The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  The same scene was playing out across the tree line, but it took only a few moments of observation for Arnau to see what the enemy were doing. Montcada had been shrewd with his appraisal. The attackers were spread out, trying to keep the escort busy, while three of them tried to skirt around behind them, making for Arnau the only way they could.

  ‘Get off your horse, Brother,’ Tristán shouted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re a target for the crossbows. Get down out of view.’

  Arnau blinked at the realisation that his squire was quite right. Even as he slipped his feet from the stirrups and heaved his bulk around to slip down from the saddle, the second bolts came from the shadows. One grazed Arnau’s elbow, shredding the links of his chain shirt in its passage and leading him to drop unceremoniously and heavily to the ground. The second slammed into Tristán’s horse, which reared in pain, tipping the squire dangerously from its back.

  Tristán hit the ground hard, face up, bellowing in pain as Arnau landed in a heap of his own nearby. He had no wish to see his horse hurt, yet he was left with little choice. The archers would now have lost sight of him, but they would occasionally see his horse in the press and know he was behind it. It was only a matter of time before they shot the poor beast and removed his cover.

  He had no opportunity to pay attention to the fighting now as both he and Tristán struggled upright in time to see that one of Montcada’s men had been overwhelmed and dropped by the three attackers coming around behind them. One of them had slowed and was limping, shaking his head as if in a daze, the result of his latest conflict. That meant that Arnau and Tristán would have a man each. Despite trying to stay out of the fight, it seemed that battle had found them regardless.

  He ripped his sword free and prepared himself. Beside him, the squire did the same, replacing the shield on his left even as he stretched and winced at some injury from his fall. The men came on, and Arnau watched carefully. The injured man was lagging behind and could be ignored for now. The other two were eyeing Tristán warily, but both were clearly making for Arnau.

  As they closed, Arnau could identify no obvious weakness in either of them. They were professional soldiers, and neither showed an undue level of fear. They closed, and the one furthest from the river suddenly turned as they made their attack, slamming out at Tristán with his shield unexpectedly. The squire was taken off-guard, both men having thus far shown indications only that they would strike at Arnau. Tristán was knocked back and staggered a couple of steps, fighting to stay on his feet and hissing in pain, disoriented by the soldier’s strike.

  Even as the man effectively took Tristán out of the fight for precious moments, his companion lunged at Arnau. It was not a graceful attack, but had power behind it, and confidence, and had Arnau not enjoyed quite as much experience on the field of battle that he had, he might well have been struck by it. In the event, he managed to slip to the side enough to allow the blade to whisper through the air past him, harmlessly.

  As the man swiftly withdrew his sword, knowing he’d failed and realising that he was already dangerously over-extended, Arnau saw his opportunity. There was not sufficient room to cut with his blade, and the man’s chain shirt was long-sleeved, so as his arm was withdrawn, Arnau slammed down with the pommel of his sword and caught the limb in the crook of the elbow. The chamfered iron disc smashed into the chain and though it probably hadn’t broken bone, it effectively rendered the man’s sword arm useless, at least for the current conflict. As the man gasped and lurched away, the second man came for him, the wounded one at the rear now making to intercept Tristán.

  This man brought his sword up, but had a shield held out ready to prevent Arnau from taking advantage of the opening as his armpit became exposed. Arnau recognised that there was no easy opportunity here and threw his own shield up to catch the falling blade. Even as he felt the blow land with shoulder-jarring pain, he swept out with his own sword, low and trying to catch the man’s thigh. The soldier was prepared, though, and his own shield was there, stopping the blow. Behind Arnau he heard the piercing cry of a wounded horse and assumed now that another crossbow bolt had taken his mount, leaving him more exposed. However, he could pay no attention to the fighting over there, for he had his own troubles as the two of them stepped a couple of paces apart in their dance of death.

  Tristán was now busy with the third man, both of them injured and fighting carefully, warily. The man with the damaged arm was still staggering around, gasping and desperately fighting to maintain his grip on his sword.

