The Last Crusade

by S. J. A. Turney

  Arnau took a deep breath, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  ‘I will use the tools of the Devil himself if I have to, to do the Lord’s work. And what you see as revenge, I call justice.’

  The preceptrix was still shaking her head. ‘This goes against everything you swore when you joined the Order. I cannot allow you to do this.’

  Again, Arnau shook his head. ‘I shall cast aside my mantle, and these villains have already stripped you of your authority. In time, justice will come to de Comminges and Archbishop Rocaberti, to La Selva and even to the king himself, but for now I will see those I love saved from the wiles of the wicked.’ He turned to the others. ‘What of you, my brothers?’

  Ramon’s brow creased. ‘Better to live as a righteous man than a corrupt monk. I shall stand by your side, Arnau.’

  The preceptrix was still shaking her head, turning now to the two other knights. ‘No, Brothers.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Balthesar. ‘I have done questionable things in my time, but I have striven in my latter years to make my peace with God and walk a good path. If I cannot do that in this mantle, then I shall do it however else I can. I am with you, Arnau.’

  Titborga was nodding vigorously.

  ‘Then we must stop this now,’ Arnau said. ‘We must see de Mont and make sure nothing else happens here, and then confront our opponents. De Comminges is at Monzón with the king, but La Selva and the archbishop are here in Tarragona. We take our evidence to them and make our demands.’

  The preceptrix sighed. ‘In doing this we disobey all we have sworn to uphold when we took our Holy Orders. I cannot walk this path with you.’

  Arnau gave her a sympathetic look. ‘You would not be the preceptrix we all love and respect if you did. But once this is done, perhaps you can find a way to feel at ease with our actions. At least you will be alive to do so.’

  Turning, he nodded to the other two knights, and Balthesar stepped over and opened the door once more. Arnau was immensely relieved at the quality of the air as he re-emerged. The stand-off outside between La Selva’s captain and Montcada was tense, and became even more so as they appeared. Arnau turned to the enemy leader.

  ‘We are leaving. Whatever your orders, we will not let you stand in our way. The preceptrix and Sister Titborga will remain for now, but know that their sentences will be overturned shortly, and should any harm come to either of them, you will hang for your deeds.’

  Montcada raised an eyebrow and spoke. ‘I shall leave men here to make sure that does not happen.’ The captain looked to argue for a moment, but somehow the bristling belligerence of these mail-clad warriors of God and the looks upon their faces instantly stilled his tongue.

  Moments later, Arnau and Tristán, Balthesar and Ramon and the Lord Montcada were riding back along the dusty road to Rourell. They passed the small side gate this time and rode for the main entrance, where Arnau clanged the bell repeatedly.

  ‘Open up,’ he bellowed. In a matter of heartbeats, Brother Bernat was pulling open the gate, but as the five men made to enter, another voice called out.

  ‘Close that gate.’

  Before the worried sergeant could try and do so Arnau was there, heaving his horse into the gap and pushing the gate wide. Brother Jaume stood ten paces away, arms folded.

  ‘These men are no longer brothers of Rourell. Indeed, when their punishment as accomplices of the woman are announced, if they are not to die, I am convinced they will be ejected from the Order.’

  Arnau threw himself from the saddle, landing with a thud, handing his reins to Bernat and stomping forward towards Jaume. ‘Until that verdict is given, I have every right to be here, and your heretic master teeters with all the other conspirators. We need to see de Mont. Stand aside.’

  Brother Jaume made no sign of moving, and Arnau could hear the others dropping from their horses behind him. He stopped five paces from Jaume. ‘I say again, stand aside, for we will see de Mont, despite you.’

  Still Brother Jaume remained motionless. Arnau took two steps forward and the man put a hand to his sword hilt. ‘You had better be prepared to use that if you draw it,’ Arnau hissed.

