Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Castellvell made a strange rasping sound, but the preceptrix gave him no time to load his verbal crossbow. ‘And please exhort him not to attempt to rouse our workers against us like a low knave.’

  Brother Lütolf raised a hand. ‘I apologise for interrupting proceedings, Preceptrix, but this morning we have visited the estates to find all our workers fled; incited, it seems, by a villain masquerading as a Moorish holy man.’

  Ermengarda shot a surprised look at the German, but recovered admirably, and turned back to the baron. ‘See how della Cadeneta sets himself against the order?’

  ‘He is doing no such thing,’ snapped Castellvell. ‘You draw in a woman to your order, something that is expressly forbidden in your own sacred rule, you grasp her fortune for sheer greed and personal gain – the Temple does not need her lands, and you know it – and you do all this against the wishes of the great Lord d’Entenza, confidant of the king himself. In doing what you have done, you have broken your own order’s rules and set yourself against the rightful temporal law of the Crown of Aragon.’

  ‘The order has been pleased to accept the Doña de Santa Coloma as a sister. Our reasons and justifications for such are none of your business, Baron de Castellvell. Once the appropriate documents are lodged with our mother house and accepted then only the grand master could overturn such a decision. I think it rather poor taste your accusing this august order of greed in accepting a donation of lands, while supporting the claim of the grasping, acquisitive della Cadeneta to the Santa Coloma estate.’

  ‘Enough of this sparring,’ spat Castellvell. ‘I did not come here to bandy words with a woman claiming high station to which she is not entitled. This visit is a courtesy and might be treated as such.’

  ‘Then perhaps it should have been courteous?’ the preceptrix shot back.

  Gritting his teeth in irritation, the baron continued. ‘Your course of action thus far is unwise. I have attempted to dissuade della Cadeneta from any precipitous action, and in doing so offered to attempt to persuade you to see reason. If reason you would do so, refuse sanctuary for this runaway bride, forgo any claim on her soul or her lands and turn her loose. Della Cadeneta will get his wife, d’Entenza will get his support, the king will get his peace and I will get some rest.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Think again, Doña d’Oluja. The Temple’s reputation in the region hangs by a thread. You would not want to be the one who snips that thread, believe me. You can still strengthen the all-too-necessary relations between your order and the nobles of Aragon, but to do so you must relinquish this woman. She is destined to be a wife. Let her be one.’

  The preceptrix nodded slowly, then turned to the younger woman by her side.

  ‘The decision is yours, Sister Titborga. Are you made for the marriage bed?’

  Titborga shook her head. ‘I give my body and my estate to the order and my soul to the Lord. Della Cadeneta will have none of them.’

  Preceptrix Ermengarda turned back to the baron with an apologetic expression. ‘It is not in the remit of the order to refuse a good Christian the chance to serve God. Sister Titborga stays at Rourell.’

  Baron de Castellvell rose with a sour face.

  ‘I have done what I can. On your own head be what follows. I detest you, Ermengarda d’Oluja, for your presumption and your harbouring of the heathen to your bosom, and I do not trust your order any further than I would trust al-Mansur himself, for you deny your own rules and are set upon a path of acquisition and opposition to God-appointed temporal rule. Regardless, I will not raise a hand against you, but know this: neither will I raise a hand in your defence when della Cadeneta comes for his bride, and come he surely will.’

  ‘Then it would appear we have nothing further to discuss,’ the preceptrix said, coldly.

  Without another word, his expression speaking volumes, the baron rose with some difficulty, straightening his knees and stamping life back into his feet. He bowed curtly, then turned and stomped from the room, his four armoured men following on.

  Brother Luis made to close the door behind him, but the preceptrix raised her hand. ‘Leave it open. We have no secrets from him, and I want him observed until he is outside our walls.’ Luis bowed his head and left the door open, moving to stand in the gap and keep one eye on the furious departing baron and the other on proceedings in the room.

  ‘Was it wise to antagonise him so, Sister?’ Ramon asked quietly from the bench.

