‘And Father Diego? How did he come to discard the sergeant’s robes?’
Balthesar nodded. ‘We were at Alarcos together a few years ago. Many Templars were. It was perhaps the most appalling battle of all time, and certainly the worst in my memory, even considering what I lived through in Valencia. Whatever had driven Diego to seek the sword, he laid it to rest on the field of Alarcos. When he returned to Rourell with our despondent, beaten column, he became a simple priest once more, attending to our spiritual needs.’
‘And the Lion?’
Balthesar smiled. ‘It would be nice to say that I fought him on that field and that I achieved some sort of vindication. But the simple truth is that I never even laid eyes upon Abd al-Azīz at Alarcos. It is the battle where he made his name, though. At Alarcos he became the Lion, as I had become the Pious Killer at Valencia. We never met on that field and he returned to Almohad lands in triumph while I limped north in defeat. In truth it has been three or four years since I gave any thought to the man. I assumed him to be busy plotting his part in the next great expansion of his caliphate. But then, that was perhaps not so wide of the mark. Perhaps he was, for here we are in the last taifa – the lands of the last independent emir – and so is he. Where else would the Lion of Alarcos be than the one land that holds out against the caliphate? Mayūrqa is his new Valencia. So is it bad luck that he and I are here, Arnau, or is it fate?’
Chapter Six
Sunday, 6 June 1199
Somehow the revelations of the previous day had not brought the clarity and focus that Arnau had expected. There had been such mystery surrounding the history of Brother Balthesar and the man known as the Lion of Alarcos that Arnau had expected, when he knew the answers, that all things would fall into place. In fact, little had changed, though now perhaps he understood more of why they had not.
They were still hunting the relic of a saint which had been lost to human knowledge for seven centuries, and it still seemed like a pointless and doomed exercise to the young sergeant. And though he now knew the history of the Almohad lord and his connection to Balthesar, it did not alter the fact that they were still on the island together and that the Lion posed the most appalling, constant threat to them. Furthermore, it would appear that if Abd al-Azīz was here on the island, then Mayūrqa was plunging into the same disastrous struggle as Balthesar had lived through in Valencia: the unforgiving, conquering might of the caliphate and the struggle of the beleaguered taifa to remain independent. That thought alone was far from encouraging.
But the most important concern right now was that they were poorly provisioned, crossing a difficult mountainous wilderness on beasts that had very definitely seen better days, following Balthesar’s approximation of a route that might once have been taken centuries ago by a priest they only knew by name, and who had disappeared without trace. It was not a reassuring thing upon which to ponder, and the uncertainty was at the heart of Arnau’s growing disaffection with their quest.
They rose the next morning in that rocky dell with the charred remnants of the rabbit’s carcass over a pit of ash, ate the few parts of the previous day’s bread that were not so stale that they resembled the surrounding rocks, drank sparingly from water flasks the old man had bought in Al-Bulānsa, and set off once more into the wild, hungry and thirsty.
The terrain did not change. The path meandered along the edge of frightening drops and occasionally crossed ridges with the most astounding view where tantalising glimpses of the sea could be seen to the north between high, grey, severe-looking peaks and crags. Those same weird rocks jutting from the ground became ever-present, and the road occasionally wound between them.
The morning passed in relative silence, with only occasional exchanged pleasantries against a background of humming bees, chittering birds and rasping cicadas. Balthesar had seemingly used up all his words in the telling of his tale the previous day and, now rather taciturn, seemed unlikely to launch into further dialogue. Even if he did, Arnau did not feel up to it anyway. His own morale was suffering too much for light conversation.
Why had the preceptrix agreed to send them on this fool’s quest? Why did Balthesar not see the lunacy of it? The uncomfortable thought struck him that perhaps Balthesar simply needed time away to finish healing and this was his excuse, and that perhaps after all the trouble he had brought to Rourell, the preceptrix was trying to get rid of Arnau for a while. While he continually brushed that idea aside as unworthy and unlikely, it kept creeping back in like a thief in the night.