  For the first time he could see a hint of uncertainty in the unpleasant brother’s face, though still he remained immobile, blocking their path. Arnau narrowed his eyes. To attack another brother was one of the most blatant crimes under the Order’s Rule, and if he lashed out at Jaume he was effectively ending his service with the Order. Still, the time was nigh, and that service was at an end anyway.

  Before he could act, however, suddenly Tristán was barging past him. Brother Jaume’s eyes widened and instinctively he was drawing his sword, but the squire was there first, right hand clamping around Brother Jaume’s and forcing the sword back down into the sheath, while the other came up in an uppercut of surprising force, given that it was delivered with the offhand. Brother Jaume’s teeth cracked together as his head snapped back and he fell to the dust, choking and swearing.

  ‘There,’ the squire grunted. ‘Now go.’

  Arnau did so, stepping past the prostrate knight, and the others were suddenly behind him once more. Striding across the compound towards the chapter house, it suddenly occurred to Arnau that this might very well be the last time he ever laid eyes upon Rourell. It had been his home for a dozen years now. It had been a place of sanctuary and a place of learning. He had grown into a knight of God here, had lost friends and defeated villains, but it had always been a good place in his heart. Now it had become sour, a place of bitter wickedness, all at the hands of others. He would not be sorry to see the back of it; as long as he could, in the process, protect those people who had made it what it once was.

  Striding into the chapter house, he found de Mont with Brother Guillem. The senior man straightened in surprise. ‘Brother Arnau, and all of you too. What brings…’

  Arnau waved him to silence.

  ‘Before nightfall, La Selva and Rocaberti will command you to overturn any verdict on the preceptrix. You will complete your work and destroy this house, but its people will walk free. Be sure that by the time we return, the preceptrix is unharmed.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Confrontation

  Tarragona, 10th October 1212

  Arnau, Balthesar and Ramon slowed their mounts as they approached the walls of Tarragona. Behind them, the three squires did the same. All six men were bedecked in clean and well-tended mantles, carried pristine shields, and all their armour and weapons gleamed. In short, they were the very aspect of the Templar Order.

  They had spent an hour at Rourell preparing, despite everything. Brother Jaume had apparently been knocked witless by Tristán’s blow. He’d been carried off, dazed and still swearing, by two of the sergeants and had promptly passed out the moment his head hit the pillow. Arnau’s squire’s response had been disappointment. Tristán had wanted him to stand up again and take a second wallop, after all. With Brother Jaume’s threat removed, they had felt a certain freedom in the preceptory. Oddly, while de Mont had expressed his concern that all of this was only going to make matters worse, he did nothing to stand against them, and as they washed quickly and changed and then finally made ready to leave, he had wished them well with a sad expression.

  ‘Our victory will mean your loss, of course,’ Arnau had said.

  De Mont had given him a weird smile. ‘Perhaps. But much of your victory, should it miraculously be such a thing, will be the responsibility of the paborda, rather than myself. I have done nothing but my duty, and I feel that this will be enough to see me through.’

  Arnau had, despite everything that had happened, wished the investigator good fortune in the days to come and, with a last look at his home of a decade, had left Rourell. The three knights and their squires had ridden with purpose but steadily, saving the horses. Between the sensible de Mont in charge of Rourell and Montcada and his men protecting the mill, it seemed very unlikely there would be any immediate danger to anyone there in their absence. />
  Arnau had considered collecting the evidence en route, but Balthesar had been against such a plan. It was, he felt, far too easy for the enemy to disarm them if they had the evidence with them. The paborda had to be aware they had the files after all, so he would know that they were not bluffing. They would be safer hidden in the hut.

  Approaching the gate of the city, Arnau felt odd that once more the two older knights deferred to him, settling in to ride at his shoulders. Twelve years ago they, along with Lütolf von Ehingen, had been oddly unassailable figures, so sure and so in control. Arnau had spent years feeling like the pupil beside these powerful men. That they now demurred and left him to lead them showed perhaps how much he had changed over the years. He was no longer the wide-eyed young knight who had followed a glorious Templar into battle. Now, he was that glorious Templar. Albeit only for a matter of hours now. He would face how he felt about that in due course; however, all three of them understood that the only way they could continue as brothers of the Order was to betray a good woman and to perpetuate lies. None of them was willing to do such a thing. What value the cross if its meaning had been dragged through the dirt? Still, they were Templars for the next few hours at least, and unto the very end they would revere the garments they wore and do justice to them.