  ‘He was here purely to threaten,’ the preceptrix replied angrily. ‘I do not respond well to threats. Besides, even hating me as he does, Castellvell is not stupid enough to start a war with the order. The king would tear strips off him for it. He will be of no further harm, and he was never going to be of aid to us, so we have lost nothing of value. The message is clear, though: we stand alone against della Cadeneta, and he will come. He has already killed and assaulted, and now attempts to ruin us. He has made every move he can without direct confrontation. He has tried to proceed without overt conflict so far, but even with the aid of a powerful noble, he has failed. If he comes, what can we do, Brothers?’

  Ramon shrugged. ‘If he comes with his men, Sister, we will be in trouble. They amount to a sizeable force alone. But I believe he will keep his soldiers at Cadeneta and send hired men against us. That way he can deny responsibility in the aftermath and blame it all on bandits or suchlike. He is no idiot.’

  ‘If he comes, we will beat him,’ the German brother corrected him in flat tones. ‘We are righteous and God will watch over us. Della Cadeneta is clearly spawn of the Serpent and shall never prevail.’

  Ramon cast a sidelong glance at his brother knight. ‘God can watch over us, but I will feel better knowing that we are strong in ourselves too. Luis, I want an inventory of everything of potential use in the preceptory – weapons, tools, potential blockages and supplies.’

  ‘You sound as though you are treating this like a siege,’ the German said.

  ‘In anticipation of one, yes I am. Preparation costs nothing.’

  ‘Return to the dormitory,’ the preceptrix ordered, gesturing to Titborga and the other nuns.

  Brother Balthesar moved round from behind the younger sister’s chair. ‘The yard is full of dangerous men. I will escort you.’

  Titborga began to make her way out, Carima and Catarina alongside her, leaving just the men in the chapter house with the preceptrix.

  ‘Do you really think della Cadeneta would attack Rourell?’ Arnau asked quietly, in disbelief.

  ‘I think a savage driven by greed and lust is capable of a great many things,’ the preceptrix replied. ‘It is a dangerous game to play, but he is cunning. The men he sends are not from his household. They are but rough hirelings. If he can overcome us and secure Sister Titborga then he can still claim her as a bride and inherit her estate, since we have not yet lodged the records. If he is successful, any impropriety will be smoothed over and ignored by the king and the barons, and the Temple will accept the damage in order to preserve their relationship with the Crown of Aragon. And if by some reason della Cadeneta should fail, he can disavow all knowledge of his ruffians and walk away untouched by anything more than a little suspicion.’

  ‘He has nothing to lose,’ Brother Ramon said quietly.

  ‘What do we do?’ Arnau asked. ‘Send for more help?’

  ‘Only as a last resort,’ the preceptrix replied. ‘Two such missions have ended in violence thus far. I would be tempted to move the entire preceptory to Barberà, but I fear that to do so would open us to twin troubles: leaving Rourell at the mercy of Cadeneta’s hirelings, and exposing Titborga to potential attack on the road. No. She must remain within the walls for now, as must we all. Ramon has the right of it. We prepare for the worst, but I do not want anyone riding north unless our hand is forced. We cannot afford to lose another brother.’

  Arnau was about to pose another question when the sound of an altercation drifted in through the door. Brother Luis, who had been concentra
ting on the conversation, turned and peered outside.

  ‘Trouble,’ he called, then rushed out into the light.

  Arnau was among the gathered men as they piled out into the dazzling sun of the courtyard. His gaze swept over proceedings and he realised instantly that they were on the very brink of disaster. Baron Castellvell stood on the step of his carriage, staring with outright hostility. His men were bristling, swords half drawn in threat.

  Close to the belfry, Arnau could see the shapes of Sisters Titborga and Catarina, shaking slightly. Carima was just visible as a heap of white on the filthy ground. One of the red-clad men at arms stood nearby, growling, his lip twisted in a sneer as he rubbed his knuckles with his other hand. He was snarling something at the nuns. Over the tense sounds of pending violence, Arnau couldn’t quite hear what he said, but he had definitely caught the words ‘filthy Jew’.

  Brother Balthesar was crouched by the fallen sister as the soldier massaged his knuckles.

  The man had hit a nun! In his mind, he had struck a heretic, of course, but that was immaterial. Arnau felt a moment of shame at the memory of his own reaction when he had realised her Jewish heritage and had blithely condemned her people as heretics as she mended his finger.

