Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Will I have time to wash this?’ Arnau hazarded.

  ‘You will find time, Brother. Make it if it does not occur naturally.’

  Arnau eyed what he thought looked suspiciously like a bloodstain near the hem, and wondered whose garment it had previously been.

  They reached the chapel as several other robed figures converged on the door, which stood open, golden light issuing forth and sending through Arnau the guilty realisation that while he was still groggy and tired at this time, someone had been up perhaps an hour earlier, preparing the lights around the preceptory among a myriad of other jobs.

  It was hardly a surprise to see the congregation gathered on their feet rather than seated on the stone benches that ran along either side of the chapel where the brothers had rested the previous evening while deliberating whether to admit the new arrivals. As the figures in white and black gradually assembled, red crosses ablaze on all bar perhaps half a dozen women in white nuns’ habits and a young lad in peasant grey, Arnau did a subtle head count. Twenty-two, he reckoned, including Titborga, who stood with the other women off to the side, her pristine white habit displaying the cross of a sister, and Maria, close by her in plain white and looking uncomfortable and distinctly unhappy. Twenty-three, he corrected himself as the old priest arrived through the connecting door to the chapter house.

  ‘How’s your voice?’ whispered Mateu as they fell into position among the other sergeants.

  Arnau opened his mouth to reply, but Brother Lütolf, standing close by, gave the pair a hard look and cleared his throat. ‘Any voice lifted in prayer to God is a good voice.’ His eyebrow tilted irritably, an odd look with the scar running down from it.

  ‘Lord, open our lips,’ announced the old priest in his oddly lilting tongue, then paused. Arnau felt the congregation draw breath and prepared himself.

  ‘And we shall praise your name,’ the response rang out from more than a score of throats.

  ‘To victory, the song of the psalm. All the Earth, make ye joy heartily to God. Say ye a psalm to his name; give ye glory to his praising.’ The sacred melody began without the need for warning. The congregation had observed lauds daily their entire monastic life. Arnau stumbled twice over the words. He knew the sixty-sixth Psalm well enough from many recitations in church, but this was sung at a ponderous pace. He was aware that Lütolf kept glancing across at him, but kept his own eyes on the priest, avoiding eye contact with the German.

  Barely had the echoes of the chant faded before Father Diego launched them into the fiftieth Psalm. This was less well known to Arnau and he found himself mouthing emptily along to some of it with faint embarrassment. A similar issue struck with Psalm eighty-seven, but with Psalm eighty-nine he was on better ground, that having been one of his mother’s favourites when he was young.

  Once more the echoes died away slowly, and Father Diego spread out his arms as though beseeching the gathering.

  ‘Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel; He has come to His people and set them free.’ Arnau closed his eyes and let the words of the canticle wash over him. It was soothing in the old man’s beautiful tones, and he had to stifle yet another yawn. He didn’t need to open his eyes and turn to know that the German knight was watching him with distinct disapproval.

  The canticle ended, to be followed by another psalm, this time a more common Laudate psalm that Arnau knew well enough. He opened his eyes for that and was relieved to discover that Brother Lütolf was no longer paying him any attention. The reading from Father Diego drifted by, as did the hymn and the benediction, Arnau concentrating primarily on not yawning and on attempting to stifle the rumblings from within. Finally, he joined his voice in the paternoster and listened to Father Diego’s brief prayer and dismissal.

  As the closing word died away in the stone vault of the chapel, his stomach let forth a huge leonine growl into the silence, earning him a grin from several people nearby and a glare from the German brother. The congregation dispersed, though Arnau was summoned by Preceptrix Ermengarda with a wave of the hand. As he followed her through the connecting door into the chapter house, he was dismayed to realise that Lütolf was following him. The summons had been for both of them.

  The chapter house was empty, barring the three of them, and the preceptrix took her seat at the room’s focal point, the benches for the meetings of the community all facing her. The two doors, one back into the church and the other out into the courtyard, stood open.

