The Last Emir

by The Last Emir (retail) (epub)

  Unable to make this encounter conveniently unhappen, the two Templars came to a halt and waited as the young knight hurried over towards them. They were raising a small buzz of interest among the townsfolk nearby. Nothing untoward or important, but any interest would become common knowledge in time, and Arnau doubted that news of conversations between them and the Aragonese diplomats would be a good thing when it reached the ears of the Lion of Alarcos. Picornell stopped next to them, a smile on his face as he heaved in breaths from a swift run. Despite the heat he wore a mail shirt and his surcoat, featuring two black crows facing a tree on a field of gold.

  ‘I happened to be passing with a colleague,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘when I caught sight of that most loathsome Almohad fellow and his dour companions. I turn my gaze away from them for fear of attracting their attentions, and what do I see but a man that resembles an old friend hurrying past as though the Almohad might try and eat him as he passes.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘The Almohad are certainly no friends of ours. But I am surprised you recognise me, Picornell.’

  The young knight laughed. ‘It takes more than a beard and a beggar’s apparel to hide the Vallbona looks. But tell me, what are you doing here of all places?’

  ‘Not a discussion for open streets, I fear,’ Balthesar put in.

  Picornell nodded, his brow creasing. ‘I imagine not. This place is a nest of vipers, I believe. May I join you?’

  Arnau glanced at his older companion for an answer, to which Balthesar simply shrugged. ‘You would be most welcome,’ the young sergeant replied, ignoring the brief look on the older knight’s face that suggested this might not be so. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Only a brief repast of what passes for food in this place.’

  ‘Come, then.’

  They crossed the ornamental gardens and closed on the tavern in which they had spent their time earlier. Slipping into the seating of the table out front, Arnau worriedly noted two locals sitting at another outside table, though Balthesar seemed to be paying them no heed.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Arnau said, determined to take control of the exchange before any difficult questions might be asked, ‘what brings you here?’ In truth, he knew the answer, had done so since he first spotted the Spanish visitors, and the emir’s explanations had clarified it further, but Picornell could hardly know that.

  The young knight shrugged. ‘The Emir of Mayūrqa sent to the Crown of Aragon, requesting a dialogue with his representatives. The king has gathered four of his more influential nobles for the task. His Majesty is concerned with more pressing matters that prevented a personal meeting, but he felt that the situation required a showing of some of his most powerful officers. And needless to say, with the Catalan nobles still a little touchy at Aragonese hegemony, the inclusion of representatives of Barcelona and the County of Roussillon seemed prudent.’

  ‘So you are here negotiating between rulers? How far have we come, Picornell, since days sitting wishing for tourneys and watching our fathers at the table arguing over lands.’

  The knight laughed again; he seemed to do so easily and often. ‘How far indeed? I to escorting barons and counts into the courts of kings, and you, apparently into the gutter? Now come, tell me how you ended up here? I know that Vallbona is not the richest of lands, but to descend to such poverty?’

  Arnau snorted. ‘I am not brought quite that low, Picornell. In fact, I am here with my companion on a quest of the most pious kind.’

  The light that rose then in the young knight’s eyes spoke of both fervour and unadulterated excitement, and it suddenly occurred to Arnau just how tedious it might be being an armed escort for a diplomat. Suddenly the constant danger in which he found himself took on a strange allure he’d not realised was there before.

  ‘A pious quest? How bold and fascinating. Are you venturing into the desert to be tempted by Old Nick, or something similar?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Arnau said and, catching Balthesar’s eye, realised that the safest way to play this was to play down the interest of their mission so that Picornell swiftly forgot it, and hopefully the pair of them into the bargain.

  ‘We simply seek a relic that has resided under Moorish domination this past millennium. A lot of dusty research and some negotiation. Nothing like your story, clearly.’

  Balthesar nodded and took the reins now.

  ‘Tell me, young sir knight, of your mission. Wherefore did the emir seek your visitation?’