  Lütolf and Ramon began to push the baron’s soldiers aside, heaving their way towards the altercation even as the preceptrix emerged from the chapter house with a face like an avenging angel, stark and deadly.

  Arnau could see the situation beginning to tip towards further violence, and his heart thundered as he saw Brother Balthesar rise from the heap of white habits that was Carima, unfolding like some dreadful Titan, his expression enough to make even the darkest demon flinch. He shouted something to the brother, an attempt to stop what he knew was coming.

  He felt a tiny tinge of relief when Balthesar did not rip his sword from his scabbard, but the ageing, white-haired Templar was far from harmless even empty handed. His hand flew out and caught the baron’s man on the cheek. At the resulting faintly metallic crunch, Arnau remembered that the brother was wearing his mail shirt, complete with sleeves and gauntlets. While the soldier’s slap had been enough to send Carima to the ground, Balthesar’s strike lifted the man at arms from his feet and sent him flying back to land on his posterior, nose broken, head ringing and blood streaming down the lower half of his face.

  A dreadful silence fell across the courtyard in which the only perceptible noise was that of Ramon, Lütolf and Arnau pushing through shocked soldiers.

  Balthesar was growling, a fierce sound like the throaty rumble of a wolf, and his very stance spoke of further impending violence.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ bellowed the Baron de Castellvell from the step of his carriage, though he received no answer.

  From the ground, the fallen soldier grunted ‘Bastard. I’ll see you hang for that.’

  ‘How blessed are those who keep justice, who practise righteousness at all times,’ quoted the older brother, his fist tightening as if readying for a blow. The soldiers close to their fallen comrade now drew their blades with a collective rasp. Arnau made to draw his own sword in response, but was surprised as the German brother’s hand fell over his own and pushed the hilt back down.

  ‘Do not join this madness.’

  Arnau came to a halt, shaking, furious at the baron’s men for their conduct, furious at Lütolf for restraining his hand, furious at himself for not already being over there, ripping into these godless thugs. Ramon and Lütolf reached Balthesar a moment later as the other two nuns finally helped Carima to her feet, the young woman’s face scraped and red from the slap.

  The soldier with the broken nose, still uttering words that should not be said in such a holy place, rose to his feet, finger wagging angrily at his attacker.

  Brother Balthesar went for him, and all that saved the soldier’s life was Lütolf and Ramon grabbing hold of their friend’s shoulders and physically holding him back.

  ‘See dow de gread ad powerful Order od de Tebble,’ sneered the man, his voice changed and distorted by his ruined nose. ‘Jew ad boor lubbers, weak ad useless.’

  He spat blood into Balthesar’s face and the venerable Templar lunged for him again, Ramon and Lütolf gripping him as tight as they could.

  ‘Rewed by a whore!’ added the soldier, earning him a shocked look even from his friends. Balthesar, so stunned by the insult to his preceptrix, stopped struggling for a moment and the German brother adjusted his hold in preparation.

  There was a dreadful silence.

  Then Brother Ramon hit the soldier. Hard.

  This was no slap, but a punch. Lucky the baron’s man was that Ramon was dressed only in his church garb and his fist was bare and not mailed, for encased in steel that blow might well have killed him. As it was, it sent him reeling back and falling to the ground again, this time barely conscious. The man collapsed onto his back with a sigh.

  ‘Enough!’ bellowed the preceptrix from the chapter house step. ‘Any man who does not sheathe his sword this instant I will see excommunicated for his part in defiling the Lord’s house.’

  Every sword snapped back into place or slid into a scabbard at that, and three men stooped and lifted their fallen companion by the shoulders, supporting the stunned, broken man.

  ‘Leave Rourell,’ Brother Ramon snarled at the men at arms. ‘Now, before my friend here considers letting Brother Balthesar go.’

  Several of the men flinched as they caught the eye of the older Templar, who was still struggling in his compatriot’s grip.

  ‘Forth, to Castellvell,’ the baron shouted from the coach, and the soldiers, still glaring at the three Templar knights, helped their wounded friend into a saddle and then mounted themselves, leading the injured soldier’s reins as they exited through the west gate and out into the countryside.