They plodded on in silence, and as the sun began to climb high, filling these valleys with sizzling warmth, the next major worry began to gnaw at Arnau. Whatever the older knight had said about the thriving wildlife of this region, Arnau had seen virtually nothing other than large birds circling above that looked alarmingly like vultures. Their bread was gone and there seemed little chance of catching another rabbit. If only a man could eat bees and insects they would feed well, but real meat seemed unlikely. They would therefore be extremely hungry by the time darkness fell. At least the horses were eating well, thanks to the many small dells of greenery between the rocks, and they had found small streams here and there in which to refill the water flasks. But the gurgling in Arnau’s belly indicated just how hungry they would yet become.
Still they moved through the landscape slowly and silently, Balthesar perhaps in mournful reverie, and Arnau in a worried huff. It was as they crested another slope and were treated to a distant view of yet more green and grey mountains with the road winding off into the distance that he finally snapped and spoke.
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Oh?’ Balthesar turned, his expression unreadable. ‘How so?’
‘We have no idea whether we are in remotely the right place. We could be on entirely the wrong side of the island. You’ve never travelled this road before, and we can’t be certain the ancient priest did. We’re hungry and we’re out of supplies, there is nothing around to hunt, and this entire quest is beginning to look utterly doomed. And even if we get to the end of this stupid, difficult road, I would not be surprised to find your old friend from Valencia waiting for us with his men.’
‘You paint a bleak picture, young Vallbona.’
‘I prefer to think of it as realistic.’
‘But once again, you seem to be distinctly lacking in faith. The Lord will provide.’
‘Then he’d better send a roast chicken and a signpost our way soon,’ Arnau grumbled bitterly.
‘How about a village?’ the old knight asked.
‘Even better,’ snapped Arnau. ‘Or perhaps a thriving town with a full market and a cheerful innkeeper with a mug of beer?’
‘No. Just a village. Like that one.’
Arnau’s brow furrowed as his gaze followed the old knight’s pointing finger. The young sergeant had been so focused on the peaks ahead in the distance and the high road crossing them that he’d not looked closely. The path from here descended into a deep valley, and at the bottom was a small area of cultivated greenery with orchards and groves, and a small collection of grey stone huts clustered around a central square. A village.
‘You knew it was there,’ accused Arnau as he turned and saw the wide smile on Balthesar’s face.
‘No, young man, but I had faith in the Lord and he provided. Come. Let us replenish our supplies and seek information. And remember to be quiet, respectful and circumspect. You are still a poor mute. We know nothing of this place or its inhabitants, after all.’
Despite the apparent change in their fortunes and the possibility that starvation had been staved off, Arnau remained tense as the two men descended into the lush hidden valley. This was still an unknown world for him and he could not anticipate its potential dangers, other than starvation and the unlikely, but always possible, sudden appearance of the Lion of Alarcos. Balthesar led the way and soon they were in the flat farmland, riding along between a well-irrigated field of already golden wheat and a small orchard of apr
icot and citrus trees.
‘Well, well,’ said the older knight in a surprised voice, and Arnau leaned out to look past him, blinking in astonishment. They were now approaching the square, which was surrounded by squat stone houses, and the focus of the village, at the very centre of that open space, seemed to be a small stone cross.
‘Is that what I think it is?’
Balthesar chuckled. ‘The Lord will always provide, young Vallbona. I tell you repeatedly: have faith.’
Wide eyed, Arnau followed the older knight into the small village, which in reality was little more than nine or ten houses surrounded by worked farmland, yet felt like a metropolis after a full day of trekking through mountainous terrain with no sign of human life. As they walked their steeds into the dusty square faces appeared at windows, and two of the doors opened to reveal stocky farmers wearing expressions comprising equal parts surprise and suspicion.