  One on one, then.

  The soldier eyed him suspiciously as the two pulled apart and prepared for another clash. It was then that the man made his mistake, even though he carefully judged how not to do so. As he moved to attack he braced himself, stepping forward with his left leg, shield pulled tight above it, sword back and ready for a swing.

  Arnau held his own sword and shield ready, but slightly raised and jerked them even as he made his attack. The slight movement of sword and shield drew the man’s gaze, and so he did not see what was coming as Arnau took a single step forward and slammed his foot down on that of the man he faced. The soldier was wearing leather boots, but Arnau’s foot was encased in mail and he both heard and felt multiple bone breaks under his sole.

  The man’s eyes widened and he gasped, and Arnau gave him no chance to recover. He barged into the man with his shoulder braced behind his shield, knocking him off balance and, as the man staggered back, the Templar swung his sword, bringing it round at the chain coif-covered neck. Again he heard the snapping of bones above the shushing of the mail, and the man fell sideways, crying out in pain.

  Arnau stepped forward and swung again, relentlessly, striking the man once, twice, thrice, until with a bellow of fatal agony, the soldier fell. The Templar now turned to the man with the damaged arm, but that man had lost control of his hand and dropped his sword and was even now running, clutching his elbow. Turning back, it became apparent that the man facing Tristán was doomed. Even with some unseen injury, the squire was getting the best of it, his opponent fighting for his life. Before Arnau could get to him to help, the soldier had fallen, and Tristán was stamping on the grounded man in his usual belligerent rage.

  He took a deep breath and straightened, looking this way and that. It seemed that his horse had somehow survived the attack, and Montcada and his men had taken care of the rest of the enemy. No more crossbow bolts flew, and Montcada’s now-dismounted riders emerged from the trees wiping their blades, mute evidence of the two archers’ bloody end.

  A quick count revealed that two of the enemy had got away, the third – the man with the damaged elbow – staggering along the riverbank in their wake but already men were almost on him. The rest of the enemy were dead, and Montcada had lost three men in the process, a fourth gripping a broken shield arm and wincing. A heavy price to pay in any fight, but a surprisingly light one in the circumstances. Arnau was once more reminded that for all Montcada’s oddities, the man was a true warrior. He sat astride his horse, spattered with blood and sporting a deep cut on his thigh that he was busy binding with a torn piece of his shirt. The man looked up as Arnau approached.

  ‘I think the rest of our journey will be uninterrupted,’ he said.

  Arnau sighed. ‘I think so. I hope so. Thank you for your help. I fear that had we ridden straight for Monzón we would have met a similar force alone, and the chances of our reaching the court would have been virtually nil.’

  Montcada simply nodded his head in acknowledgement and went about tying his bandage.

  Arnau looked ahead to Fraga. With the enemy reduced to a brace of nervous men and one cripple there was little chance of there being an incident in town. And there would not be enough time for the enemy to reinforce their followers before they all reached the king tomorrow. Their way seemed to be clear at last, and finally, with this one last throw of the dice, perhaps Arnau could win the game after all.

  * * *


  Monzón was not the metropolis Arnau had expected. Being the home of the royal court, he had expected a Barcelona or a Tarragona, though it was, in fact, no larger than many small towns in the hinterland, and had been chosen for two reasons, only one of which Arnau had expected. Firstly, it was roughly halfway between the Aragonese capital and Barcelona, and neatly reminded all present that the current incumbent of the throne, like his recent predecessors and, God willing, those who would follow, was not only King of Aragon, but also Count of Barcelona and therefore de facto ruler of all Catalunya. The other reason, though, gave Arnau pause and he actually reined in as he looked up at the massive fortress that played host to the king and his court.

  The banner of the Templars fluttered over every tower. Monzón was a Templar stronghold. It had not occurred to him that his route to salvation might just lie within the fold of his enemy. He glanced across at Montcada.

