Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Something about the emphasis the knight placed on those last three words spoke of ill feeling, and Arnau suddenly remembered the man’s reference to the Hohenstaufens, the very Swabian family that provided the imperial crowned heads, during that painful training session. Some history lay there, just beyond clarity, infuriatingly tantalising. Someday, he would unravel that mystery.

  ‘And is Germany not part of the Holy Roman Empire?’ he taunted.

  Lütolf exploded in irritation. ‘Germany does not exist, Vallbona. Germany was a place imagined by the Romans in their pagan delusion. Now, for the love of all the saints, will you drop this subject?’

  Arnau nodded. This was the most animated he had ever seen Brother Lütolf. Even being shot at with crossbow bolts had not elicited this kind of emotion.

  ‘Who rules the empire at the moment?’ he asked in a voice serene with the calm of innocence, while inside his gut churned with laughter at the sight of the expressions marching across Lütolf’s face. The subject was, in fact, quite the talking point in many courtly circles at the moment: how the old emperor had died last September and now everyone with even a vague claim to the throne was crawling out of the woodwork and proclaiming himself prince of somewhere.

  Lütolf’s lip twitched a couple of times and he picked up his stride slightly, stepping ahead.

  ‘Save your breath for the walk, Vallbona.’

  Arnau struggled on to catch up, but was smiling as he did so. He had found a chink in the German’s mental armour at last.

  Part Three

  Enemy

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘There is trouble at the Granja de la Selva,’ Brother Rafael said, reining in his sweating horse as Simo made to close the west gate behind him.

  ‘Leave it open,’ Brother Lütolf waved to the boy, then turned back to the sergeant on his horse. ‘What sort of trouble?’

  Arnau noted other figures converging on them now in the morning sun. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the Granja de la Selva, trying to remember which of the farms it was. The northern one, he was fairly sure. Olives and wheat. Low, flat fields of gold and ordered orchards of ancient, gnarled trees. Quite an area, dotted with sheds and miscellaneous farming structures. He remembered the farmhouse – a long, extended affair with a bunkhouse attached – a well and an olive press in a separate building, a long arcade of wide arches in a stone and rubble wall.

  He had met the farmer and his family, along with a few of the workers on that first day when the German knight had taken him on a tour. He’d tried some of the olive oil from the farm on fresh bread. The farmer had been a Moor, his family tending the land for more than a century, long before the area was recaptured and ceded to the Templars. He’d been a chubby-faced man with an easy smile, his wife a homely but engaging sort from Lleida. The children had been noisy and full of life. What trouble had befallen them, Arnau wondered.

  Preceptrix Ermengarda was one of those figures now gathering around Brother Rafael, her expression neutral, but her bearing tense within her white wool armour.

  ‘Preceptrix,’ the black-clad brother said, inclining his head. ‘Mujahid and his family are beset by their own field hands. They are shut up in the house with the field hands battering angrily on the windows and doors. I tried to ask what the problem was, but the moment I came within speaking distance, the workers began tearing cobbles from the ground and hurling them at me. Rather than risk provoking the situation further, I rode straight here.’

  The preceptrix nodded. ‘You did well. Guillem? Fetch me my horse.’

  Brother Rafael looked uncomfortable; torn, Arnau realised, between the desire to see his mistress resolve whatever issue had arisen and worry about the danger to her should she ride to confront the trouble. ‘Sister, they are very agitated. A cobble almost unhorsed and brained me.’

  Ermengarda d’Oluja turned a fierce expression on the sergeant. ‘I will not have unrest. Mujahid and his family are under the care of the order. Luis? Rourell is yours until my return.’

  The seneschal nodded his understanding and old Balthesar waved. ‘I shall stay with Brother Luis to be certain of the security of the preceptory, but take good men with you, Sister. This could be dangerous.’