Brother Balthesar reined in and sat straight in the saddle, seemingly weighing it all up. Finally, he spoke in Arabic, to Arnau’s surprise, given the cross in the square. It was a greeting, but not the usual Moorish one he recognised. There was a long pause and finally a man stepped out from his house, a stout wooden stick in his hand, his eyes narrowed. He replied in Arabic, with that same regional inflection that Arnau had begun to recognise as native to the island. This initiated a brief exchange, and finally the man’s suspicion seemed to fade and he reached up and took Balthesar’s hand.
The knight slid from his saddle, landing with a grunt, and spoke with the man some more before turning to Arnau. ‘We are in luck. It seems that someone in this village has a passing command of Spanish. Come on.’
The local led them to another house, and they walked their horses in his wake, a small crowd of locals following them in an interested cluster, murmuring breathlessly.
‘I suspect they don’t get many visitors at all, let alone foreigners,’ Arnau said.
‘Quite,’ Balthesar agreed. ‘In fact, I suspect the only visitors they see at all are the Moorish tax collectors.’
They left their horses outside with one of the villagers, who nodded and smiled, and entered a small house that looked identical to all the others in the village. A small family sat awaiting them, the man a stocky fellow with a leathery complexion and an interested expression. His wife and two children looked nervous, sitting close together in a corner, watching with beady eyes.
‘Good day,’ Balthesar said slowly, in Aragonese Spanish.
‘Hello,’ the man replied. ‘My Spainish not so good, no? I not use it often.’
The knight laughed. ‘Your Spanish is considerably better than the Arabic of my friend here. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Balthesar d’Aixere, a scholar of the Church from the Crown of Aragon, and this is my companion Arnau de Vallbona, formerly of Barcelona. I must say I was surprised to find a cross on my journey. Surprised and delighted, in fact. Might I ask your name?’
‘My name Yaqoub. Or Jacob, as you say.’
‘Well met, Yaqoub. This entire village is a Christian community, I presume?’
‘Yes. Since forever. Always Christian.’
‘How fascinating. I had no idea you were here. I met a small community in Mahón across the water, and in earlier years I have known other Christian communities on the island, but always as a minority within a Moorish town, never as a sole isolated village. Are you left alone in peace here?’
The man nodded. ‘Pay taxes. Leave in peace.’
‘Excellent.’ He turned to Arnau. ‘Faith, my young friend.’
Arnau waited until he turned away and then rolled his eyes.
‘I would be most grateful,’ Balthesar said in a friendly tone, ‘if we could purchase from you and your fellow villagers supplies for our journey – some food and perhaps an extra blanket or two?’
The man nodded. ‘Yes. Give you supplies. Where to you go?’
The old knight smiled. ‘Currently to the fortress of Alaró to the west of here, and from there I am unsure. We follow a rather obscure and uncertain path.’
Yaqoub shook his head. ‘Alaró run by hard man. Not go there. Not friendly.’
Balthesar shrugged. ‘I am afraid we must. We are seeking something, you see, and that place is the next known landmark on our trail. I always thought this island was still very tolerant. Is the Lord of Alaró not so, then?’
‘Years ago,’ the man said, ‘all good. Now days, not all so good. Moors becoming hard. Not trust us like before. Some do,’ he added with a shrug, ‘some not.’
‘That is a shame for a place I remember as a home, once,’ the knight replied. ‘We have encountered Almohad soldiers on the island, and they are most certainly not peace-loving men like the locals I remember. Might I ask, is the cross in the square your gathering place for worship, or do you have a chapel too?’
The man shook his head. ‘No chapel. Not any more.’
‘Not any more? There was one, then? I am a monastic scholar, you see, travelling with my novice here. We are seeking evidence of the early Church on the island, but there are so few reminders left to be found. I know of a ruined basilica many centuries old in the south of the island that is little more than low foundations now, and I have found a few sanctuaries, unused but remaining untouched and whole.’
‘Sanctuaries?’ the man asked, trying his mouth around an apparently unfamiliar word.
‘Hermitages?’ Still a blank look, and Balthesar pursed his lips. ‘Like a small chapel that is lived in by one religious man as his home too.’
‘Ah,’ the man nodded with a smile. ‘Once was santry here.’
