume we’re looking for donations of land, so they would be the date of the donative. If that’s the case, then we can rule out chronological order, as the Cabrianes one was near forty years ago, and the Falset one less than a year.’
‘What about the Vilomara one?’
‘That’s not a donation record at all, but a legal case concerning ownership of cattle.’
Arnau sighed. ‘So they’re not organised by subject either.’
‘Wait,’ Tristán called. ‘Do you know Vallfogona de Riucorb?’
‘Yes, of course. Why?’
‘Because that name appears on all these files.’
‘Vallfogona is another preceptory. Another daughter house of Barbera.’
‘Then these files are all arranged by preceptory,’ the squire called with a hint of excitement in his tone.
‘So we need only find the ones connected to Rourell and we’re done.’ With that, Arnau hurried across to another set of shelves. ‘These ones…’ he pulled file after file out, checking the links, �
�… these are all the house of Conesa.’
Tristán had crossed to the racks near the end window. ‘El Pinetell,’ he called.
Arnau hurried along to the far end of the wall where he’d been searching and examined three of the files. ‘Albió.’
‘Ballocks, but Barbera controls some monasteries,’ shouted the squire. ‘This set is Montargull.’
‘Espluga de Francolí,’ replied Arnau. He moved to one of the free-standing racks nearer the table. ‘This is all Barbera itself.’ Moving from rack to rack, he found the same result. ‘Ignore all the free-standing ones. They’re all Barbera.’
‘Ah, shit.’
Arnau stopped, more at the tone in his squire’s voice more than the curse itself. ‘What?’
‘I don’t think you’re going to like this.’
The knight hurried over to where Tristán was standing by a set of shelves. ‘You found it?’
‘Yes. This is Rourell. But look at the shelves.’
Arnau did so and felt a wave of despair crash over him. Perhaps half the files were clearly missing. ‘Someone has already taken them.’ The two men began to rifle through what had been left on the shelves and after a while Arnau stepped back, snarling, ‘The records of donations are gone. Everything here is completely unconnected. There’s nothing here of any use to the cases at Rourell.’ A thought struck him, and he checked along a specific area of shelf. ‘And whoever did it has been thorough. All the donation records are gone, not just the ones involved in the disputes. Even the one of my own lands and those of Santa Coloma and the Lady Titborga. There is nothing here.’
Tristán slammed his hands down on the shelf, making all the files wobble and many fall over into the huge gaps. ‘De Mont is wily.’
Arnau stepped back again. ‘If de Mont has them, then he has them well hidden. How could he secure so many files in Rourell without us being able to find them? They weren’t in the office he’s using.’
The Last Crusade Page 9