  Preceptrix Ermengarda nodded and gestured to the other knights. Moments later Arnau and Mateu were in the stables, hurriedly helping Guillem ready the horses, including the new piebald that had been granted to Arnau and the bay to replace Lütolf’s latest loss. Presently they rode from the west gate, the preceptrix and Rafael, the agricultural overseer, with Brothers Lütolf and Ramon and their squires close behind. The six of them made their way along the dusty track through the fields. After a quarter of a mile, Arnau complaining silently about the pain in his side with every step of the horse, they rounded a large olive grove and the picturesque farmhouse came into sight. Arnau’s breath caught in his throat. He’d not realised how many field workers there must be in a farm this size, but quite a crowd had gathered outside the building. As they neared, he could see that the few windows in evidence had all had their shutters pulled closed.

  At a nod from Brother Ramon, Mateu moved ahead, falling in beside the preceptrix, raising high the imposing black and white banner of the Temple. Not as imposing as the preceptrix, in Arnau’s opinion, but as their approach was noticed by the gathering, he saw a number of arms fall to their owners’ sides and cobbles drop to the ground. Not all, though. There was anger here, unassuaged.

  The small party reined in and the white-clad sister of the Temple at the head, beside the great banner, rose in her saddle as though preparing to couch a lance and lean forward over the beast’s shoulders.

  ‘What is the meaning of this unprincipled, unruly display?’ she demanded in a tone that could drag an answer from a stone. Yet there was no reply. Not one figure among the crowd spoke. No one even moved.

  ‘This feels dangerous,’ Brother Ramon said quietly. ‘Be careful, Sister.’

  ‘Care be damned. This is insurrection and I will not have it.’ The preceptrix extended her hand and thrust a digit out, sweeping it across the faces in the crowd. It stopped on a reedy, middle-aged Moor with thinning hair and a yellow tunic. He flinched as though struck.

  ‘I know you, Wasil al-Hafiz. You are a kind man. You make straw dolls for the girls. You even made one for me this Easter past. I would never have thought to see you acting in anger, armed with a rock. You know the man in that house and his family. Mujahid is a good man. You are prepared to stone him like some biblical execution?’

  The cobble dropped from the man’s fingers and clattered on the ground.

  ‘All of you are better than this. There are those in Aragon and Catalunya who despise the fact that you remain in our lands as anything other than slaves, and do not believe that you can be trusted, for all your acceptance of the cross or your oath of service to the order. Many a lord in this region would like nothing more than to chain you or send you south to the vile Almohads whom even good Moors such as you despise. Yet the order treats you well. You have all you need and more than many. You have the protection of the Temple. Whatever the cause of your dismay, I cannot imagine there is any foundation to it.’

  More cobbles fell from loose fingers and Arnau marvelled at the sheer power and command the preceptrix exuded. He could picture Brother Lütolf attempting such a thing. It would likely have ended in bloodshed. But the authority of Sister Ermengarda was absolute.

  ‘Disband and go back to your duties and we shall speak no more of this,’ she announced.

  There was a long pause, and then, as though the crowd had burst from the centre, they dispersed, heading into the outbuildings or out into the fields. As soon as the mob had gone, the only evidence of the event the scattered fallen rocks, Sister Ermengarda slid from the saddle, the others joining her. Arnau and Mateu took the reins and tied all the beasts to the hitching rail, then joined their superiors at the farmhouse’s entrance. There was a click, and the door opened.

  Arnau n
oted with shock the huge welt on the farmer’s head where he had been struck, presumably with one of the rocks. The man stepped aside and gestured for the visitors to enter. As his wife and daughter went about opening the shutters and flooding the building with light, Mujahid stood with his head bowed, and gestured to a seat. The preceptrix took the offered chair and sank into it, folding her arms. Without needing to be ordered the five men gathered in a small group, standing behind her.

  ‘Now, Mujahid, what is this about?’

  The man’s young son ran in then, paused to bow to the preceptrix, and then carried his dampened cloth to his father. Mujahid took the ball of wet material and pressed it to the injury on his head.

  ‘I have never seen anything like it, Sister.’

  ‘I have,’ his wife snapped. ‘In Lleida, back when the Christian conquest was still raw.’

  ‘Reconquest,’ corrected Brother Lütolf, earning himself a warning glance from the preceptrix.

  The Moorish woman glared at the German for a moment, then returned to her tale. ‘When there were still sons of Allah all across the land and matters were being settled, there were men who would not accept that our world was gone. They stirred up hatred and bile among even the best of people and aimed it at our new overlords.’