Balthesar turned a raised eyebrow to Arnau, and then swung back to Yaqoub. ‘Was there, indeed? A long time ago?’
The man, clearly eager and excited now, nodded. ‘Come, come. Show.’
Arnau, baffled by this entire exchange, hurried out in the wake of the local and the old brother. They strode across the square, the gathered crowd still there and watching them with interest, and stopped in front of another house. Arnau failed to see what was interesting about it, and the door opened a moment later to reveal a small, wizened old man.
Yaqoub lifted a hand and pointed. Arnau studied the indicated place above the crude hut’s door. It took him a long moment to spot the cross carved in the stone, for it was so aged and weathered that it had almost disappeared. It had been carved roughly, clearly by the hand of an ordinary man, and not a master stonemason.
‘Fascinating,’ Balthesar smiled. ‘So we have a small Christian community grown on the site of an ancient sanctuary. God is pointing the way, young Vallbona.’
‘It could still be nothing,’ Arnau replied, though there was little conviction in his voice. The small, tantalising signs were enough to rekindle that spark he had felt back across the water. He could feel his scepticism ebbing once more, and his excitement growing. Had Balthesar actually been right about Father Lucas’s route after all? Had the priest been here with the relic?
‘Look, look,’ urged the man, gesturing to the old resident, who shrugged and stepped out of the way. Yaqoub led them inside and turned. Balthesar and Arnau followed suit and looked up as indicated to the same stone. This other side had badly weathered carving on it too, but much more of it.
‘Lord of Grace and Mercy,’ Balthesar said in a breathless whisper.
‘What?’ asked Arnau.
‘Look,’ Balthesar said, running his fingers over the marks in the stone. ‘SANC… TVS… STE… PHA… NVS. Sanctus Stephanus,’ he repeated in a reverent whisper. ‘The remains of the blessed first martyr were here, Vallbona.’
As he removed his finger, Arnau squinted. The light was not good in here, but still he was less than convinced. The carving was ancient and worn and, while it could quite conceivably have said Sanctus Stephanus, it could as easily have been a recipe for soup, as far as Arnau could see.
‘I think that could be wishful thinking,’ he said quietly.
‘You may think what you like, Vallbona. I belie
ve that somewhere here was a sanctuary, centuries ago, to Saint Stephen, which has to be more than mere coincidence if Father Lucas passed through here with the arm of that very same saint. Sadly, I would be most surprised if anyone here had any knowledge of those days. These are not descendants of the community that was here, as were those we spoke to in Mahón. This is a fledgling community that has grown up around a once sacred site. Consequently there will almost certainly be no ancient tales passed down to point the way from here.’
He fell silent and, despite his misgivings, Arnau could feel that excitement building once more. It was such an attractive idea, and the simple fact was that if a sanctuary was built here and dedicated to Saint Stephen, then not only was it likely that the relic had passed through here, but either something of import happened here, or even perhaps this was where the bones came to rest. Why else build a sanctuary and go to all the effort of carving these stones?
‘But where is the sanctuary now?’ he asked.
‘A very good question.’ The older knight turned to Yaqoub. ‘Where did this stone come from, do you know?’
Yaqoub turned to the wizened old owner of the house and there was a brief exchange. Balthesar clearly understood what they were saying, but he waited politely for the man to nod and explain to them in his stilted Spanish for Arnau’s benefit.
‘Great-great-grandfather build house. Take stone from field near. Show you.’
Again, Balthesar flashed that smile at Arnau, and the young sergeant couldn’t help but reciprocate. Leaving their horses with the lad in the square, they hurried after Yaqoub and the old local, who led them past the houses, between two fields that had been cleared of rocks and stones, and over a small wooden plank bridge into an area of relative wilderness. They had to stamp down the summer growth of weeds and forge a path into an overgrown area dotted with occasional trees and prickly bushes, and after perhaps five minutes the two locals stopped. A brief discussion in Arabic ensued, and finally Yaqoub nodded to the two adventurers.
The Last Emir Page 9