  ‘Brother Arnau,’ the preceptrix began, ‘we are in an unusual and complicated position. Indeed, I am somewhat in two minds as to whether your social rank alone merits a full brotherhood or your youth and what is seen by some as uncertainty of purpose make a sergeant’s role more applicable. I have decided upon the latter for now. The usual routine with a new member is to slowly introduce them to the community and help them find their place in it, and even then only when their membership has been lodged with the mother house and all documentation dealt with. There must be a ceremony of admission, of course. Yet the documents are not with the mother house at this time and we simply do not have time to carry out such ceremony, even if we could legitimately do so before your entry to the order was complete. However, Rourell is a small house, and short of bodies, and we can scarce afford to spare a potential worker. Thus I have decided to throw you, as well as your former mistress and her maid, straight into work and life as members of the order regardless of your unconfirmed status. When we receive verification of your documentation back from the mother house, we will arrange appropriate ceremony for you both.’

  Arnau bowed his head. He’d hardly expected to sit back with his feet up while the preceptory bustled around him.

  ‘You will fill the position of Brother Lütolf’s squire.’

  Arnau felt his expression slip into miserable disappointment, and the German must have noticed, for that eyebrow arched once more.

  ‘Lütolf’s previous squire suffered an accident in training a month past and the wound became infected. He passed from the world with pain and difficulty, but is now in the hands of the Lord and beyond worldly hurt.’ The possibility that the stain on his garment’s hem was blood suddenly seemed a great deal more likely.

  Arnau marshalled his arguments in the forefront of his mind. Chief among them was that Lütolf hated him, clearly, and almost certainly did not want Arnau as his squire any more than the young man wanted to fill that role. Also, he was a knight by virtue of his heritage, albeit a low and rather impoverished one. Even as a sergeant, should a knight be lowered to the role of a squire? But then, Mateu was a sergeant of the Temple who played squire to Brother Ramon…

  He looked up and the simple authority emanating from the lady of Rourell cast aside every objection. He bowed again.

  ‘Lütolf will walk you through your duties and show you the preceptory. I hereby grant extraordinary permissions of absence from the liturgy for the rest of the day, until compline, which you will both attend. Use this time well, for on the morrow full liturgical attendance will be required.’

  Lütolf bowed and gestured for Arnau to follow, leaving through the door into the courtyard. The German stood for a moment in the gloom, where the faint purple of pre-dawn was now showing, and Arnau paused nearby, waiting quietly. His eyes took in the open space, brothers and sisters performing a few odd chores before making their way to the morning meal. As they stood, a man in the black of a sergeant led a horse out of the stable, saddled and ready for a journey. The man had also buckled on his sword, though he was unarmoured and otherwise dressed for civil work. A nun scurried over to him, one hand holding her white habit up out of the muck, the other carrying a small bag.

  ‘Breakfast?’ the sergeant asked. The nun nodded. ‘Bless you, Sister,’ he smiled, and hauled himself up into the saddle before reaching down and taking the food.

  ‘Go with God, Brother Carles,’ Brother Lütolf called to the man.

  Carles nodded his thanks and turned his horse. The gate was opened and h
e disappeared out into the night. Arnau, frowning, turned to the German, who threw him a look full of unexpected reproach.

  ‘He rides for the mother house at Barberà with the documentation of your, and your mistress’s, entry into the order and the donatives you promised.’

  Arnau nodded and slouched. It was done, then. Oddly, though he’d yesterday committed himself to this path, it had not felt quite real until he watched Carles ride out of the gate to tell the world that Arnau de Vallbona was now a Templar.

  ‘Later we will discuss duties,’ Lütolf said suddenly. ‘First I will introduce you to Rourell and its people. I expect you to swiftly become a productive and obedient brother. Come.’

  The German lurched off towards another door where several other bodies were converging. Arnau followed him inside to find the preceptory’s refectory. Three long trestle tables sat in lines, each with benches alongside. Food was being placed on the tables now, and Arnau’s belly gave a roar of approval. The bread was still warm, as evidenced by the steam rising from it. Butter in small pots. Hard cheese and soft cheese. Jugs of ale.

  Growl.

  The denizens of Rourell were moving to take seats and Arnau took only three paces before realising that the knight behind him was not moving to one of the benches. Instead, Lütolf began to indicate the people at the tables.