  Mujahid nodded sadly. ‘It is an unfortunate fact that many still bristle at the coming of the cross. Many see it only as a temporary measure before the Christian lords are driven out once more and the taifas return. Among these men it is easy to stir up trouble. And when part of a group succumbs to such bile, it spreads like wound-rot, infecting even the good flesh.’

  ‘You are saying that someone has been stirring up the Moorish workers?’ Brother Ramon prompted.

  ‘I believe so. They accused me of betraying my history and our people. Of living fat off the profits of Christian conquerors while they languish in indentured servitude.’

  ‘To some extent they are correct, of course,’ the man’s wife said savagely, still glaring at Lütolf.

  ‘Aisha!’ barked her husband in a sharp warning.

  ‘Please, let us have concord and peace here,’ the preceptrix said quietly, and eventually, as the farmer’s wife nodded her agreement, she continued. ‘I have never stinted on our care for the workers on Rourell’s estates. We take only our tithe and leave you all to profit as you can from what is left. We do not actively pursue your oath to the cross, as some masters might, for in this cracked and broken world of ours we must seek to bind things together once more, not widen those cracks. So tell me, given that I have been as lenient as it is possible for a preceptor to be, what I can do to counteract the work of any unseen rabble-rouser?’

  A thought suddenly sprang into Arnau’s head. A memory from the day the German knight had broken his finger. Men in armour, he was sure, glinting in the fields to the north. And within days the workers of those fields were rebelling? Too much coincidence there. He filed that away to point out later.

  Mujahid looked uncomfortable now. His voice cracked a little as he spoke.

  ‘That, I fear, is a large part of the problem, Preceptrix.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘The very idea of a woman wielding such temporal and spiritual power is… not universally accepted, Preceptrix.’

  ‘Not even among Christian lords, Mujahid,’ she replied earnestly. ‘Are you saying that my position is becoming a matter of contention among the workers on the Templar estates?’

  ‘It would seem to be the case, Sister.’

  Preceptrix Ermengarda steepled her fingers. ‘In two years commanding Rourell we have had no trouble. Once the initial shock of my sex and position wore off and I settled into the role, we have had peace and understanding among all the estates, to a level I cannot even claim among my own peers.’

  The farmer nodded solemnly. ‘And the suddenness of this change of spirit among my people is what leads me to suspect someone has been stirring them up. When they met this morning and refused to work to support a – if you’ll pardon my repeating their words – a Christian witch, I harangued them. I reminded them of your care and diligence and of their oaths. They hit me with a rock and then started to threaten my children. I came inside and hid.’

  The preceptrix was nodding.

  ‘If there is any repeat of this sort of behaviour among the workers, do not confront them, Mujahid. You are too good a man to suffer such wounds. Send to Rourell. We will come and resolve the issue. With good fortune and God’s will, after our little chat just now they will return to their normal lives and all will be well.’

  The farmer nodded, though Arnau could not see it being that easy. Wishing Mujahid and his family well and telling the man to call upon the preceptory if he needed any help or there was a complication with his injury, the small party exited the building once more into the morning sun. Figures were moving in the fields and the distinctive sound of the olive press at work suggested that all had returned to normal at the farm, yet as they remounted and made their way back to Rourell, all eyes were downcast, and the few times Arnau managed to glimpse a face before it turned away, the only word he could use to describe their expression was ‘hostile’.

  After sext, and the midday meal that followed swiftly on, Arnau found himself waiting for Brother Lütolf and their training session, but he decided that he would use some of the time as the German had initially suggested, becoming familiar with Rourell’s lands. He saddled his piebald mare and left by the west gate.

  First he toured north through the wheat fields and by the olive groves, mail hauberk hot in the sun but affording him just a crumb of confidence, given recent events, black habit with red cross marking him unmistakably as a Templar sergeant. He spent a good twenty minutes around the Granja de la Selva, nodding his greeting to Mujahid as he passed, and to Rafael when he bumped into him at one of the olive groves. What struck him was the general sense of anger and unease that permeated the land, rising from every toiling body in those fields or orchards. This, he decided, was not going to go away quickly. Near the perimeter of the estates, his eyes repeatedly strayed to the surrounding countryside, half-expecting to see the sun glint off armour beneath the trees somewhere. That he didn’t see it made him feel no easier.