  ‘If there are truly senior brothers who are as guilty in this matter as any, there is every chance that Monzón holds my enemies as surely as it holds my goal.’

  The nobleman gave him an odd sympathetic look. ‘While I would love nothing more than to use the influence of my bloodline and my past to open every door for you as surely as our company aided your arrival, my presence could only harm any meeting. I have never been popular at court, ever since the unfortunate death of my uncle the archbishop, and my chastisement and exile. Simply being here with you is enough to sour your case further, so I shall deliver the bodies to the nearest church, then quarter my men in the town at a hostelry in the square and you may find me there when you have saved the world.’

  His smile was strangely disarming, and Arnau squared his shoulders. ‘Thank you, my lord. I pray that this is the end of things and that with the truth revealed perhaps I can even speak of your part in it and go some way to repairing your reputation.’

  Montcada laughed. ‘I have long since learned not to wish for miracles, but I thank you for the thought. God go with you.’

  ‘And with you, my lord.’

  With a wave, the nobleman led his riders off towards the town square with the church at its centre and which lay below the massive, powerful bulk of Monzón castle. Arnau waited until they had left and took another deep breath. ‘This is it, Tristán.’

  ‘I cannot believe we will secure an audience with the king, Brother. It seems too high an honour. I had not wanted to admit that to myself throughout the journey, but now that we are at the end, I am left with little choice. We are but two poor brothers of the Temple, and between us and His Majesty stand not only the myriad administrators and courtiers that prevent access to the king for many, but also any lords that may be involved and are here, and now potentially also senior Brothers. I hope I am wrong, but this will take more than simple providence. This will only happen with a mountain of luck and ballocks the size of a bull’s.’

  Arnau chuckled. ‘Well mine are a mere man’s, but I’m starting to suspect that you might fall into that category. All we can do is try. There is nothing else. If we cannot win here, then there is no victory to be had anywhere. Time is up.’

  With another deep breath, the two men rode through the outermost gate that stood wide open, up the slope of the hill, curving around the approach road and towards the castle’s second gate. He wondered briefly if the king might remember him. They had sat together on the slope before the battle of Las Navas. Even if he did, would it count for anything?

  The guards at the gate were not Templars. Two men stood either side in the red and gold striped livery of the Crown of Aragon, and they eyed him with odd disdain. It occurred to Arnau that he probably didn’t look very impressive. He would be travel-worn and dusty, spattered with blood stains after the recent fight, and his horse wore no caparison of the Order. He looked, in short, something of a state.

  ‘I seek an audience with His Majesty. As a Brother of the Temple, you will surely admit me to the castle and point me in the direction of whichever functionary I need to speak to.’

  The two men looked at one another and shrugged. Their duty was as royal guards, and it was not their place to deny the entry of a Templar to his Order’s fortress, whether the king was present or not. In moments the gate opened and the two men stepped aside to allow him to pass. Arnau rode in through the arch with Tristán at his back, and as the gate shut behind him he realised just how strong this fortress was. At the top of a hill, he had already passed over a dry ditch and through two gates, and now a long passageway lay ahead, still at something of a slope, before hitting wide stairs that rose to another gate. Here and there he could see figures in either the red and gold of Aragon or the red and white of the Order. He began to marshal his arguments for access to the king.

  Slowly, they passed between the unfriendly gazes of royal guards and Templars, climbing the stepped approach to the upper gate. As they approached the doors creaked open, revealing the path to the uppermost level of the castle. The two brothers shared a look, for no one emerged from the gate, which suggested that it had opened specifically for them. Was that a good thing? It seemed unlikely.

  ‘Trust in the Lord,’ Arnau said quietly.

  ‘It’s not the Lord I don’t trust, and sadly the Lord won’t be wandering about up there, while the others will.’