  ‘You already know Ramon, Balthesar and myself. You have met the preceptrix and Father Diego and, I believe, Mateo this morning. The two sergeants at the far table who are clearly brothers also in the familial sense are Lorenç and Ferrando. They are responsible for all the masonry and carpentry here in the preceptory. They are not merely workers. They are artisans.’ He pointed at the young lad in grey who was carrying food to the tables. ‘Simo there is something of a general worker. He does whatever is required. His father was my squire, so now he is a ward of the Temple.’

  Arnau nodded, remembering that the German’s squire had died recently, sympathy for the boy rising in him even as he glanced down at the stain on his own hem. What a dreadful thing for a boy his age to go through. Arnau’s eyes rose once more, straying to the food in the boy’s hands, and his stomach complained and urged him to take a seat.

  ‘You met Carles outside,’ the German went on. ‘He is our scribe and treasurer. The sergeant at the far end overseeing everything in the refectory is Luis, who is responsible for the proper running of the house. He is our seneschal, reporting only to Brother Ramon and the preceptrix. Guillem over there is in charge of the stables, though you will be expected to do your fair share with the horses too. There are two brothers absent at the moment. Miquel runs the mill, and Rafael is in charge of the farms. The two sisters you can see are Carima and Joana, who maintain the household and see to its tidiness and cleanliness. The cook you cannot see is Brigida, and Catarina is the maid to the preceptrix. And that, in all, is Rourell.’

  He took a step and Arnau was relieved to think that finally food was within his grasp.

  ‘We do not have time to sit and relax, Brother Arnau. Grab yourself a hunk of bread with some butter and follow me.’

  Crestfallen at the very idea of missing this repast, Arnau hurried over, took the two largest slices of warm bread he could find, liberally slathered them with butter and a little soft cheese, and then hurried back to the German knight, chewing on one of them. Lütolf contrived to look disapproving once again, and gestured to the staircase.

  ‘Last night you slept in the guest accommodation. From now on you will be in the dormitory with the others, which runs the length of this building above. The sisters’ dormitory is above the other range. In respect of the rule of the order – especially articles seventy and seventy-one – fraternisation between brothers and sisters is kept to a minimum. The seed of wicked Eve is, after all, ever at work.’

  It occurred to Arnau momentarily that he might be able to make Brother Lütolf uneasy if he pointed out the inconsistencies with a female preceptrix in this situation, but the man was already moving.

  He exited the refectory and stood in the growing dawn light of the courtyard. Here he turned, slowly, pointing at structures. ‘The west gate, from whence you came. Next to it the stables. Then the buttery and the bake house and kitchens with the sisters’ dormitory over. The sisters’ necessarium projects from the walls at that side. Over the arch of the south gate are the guest quarters, of course, where you stayed last night. Then in the other range we have the refectory, library, armoury and workshop, with the brothers’ dormitory above and our necessarium similarly projecting from the walls. Then there are the chapter house and the church. Other than that, the belfry is the only building in the preceptory. We are compact but very efficient. You will come to know these buildings so well that you will be able to find your way around blindfolded.’

  Numerous questions leaped to Arnau’s mind, from the disposal of waste in the necessaria – the communal latrines – without a local flow of water, to the location of the laundry, but one thing had popped into his head, offering the faint possibility of hope, and it was this question that therefore found voice.

  ‘Three knights and only two squires?’

  Lütolf frowned.

  ‘Mateu is squire to Ramon,’ Arnau expanded. ‘Even though he is a full sergeant. If I am to be squire to you, what of Brother Balthesar?’

  The German huffed. ‘Balthesar d’Aixere is no typical knight, nor is he a typical monk. He wishes no squire. Come on.’

  Arnau followed him across to the stable, where the scarred German began to saddle his horse. ‘Though it is Guillem’s duty to maintain the stable and its occupants, when we need our own horse and he is not here, we are expected to perform the tasks ourselves. That is, until we have able assistance. In future, should we be riding, I will expect you to secure the horses ready.’