  Evening was approaching now. Poetic, to Arnau’s mind – the sun setting on their last day as brothers of the Temple. The golden walls of Tarragona glowed in the last light, and the gateway sat like some sort of entrance to Hell, glowering from the stonework around it. As they approached, he wondered momentarily whether they were the same guards who had been deployed a few days ago to prevent their escape from the city. The chances were highly unlikely, yet he found the notion satisfying and hoped it was so.

  At the gate, traffic had slowed with the lateness of the day, and most of that traffic was coming the other way. It was a Saturday, and the next day would be the Lord’s Day, with the markets and shops closed, so even now preparations for the day of rest had begun. The two guards at the gate looked thoroughly surprised at the arrival of six Templars in full regalia. From the hesitant way they almost stepped out into their path, dithered, looked to one another, and then finally stepped aside, it seemed likely to Arnau’s mind that some kind of standing order regarding Templars remained with the city’s guards, but that the men were not sure whether it applied to stopping them coming in as well as leaving the city.

  Past the gate, they rode purposefully through the city. There was no dissembling now, no more secrecy. They were moving to an open confrontation. The city’s populace uniformly stopped what they were doing and drew to the sides of the streets as the riders passed, looking across to the six Templars with a level of awe. Past the cathedral they rode, past the tavern where Arnau had waited for his squire and the lock-breaker, and into the street where they’d joined the column of black-robed priests. The shadows were long now, and this street was a ravine of shade along which they walked their horses, making for the Castle of the Patriarch.

  The main door to the castle stood open as usual, soldiers standing to either side of it. Being the grand entrance to the building it stood much higher than a man on horseback, and, with relief, Arnau judged that a rider could easily pass beneath without leaving the saddle. Once again, the two men on guard looked uncertain about what to do at the approach of the six Templars, and finally began to step in to block the way.

  Arnau did not look around. He knew what needed to be done, and he knew the others would be with him, moreover that he needed to do it before Tristán became impatient and simply rode past to take matters into his own hands. He walked his horse forwards, all business, not slowing and could hear from the echoing hoof beats that the others were following suit. The two guards looked confused and then increasingly unsettled, calling out for them to stop.

  They did not.

  Finally, as a commotion arose inside, the two soldiers, still brandishing their weapons and shouting angrily, jumped out of the way of the seemingly implacable horses. This was a fortress, but more a symbolic one, a grand residence and a centre of power, rather than a military installation. The gates stayed open, guarded throughout the day, and were only closed at night – for who would assault such a place? As such, neither the two men outside nor their counterparts in the guardroom within, were remotely prepared to slam the gates shut. While the men inside reacted quickly enough, they were simply too slow, and by the time they were heaving the two gates closed, the riders were already walking their horses between them and into the shadowed interior.

  Entering the long and wide hallway, Arnau rode forward only far enough to allow the others to come in behind him and then drew to a halt. The place was in uproar now, administrators in richly embroidered tunics, priests in cassocks and habits and guards in the colours of the archbishop all running towards them, waving and shouting angrily.

  Arnau scanned the figures, seeking out the most important among them, and his eyes fell on the weird monk who had first admitted them to the castle days ago. He lifted his hand and pointed to the man; this had the strange effect of making the surging sea of angry men pause and turn to look where he was pointing.

  ‘You, sir,’ Arnau said. ‘We seek an urgent audience with Archbishop Ramon de Rocaberti and the paborda, Ramon de Sant Llorenç, Lord of Albiol and La Selva.’

  The monk frowned. ‘Audiences must be sought through the appropriate channels, and this is most improper. I…’

  ‘Are the paborda and the archbishop present in the castle?’ Arnau interrupted.