  Picornell, clearly a man given to openness and not to dissembling, shrugged. ‘The emir seeks an alliance with the king. It is a hopeless cause and a fool’s notion, though I find myself wishing the king would concede. It seems to me that this ruler is strikingly good for a Moor.’

  True words, if roughly spoken, and Arnau nodded his approval. Picornell had always struck him as a sensible young man, if prone to fits of exuberance as were all the Pyrenean breed.

  ‘And you think the king will refuse, then?’ Balthesar was pushing, Arnau realised. Shortly he would have to give an answer to the emir, and their own quest rode upon the answer he gave.

  ‘How can he not?’ Picornell replied, sadly. ‘In truth I very much doubt the king ever had any intention of even considering the matter. I fear he sent his most powerful men in order to take the edge off the disappointment of his refusal. The king can no more afford to send men and supplies to Mayūrqa than he can send men to the Holy Land to capture the heart of the world, Jerusalem, as the Pope keeps hoping. There are not enough mailed fists with a red cross on the heart to save Aragon from its enemies, let alone lend support to others, especially Moors.’

  ‘Aragon is that pressed?’

  Picornell gave a strangely embarrassed look. ‘I cannot say from my own experience, but those with whom I travel suggest strongly that if the caliph manages to send an army north within the year, Aragon will not have the power to resist him. The king gathers every man he can to keep the border secure and attempts to grow alliances with his fellow kings to east and west. He appeals to Rome, and it is said that his crown will be blessed by the Pope himself. King Pedro must look to Aragon, and simply cannot afford to pledge support to a Mussulman, no matter how important.’

  Balthesar shook his head. ‘It is short-sighted. If he agreed, the king would have haven here and trade, and an ally. If he refuses and the Almohads gain Mayūrqa, the king will be forced to invade, and it will be far costlier than a few men to support a garrison.’

  Picornell’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What kind of travelling mendicants are you? You press for information on the king’s plans, and you yourselves are at court? There is more to this than meets the eye, I fear.’

  Arnau shrugged. ‘We are here, in this Moorish world, yet we are from Aragon. It is worth keeping abreast of developments.’

  Picornell’s gaze turned upon him, and betrayed complete disbelief. ‘Whatever you say, I fear it would be best if I stayed out of your way for the moment. I somehow cannot imagine my socialising with you going down well with my superiors.’

  Arnau glanced at Balthesar and realised the older man was expecting him to resolve this. He swallowed and tried not to look nervous. ‘On that score, might I ask that you keep knowledge of our presence from the noblemen of your embassy?’

  ‘What have you done, Vallbona?’

  ‘Nothing,’ reassured Arnau, ‘and we are in absolute truth and honesty here to seek a holy relic and nothing more. There are just… there are complications, and the Baron de Castellvell is one of them.’

  A cloud passed across Picornell’s eyes. ‘Castellvell is nothing but complications. Do not repeat this, I beg of you, but I fear half our deputation’s job since arriving has been pouring water on the fire of Castellvell’s anti-Moorish convictions. Even men who fought and fled from Alarcos are more respectful of the emir than he.’

  ‘Castellvell is also our enemy for a number of reasons,’ Arnau breathed. ‘I would regard it as a personal favour if he were not to hear of my pres
ence.’

  ‘Yes, well…’ Despite having eaten nothing and the owner not having yet arrived to offer food and drink, Picornell rose. ‘I’m afraid my appetite is not what it was a few minutes ago. I think perhaps it is better that our paths cross as little as possible right now. I do appreciate your friendship as always, but our mission is tense and balanced on a knife blade as it is, without this to add to the weights. I shall take my leave and return to the noblemen. We have a little more dilly-dallying to do before we can leave. But when I return to the mainland, and you do too, please do look me up, Vallbona. It would be good to catch up, and I miss the days of faux jousts in the orchards of Santa Coloma.’

  Arnau rose and clasped hands with him. Balthesar simply watched him with one raised brow.