  Arnau felt the tiniest flicker of annoyance at the manner of the older brother, but he fought it down. This was neither the time nor the place for an argument. Instead he hurried over and saddled his own horse. Moments later they were leading the animals out into the courtyard. Lütolf motioned to the north gate and Simo, the young lad in grey, scurried over and struggled to lift the bar. Arnau was about to dismount and help the poor lad when the locking timber finally groaned up and the boy heaved the gate open.

  ‘Leave it open for now,’ the German said to the boy as he walked his horse out of the preceptory. Arnau took care to thank Simo warmly, which did not elicit the expected gratitude, but more a frown of bafflement.

  They rode out just as the first golden arc appeared above the low wooded rise to the east.

  ‘There are three estates owned and operated by Rourell,’ Lütolf announced as they rode. ‘None of the land to the west of the preceptory and its immediate environs belongs to the Temple. To the north is a farming estate with olive groves and wheat fields. Vegetables are also grown there. To the east, stretching as far as the flow of the Francoli, is another farm, largely given to livestock. South, reaching as far as the village of Rourell itself and extending past it to the east, is the winery and its vineyards. All three estates are largely worked and overseen by Moorish tenants who have, nominally at least, taken the cross. Overall control lies in the hands of Brother Rafael, who will almost certainly already be somewhere out here.’

  Arnau remembered the conversation of their della Cadeneta escort back at the farmhouse lodgings. ‘I heard tell that your wine was good. But is it perhaps not always popular with the locals?’

  Lütolf threw a look of narrow-eyed suspicion at him, but sucked on a lip and then answered.

  ‘The order is not always popular among the nobles of the region. We are tolerated because we supply a strong arm for the king in his struggles with the Almohads. The Christian lords know they can rely upon our swords when the need is there. But when the border is peaceful and no blade need be drawn, the nobles sometimes forget our value and jealousy reigns over our acquisition of lands and moneys.’

  ‘And…’ Arnau was not sure how to express the
thought in any politic way. ‘And Rourell being run by a preceptrix does little to improve matters, I suspect?’

  Again, that suspicious, narrow-eyed glare from the German, but eventually he nodded. ‘There are men who think it unnatural for Sister Ermengarda to wield such influence and power, yes. And we are also regarded warily for our dealings with Moors and Jews. But we remain strong and pious and resistant to the influence of devious and snide temporal lords.’

  They were riding east now, and the German knight reined in close to a low, arched bridge over the river, indicating a grey stone complex nearby. ‘This is the mill. It is operated by a Moor and his family, assisted by two young men and overseen by Brother Miquel. Thus is grain from the farms turned into flour for Brigida to bake into her fresh bread. In truth we have little need to purchase any goods from outside sources.’

  The scarred brother leaned back in his saddle. ‘I expect you to be familiar with every trail, tree, stone and body on these estates within the month. I need to know that if I ask you to find someone or go somewhere, you can be relied upon to do so without fuss or question. As such, I will permit you one hour each day after the consuming of the midday meal to explore the land and complex of Rourell and meet and speak to each and every occupant. Once you are familiar with all you will be using that time instead to train, exercise and maintain your equipment.’

  Arnau nodded his understanding.

  ‘On all days you will attend every meal and service. We do not have matins, since an unbroken sleep maintains a more healthy physique for a soldier of God. Instead, Father Diego will hold matins alone, or with any member of the preceptory who wishes to join him. Our liturgical day begins in general with lauds an hour before dawn. Then we break our fast. We then have almost two hours to deal with as many of our daily chores as we can manage before the call to prime. Many days there will follow a general convent in the chapter house to discuss any matters of import. Otherwise we continue to perform our chores until terce. The bulk of tasks should be done by then and the brothers and sisters are permitted the rest of the morning until sext to read, study, meditate or attend in silent prayer. After sext is the midday meal, following which every man is expected to tend to his equipment and animals. This means more than simply washing your clothing and cleaning your armour. It means helping to check over the tents we use on campaign, repair farm equipment, make tent pegs, sluice out the channels beneath the necessaria, oil hinges, create new candles and torches, and so on. There is always something that needs attention. Early afternoon is when it is done.’