  Arnau would have liked to have argued, but the squire’s sentiments were undeniable. Indeed, as they approached, he could see figures through the open gate, like a welcoming committee. Or a shield wall. Or perhaps both. Somehow Arnau felt his world folding up beneath him and leaving him nowhere to stand. Was he expected? Something was wrong here, and he could feel any remaining confidence he had enjoyed evaporating.

  As they reached the gate and passed within, his spirits sank yet further. The way to the heart of the building was blocked by men in the white mantles of full brothers and the black of sergeants. The Templars of Monzón, it seemed, awaited them.

  A brother approached and reached out his hand for their reins. Arnau said nothing, simply sliding from his saddle and handing them over as expected. With almost inaudible grumbling, his squire did the same, and both men stood there, expectant yet uncertain. One of the senior Templars took a pace forward and pointed at a doorway to their left, into a high and stark tower.

  Swallowing, and with a last look at Tristán for support, Arnau turned and walked over to the door. As he entered the building, it took precious moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim conditions within and when they did, his trepidation proved to have been well-founded. What remained of hope, finally drained from his body and soul.

  Brother Bernard de Comminges sat behind a small desk across the room, toying with a plain earthenware cup.

  ‘Come in, Vallbona, and your squire too. Sit down. You have much to hear.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Hope in despair

  Monzón, 6th October 1212

  The inner gate of the Templar fortress of Monzón closed behind Arnau and Tristán, and the pair rode their horses at a walk in dejected silence down the sloping stair, through the passageway and then the middle gate, which also closed behind them with an almost symbolic and mausoleum-like finality. Around the long, sloping road, and out through the open outer gate into the town itself. Arnau could feel the squire’s eyes burning into his back, but he had no desire to engage the man and further discuss what they had heard. He would have to relay it all to Montcada shortly, anyway.

  They passed miserably into the streets and made for the church tower that located the square where their escort was waiting. As they emerged into the cobbled space, where the day’s business had long since ended and only revellers and vagrants could now be found, Arnau’s heavy head rose, his gaze playing across the buildings, looking for a sign. He had no wish to prowl the town, checking each inn to find Montcada; fortunately, the thoughtful nobleman had draped a surcoat of Castellvell’s colours from the window of an upper floor in one inn, identifying it as theirs. The two men made their way across the square, noting the gate to t
he stables beside the building – Arnau finally spoke.

  ‘Stable the horses and take the packs, then meet me inside.’

  Tristán answered with only a grunt, but as Arnau dismounted and held out the reins, the squire did the same and grudgingly took the line, leading both horses to the gate. They had lost two beasts in the fight that dusk, Tristán’s mount and a pack horse, and now the squire rode the second pack beast. As the man took the horses away, Arnau straightened himself, trying to put on the best face he could, and strode into the inn door.

  Montcada and his five men were seated around a table beneath a guttering torch at the rear of the inn and close to a roaring fire. The wounded man sat with his arm in a sling, wincing every time he moved, yet managing to eat a bowl of meat and bread, while his companions chattered and drank wine. As Arnau crossed the room towards them, the nobleman turned and caught sight of him, rising from the table.

  ‘Brother Arnau, that was surprisingly swift. Royal audiences are usually lengthy things, even with just the preamble. Am I to gather that things went spectacularly well, or spectacularly badly?’

  The look on Arnau’s face must have answered the question, for Montcada gave a solemn nod. He turned to his men. ‘Eat and drink, fellows, though not so much that your wits are dulled on the morrow. The bill will be mine to pay, but not to excess. I must away in private to discuss matters with the good brother here.’

  As his men cheered his generosity, Montcada swept up two glasses and a jar of wine from the table and nodded to Arnau, walking towards the stairs at the rear of the building. ‘Your squire?’

  ‘Stabling the horses. It is too late to set out today.’

  ‘Quite. We have arranged accommodation already. I did not arrange rooms for you, though,’ he added as they climbed to the next floor. ‘I had assumed you would stay at the castle. This place is rather tightly packed this night, but we can find room among the men if you can cope with sharing?’