  The young sergeant sighed as his old friend left. Things were becoming more complicated by the day here.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday, 8 June 1199

  6 p.m.

  The two knights spent some time in silence, mulling things over until the tavern’s owner appeared suddenly, asking what they wanted. Deferring to the older knight’s judgement, Arnau waved the questions aside and left it to him. Twenty minutes later they were served something that was once more brown and unidentifiable, yet tasted tangy, spicy and very flavoursome. Two drinks were brought, one of which was the pleasant, light tea, the other something pungent and dark with the consistency of fresh cow manure. This, Arnau suspected, was the date wine of which the older knight had spoken.

  They ate, still in silence, and finally, unable to bear the tension any more, Arnau cracked.

  ‘What will you tell the emir?’

  Balthesar pursed his lips and paused for a while, a forkful of something brown hovering close to his chin. ‘I am not entirely sure.’

  ‘We are at an impasse.’

  ‘We are.’

  Arnau breathed deeply. ‘Yet you deliberate?’

  ‘The emir sought only my oath that I would attempt to persuade the king to his cause.’

  Arnau frowned. ‘But you said yourself you could not succeed. And what Picornell revealed confirms it. You will never change the king’s mind. Even the grand master of the order could not change the king’s mind.’

  ‘This is true, but the emir did not ask for a promise to change the king’s mind, just a promise that I would try to do so. It is a promise I could live up to.’

  Arnau shook his head. ‘That is a world of half-truths and wickedness. I cannot believe you would consider such a thing. This is surely not what being a brother of the Temple is about? Lütolf would not dissemble so, I am sure.’

  Balthesar levelled him with a look that the Israelites could have used to crumble Jericho’s walls. ‘Our poor, fallen brother was exemplary in almost every aspect of life, but even in the short time during which you knew him, you must have discovered that there are lances that are more pliable and flexible than he was. Lütolf was the best of us, but he did not live in the real world as we surely must.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen, young Vallbona: if we seek to rebuild Rourell, we must draw support in terms of both finance and manpower. We are unpopular enough that we currently cannot rely on either, but the presence of relics will draw both. Think how such a place as the great sanctuary of Santiago became more than just a village. The landscape? The priest? No, it is what is to be found and revered there, and we shall emulate that. Rourell will become the home to the arm of Saint Stephen, the first martyr. Knights from as far afield as Scotland and the Bulgar mountains will flock to Rourell, taking their vows and donating their lands. Soon we could eclipse even our mother house. And with a possible crusade against the Almohad looming as King Pedro perhaps plots, strength at Rourell could be a serious advantage.’ He leaned back in his seat and took a sip of the probably-wine. ‘So am I willing to give an unsupported and possibly false promise to the emir? I would rather not, for I truly feel for the man, but I must put our needs above his, and the man is sadly doomed, I fear. So, yes.’

  ‘And will the emir simply help us in return for the mere offer of your aid?’

  ‘That was his request.’

  ‘And you can live with that?’

  ‘You would be surprised what the Qātil wariʻa can live with.’

  ‘So your answer to the emir will be yes? You will pretend you can try and change the king’s mind in return for any lead on the bone of Saint Stephen?’ Arnau was not at all happy with this idea. In fact, he was a little disgusted at the base falsehoods to which his fellow brother would apparently stoop.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will. Though to allay your fears for my eternal soul a little, bear in mind that I will bend every effort to the king’s persuasion. On that I do not lie. I simply do not expect success in my endeavour.’

  Arnau fell silent and ate the rest of his brown stuff – with lighter brown stuff and green stuff – in silence, unwilling to breach the uncomfortable silence in order to ask what it was he was consuming, which was perhaps for the best. He followed it by downing his tea and then drinking the bittersweet, sticky date wine, and wishing he’d done so the other way around.

  The silence continued to reign, becoming ever more meaningful and heavy as Balthesar similarly finished his food and drink, visited the innkeeper and dealt with payment, then led the way away from the tavern.