  Arnau watched angrily as the men at arms filed out, banners raised as soon as they passed beneath the gate. The baron’s coach, the nobleman now concealed inside, began to move out in the column’s wake and, at a call from the occupant, rumbled to a halt outside the chapter house. The curtain was swept aside, and the cadaverous face of the baron emerged, expression fierce.

  ‘You have made your bed, Ermengarda of Rourell, and those of all your people. Neither I nor any God-fearing noble of Aragon or Catalunya will raise a finger to save you from the righteous fury of a spurned husband. You have condemned your brothers and sisters.’

  ‘I hear a lot of hot words and yet no truth, Baron de Castellvell,’ the preceptrix replied in a cold voice.

  ‘I expect your brothers to be punished for their conduct against my man. I will leave the matter to your conscience, in the hope that you have one.’

  The preceptrix inclined her head only very slightly. ‘Brothers Ramon and Balthesar will be dealt with in strict accordance with Templar Rule. I presume it is too much to expect that you will see to a similar disciplining of your soldier?’

  The baron snorted. ‘For striking a Jew? Faith, woman, but he should be rewarded.’

  With that, he gestured for his driver to set off and the carriage rolled away through the gate, the last of his entourage following up as a rearguard.

  ‘Get Carima into the refectory and see to her,’ the preceptrix said, gesturing to Titborga and Catarina, then turned to where Lütolf had finally let go of Balthesar. The German moved back towards Arnau as the other two knights fell into position in front of their preceptrix.

  ‘Surely she will not punish them?’ Arnau breathed to Lütolf as the German came to a halt beside him.

  ‘There must be something done. It is in the rule, although if I remember correctly, the text on this matter is extremely vague and open to interpretation.’

  ‘But they were protecting Sister Carima.’

  ‘That does not excuse injuring a Christian in anger.’

  Arnau’s feelings on the matter were quite to the contrary, but he remained silent as the two knights stood before Preceptrix Ermengarda, heads bowed.

&
nbsp; ‘The rule of our order is complex on this matter,’ she said. ‘It calls for potential punishment for any blow inflicted with a sharp instrument, a stone, a stick, or anything that might kill or wound. Given that in both of your cases a simple punch can certainly wound, if not kill, a certain level of punishment is required. The rule leaves it to our discretion whether to take from you your habits.’

  Arnau’s eyes widened, and even the German drew a disbelieving breath. The confiscation of a brother’s sacred garments was one of the worst punishments possible, a matter of extreme dishonour.

  ‘Remove your habits,’ the preceptrix ordered. A chill enveloped the courtyard as all stared in astonishment at the sister. The two men did so, ashen faced, handing the famous white robes to the preceptrix. She took them in both hands and then nodded. ‘Let that be a lesson to you. Put them back on and wash the blood from your knuckles.’

  There was a look of horrified disbelief in the eyes of the two brothers, but Arnau caught the preceptrix’s face as she handed back the garments, turned and retreated into the chapter house. There had been a small, mischievous smile there that threatened to make Arnau laugh.

  ‘Sainted Mary, but I almost thought she meant to do it then,’ Lütolf whispered in shock. ‘Though it will be some time before either of them considers landing a punch without permission, that’s for certain.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days passed in a strange limbo of tension and anticipation. The denizens of Rourell went about their tasks and duties as usual, though in a strangely muted, taciturn manner, as though contemplation of coming disaster might hasten its approach. There was a gradual gathering too, instinctively, unintentionally. None now seemed to spend their time about solitary chores or in personal contemplation. All tasks and social activities were now carried out in large groups or with the preceptory’s full community involved. No one truly expected to be suddenly attacked, and yet Rourell subconsciously prepared itself.

  Brother Ramon, whom Arnau now believed to be a slave of the grape, and probably had been during his entire time in the order and before, no longer spent his solitary time in the buttery feeding his personal demon, but emptied a few jugs in the refectory in front of everyone else. Arnau watched him with interest, knowing that the order’s rule specifically forbade excessive indulgence. Yet at no time did Ramon seem to him drunk, his hand remaining steady, his mind sharp. Moreover, the preceptrix continued to treat him as though there was nothing noteworthy in his behaviour, though when the knight’s back was turned, the young man had noted an odd sympathetic expression on her face. There was some story there, he was sure, though opening up that tale would be a task for another time, as he’d learned yesterday.