  He called by the mill and met Brother Miquel there. He’d hoped, on a whim, to gauge the atmosphere there too, but only the miller and the brother overseer were present, the bulk of the workers out with the cart and the beasts of burden, delivering flour to the preceptory, the village of Rourell and the town of Vilallonga del Camp a little further south. The miller seemed content enough, but then he would not be the one a rabble-rouser targeted.

  Riding on, he checked out the Granja de Moli with its smaller area of cultivated fields, but with herds of goats, sheep and cattle. Also, this farm bred horses and oxen for the preceptory. Consequently there were a great number of workers in the fields, pens and paddocks, but even more in the complex of farm buildings, which included a butchery. Despite everything, Arnau felt tense and nervous moving among the Moorish workers hefting cleavers and knives. Though there was not the simmering undercurrent of barely tamed rebellion here that he’d felt at the other farm, there was still a sense of disquiet and discontent that was almost palpable.

  Starting to feel more and more concerned by what he was seeing, Arnau moved on to the Granja del Camp with its vineyards and winery. Despite it being early in the season, the vines were already laden with burgeoning bunches of heavy blue-black grapes, and workers moved among them, tending the plants, weeding, removing pests and performing the myriad other tasks of viniculture. Not one met Arnau’s gaze, which worried him further. At the winery, he discovered that the vintner and his helpers were off with a few cases of wine, seeking potential new merchants in Reus. Uncomfortably aware that he was alone on an entire estate of potentially rebellious Moorish workers, Arnau picked up his pace and rode back to Rourell, looking forward to dismounting. The pain from the cut to his side was barely noticeable the rest of the time, but ri
ding made it ache badly.

  Brother Lütolf was outside the west gate, swinging his sword in wide circles, loosening muscles. Each time the blade was in his left hand and reached the apex, the German grunted, and Arnau realised that the damage from the horse kick days ago was still affecting him, despite his best efforts to hide or overcome it.

  ‘When I suggested you ride out alone to familiarise yourself with the estate,’ the German announced, ‘that was before we knew that there were hostile folk out there with bloody intent. You were foolish to do so.’

  ‘Yet I live still, Brother Lütolf,’ Arnau said, rather grouchily. ‘Given what we saw this morning, I found myself wondering if it was the La Selva farm alone that had suffered such unrest.’

  The German paused, his head cocked to one side. ‘The same thought had occurred to me. And was this the case?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Arnau replied, dismounting and tethering his steed. ‘I suspect our rabble-rousers have been at work throughout Rourell’s lands. I would be willing to wager that the glint I saw in the fields the other day when you tried to maim me was connected to this whole situation.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lütolf agreed, completely ignoring the jibe over the broken finger. ‘When Rafael goes out on his rounds tomorrow morning, I think we should go with him. Have our horses readied at dawn and we will accompany him on his visits. And make sure you are fully armed and armoured at the time. For now, though, I want you to forget entirely about that overgrown club to which you are so attached and work on concealing your tells. Come.’

  The following hour consisted of yet another series of painful and humiliating lessons, having every flicker of an eyelid analysed for its potential power to betray his intentions. With every blow and parry, Arnau expected the stitches in his side to open beneath the wrappings, though it seemed Carima truly knew her business and he remained intact despite his exertions. Indeed, for some time they put aside their weapons entirely and played a ridiculous game in which Brother Lütolf gave him four options to choose from mentally and then attempted to ascertain which one he had selected purely from his manner and stance. Irritatingly the man had been correct the lion’s share of the time. Finally, they returned to the preceptory and the horse was stabled. Life fell once more into monastic monotony, though Arnau was beginning to find the routine of prayer and praise, work and practice to be soothing in an odd way. When compline was done and the male contingent of Rourell retired to the refectory to partake of wine while the women congregated in the chapter house, Arnau wandered in, scanning the trestles for somewhere to sit and socialise, and against all expectations, it was the German knight who beckoned and pushed back a chair.