  Evening was beginning to approach now. They had missed a call to prayer while out on their task, and the next one began as they made their way back through the city. Immediately, Arnau became utterly confused about their route through the streets.

  ‘Where are we?’ he asked as the distinctive warble of the sundown prayer call echoed across the skyline. ‘I thought we’d reach that fortress again quickly.’ As far as he could tell, they had left the tavern in a southerly direction, which took them far from the route that had first brought them there. His suspicions were confirmed when, before the older knight could answer, they turned a corner and found a bridge across the river awaiting them.

  ‘Laying as complex a trail as we can,’ Balthesar replied. ‘Beyond the bridge take the third exit to the right and then the first left. If things are as they were last time I was here, it will bring you to a fruit market. Pass through it along the side of a mosque, look for a second bridge and cross it, then make for the bathhouse by the river. I will meet you there.’

  ‘Are they following us?’ Arnau breathed, turning and looking back. He’d been casting his eyes over his shoulders all the way and had seen nothing untoward as yet.

  ‘Without a doubt. I have not seen anyone, but be sure they are there. When you cross the river, they will probably follow me. They might split up. Move fast and you can lose anyone tailing you. I know somewhere to discourage pursuit. See you at the bathhouse.’

  And with that he was gone, dipping into a side alley. Arnau’s gaze raked the streets behind them, and he could still see no one, but he picked up speed anyway, crossing the bridge. The old man’s memory was good, and the market was still there as he’d recalled, and soon the young Templar found himself crossing the river once more and spying the bathhouse beyond. He hurried over with still no sign of pursuit and ducked into the entrance.

  He almost made to kill Balthesar as the grey-bearded brother slapped a hand across his mouth from the shadows, wrapped the other arm round his middle, and bundled him inside.

  ‘Did you see them?’

  Arnau, still shocked, shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps they all followed me. I saw no one, but I could feel their presence. They’re still on the trail like hounds on a hare. Fortunately, this place has a rear entrance which only regular patrons know.’

  And with that Arnau was dragged into the mysterious world of the bathhouse. A few had survived here and there in the north, of course, in cities conquered and cleared largely of Arab influence. Those that had not been destroyed in the fervour of reconquest weren’t used. The places were weird, heretical complexes. A good Christian bathed in a simple tub in pla
in water and that was that. The common view in the north was that the fripperies of Moorish baths were made for men who were more feminine than women – that last brought a touch of unexpected guilt given the impact two strong women had had on his life.

  They moved through rooms where normally there would be attendants and bathers. Fortunate were they that the call to the maghrib prayer had emptied the baths of both workers and patrons, with only the one guard left at the entrance, who had clearly accepted sufficient coin from Balthesar to let them in unrecorded. They finally emerged through a shapely door into a lush garden, and the older knight led them through it like an expert, suggesting that he had been here more than once.

  They passed through two more doors, connected by a small passage, and back into the late afternoon’s light by a small plank bridge over one of the small side irrigation streams. Without a word, Balthesar led them up the road and through several narrow alleys, jinking this way and that. Finally, they stopped in a small square with a trough of water.

  ‘What can you see? Smell, hear, feel?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ breathed Arnau looking around and drinking in everything he could.

  ‘Same here. We’ve lost them. Let’s move on before they catch up with us.’

  Ten minutes later, by some circuitous route that Arnau could never hope to replicate, they reached the waqf house. Somehow, bless him, Balthesar had managed to time it so that the sun had sunk into darkness and the sundown prayer was over when they arrived. The poor and unloved shuffled through the building back to their rooms, and the two knights fell in among them as driftwood in the pious tide. Before long they were back in their room.

  Arnau was contemplating the strangely haunting idea that the Moors returning from their prayer with the air of a good deed done and an opportunity to move on and deal with the day-to-day tasks of life was so like the routine of most Christians that it made something of a mockery of the supposedly huge gulf between them.