  ‘They are, but…’

  ‘But nothing. Please inform them both that a deputation from the preceptory of Rourell insists upon an immediate audience. We shall wait here.’

  The various figures in the wide hallway paused, tense, clearly not sure what to do. These six men had come in like invaders, yet seemingly upon official business. Their manner might be unacceptable, but no one was prepared to defy the Order of the Temple without good grounds.

  ‘I…’ the monk said again, then shrugged. ‘I shall be a few moments.’

  He hurried off along the corridor and out of sight, and while the soldiers in the hallway moved into a vague circle, penning in these riders, the rest of the monks and officials returned to their business – this sudden and surprising threat seemingly over. Arnau sat still in his saddle, along with the others, horses snorting and occasionally clopping a bored hoof on the flagged floor.

  It seemed an age that they sat there amid the glowering and unfriendly gazes of the archbishop’s men until finally the strange monk reappeared, gesturing at them. ‘The archbishop and the paborda await your pleasure.’

  Arnau dropped from the saddle and passed his reins to a surprised-looking guard, who took them with a frown. ‘Look after these. We shall not be long.’

  Behind him, the others all slid from their horses and followed suit. On foot now, they gathered in a small crowd close to the tufty-haired monk, and as he turned with a nervous twitch they followed him. He led them through unfamiliar corridors, and everywhere they went, any of the castle’s staff and residents who appeared from side corridors or doors pulled themselves up in surprise, waiting with wide eyes until the Templars had passed. Finally they arrived at a grand-looking door, and the monk stopped.

  ‘Please wait here a moment.’ Opening the door, he slipped inside, and Arnau turned to the others.

  ‘This is it.’ He looked at them each, individually. ‘I have to do this. And I suspect Balthesar and Ramon, you would say the same. You three, though,’ he gestured to the sergeants, ‘you have come this far as our squires, as much out of duty as desire, I’m sure. Once we have done this, such divisions will be meaningless and we cannot compel you to join us further. If you leave now, there is a good chance that a future still awaits you in the Order.’

  It had already been said before they set off from Rourell, each knight sounding out his squire, yet Arnau felt that it needed to be said once more, regardless. This was the point o
f no return.

  The squires gave him resolute looks in return.

  ‘My future lies elsewhere anyway,’ Tristán said flatly.

  ‘I owe my salvation to the preceptrix,’ Ramon’s squire added, ‘and have dedicated my last six years to the good Brother here. I am not about to abandon either of them, now.’

  A nod of agreement from Balthesar’s squire, and the matter seemed to be settled just as the door opened once more. This time, however, it opened wide and stayed that way as the monk stepped aside. Arnau nodded to the man and walked forward into the audience chamber.

  Clearly, the archbishop had made use of the time between learning of their arrival and their appearance at his door, for the room was lined with guards in both his livery and that of La Selva, in roughly even numbers. Rocaberti was clearly taking no chances. The six Templars, three in pristine white and three in black, all bearing their shields and with their weapons sheathed at their sides, stepped into the room, and once they were all inside, the doors were closed behind them.

  Despite him being so central to all of this, Arnau had only set eyes upon the Lord of La Selva briefly at the mother house of Barbera, and had never seen the archbishop in person. Somehow, now that he stood before them, he found that his mouth had gone dry and that he was considerably less certain than he had been moments earlier. Had they somehow made a mistake? These men were men of the Church. They were noblemen, more powerful even on their weakest day than Arnau could ever hope to be. Without the cross upon their breast, the six of them were little more than aging scions of faded houses, and nobodies in truth. Who were they to challenge such men? Would the archbishop simply snap his fingers and have the six of them killed out of hand? Or would he deny it all and leave them with a pointless challenge? It occurred, uncomfortably, to Arnau at this late moment that with all of them here, no one outside this room knew where the evidence was hidden. If the archbishop refused their demand and the six of them never left the castle, those incriminating files would simply rot in that ruined shed in the middle of nowhere.