Daughter of War
Page 22
They all peered at it.
A heart-shaped gold locket on a long and delicate chain.
All faces in the room folded into frowns at at the seeming incongruity of this expensive item among a poor maid’s belongings. All but two. Arnau and Titborga stared at the locket, then exchanged stunned looks. The last time Arnau had seen that piece of jewellery it had been hanging from the hand of Ferrer della Cadeneta as he stood outside Titborga’s room in Santa Coloma. The night he had tried to buy her chastity with a bauble. The night Arnau had almost killed him, and he had almost killed Arnau. The night, he remembered with a shock, that della Cadeneta had raped the maid in the garderobe. Or had that been strictly true? Had he forced her? Had he needed to? Arnau remembered Maria’s face that night as she re-emerged. Not a look of horror or shame as he’d expected. Had she become della Cadeneta’s that night? Had she perhaps been his even before? Either way, the locket confirmed the connection.
‘She has been della Cadeneta’s accomplice,’ Titborga said, sadly. ‘Don Ferrer tried to give me that locket upon a time, and I refused it. That he gave it to Maria is all the proof I need.’
The preceptrix nodded. ‘Pass me it, please, Sister Catarina.’ The nun did as she was requested, and Preceptrix Ermengarda clicked open the heart and peered inside. ‘A likeness of della Cadeneta,’ she confirmed. ‘Not a particularly good likeness, for it does not exude wickedness like the real thing, but enough for me to be sure. Whether this is enough proof beyond your story or not is a question for better legal minds than mine, though, I think.’
‘Preceptrix,’ Brother Ramon said quietly, ‘I believe the time has come. Della Cadeneta’s hirelings have proved themselves men of no conscience, intent on rape, kidnap, incitement, arson and even murder. We all know what comes next. If we are going to send for aid, it must be now. This will be our last opportunity. The forces of the wicked are gathering and Rourell is an island of sanctity amid them. I have the fastest horse at Rourell, and Mateu the second fastest. Give me the papers and the locket and we will ride for Barberà.’
The preceptrix was nodding. ‘I fear you are correct, Brother. The moment of decision is upon us, and I do not think we can delay further.’
Lütolf half-rose from his seat. ‘Begging your indulgence, Sister, but I would request the opportunity to make this ride. My horse might not be as fast as Brother Ramon’s – indeed, I am not sure I even have a horse right now – but I owe Cadeneta’s men a debt of vengeance.’
‘Vengeance is not part of our creed, Brother.’
‘Was it not you who told us to take our lead from Exodus and not Matthew, Preceptrix? An eye for an eye over the turning of cheeks? We all know I am the best swordsman in Rourell, and this is simple truth, not unseemly pride. And my squire, Brother Arnau, is intimately involved in the matter. He can bear witness and vouch for the truth as both a secular noble and a man of God. He and I are the clear choice to bear this news and fetch help from Barberà. Please do not deny us this.’
Arnau had initially felt shock and then some nervousness at the idea of leaving the dubious safety of Rourell and riding for the mother house, but as the German spoke, the truth and clarity of his words hit home. They were the two who should go.
‘I concur,’ he said, rising. ‘I can stand for Vallbona and Santa Coloma in this matter just as Brother Lütolf can stand for the order.’
There was an uncertain stillness in the room for a moment. The preceptrix turned first to Brother Ramon, who looked unconvinced but shrugged and then nodded, then to Brother Balthesar, who added his own consent with a nod.
‘Very well, then.’
‘Do we wait for morning?’ Arnau asked quietly.
‘No,’ Lütolf replied. ‘Time is now short and things move apace to a cataclysm. With the preceptrix’s permission, we will take a quick bite of bread and butter, then arm, saddle up and ride for Barberà.’
He turned to Arnau with a wrinkling of his nose. ‘Via somewhere you can wash.’
Chapter Fifteen
The map had been laid out upon the refectory table, and Arnau studied it with interest. He’d ridden the fields and estates of Rourell several times now over the days he’d been here and not once had it occurred to him to enquire whether there was a map. It was interesting to see how it all fitted together.
Rourell preceptory sat at the heart of the map, a square of fortified piety. It was passed by two roads, one on the western side, running from Vilallonga further south, up through the ridge of hills to the mother house of Barberà and beyond. The other, on the far side of the river to the east, past the burned mill, running south to Tarragona and north to Valls. Twin lines that bound the Rourell estates. And about that map wove the somewhat seasonal Francoli River from the coast, running up the east side of the estate beside the mill, curving around to the north, past the La Selva farmhouse where the trouble had begun, and then off towards the hills north-west where Cadeneta lay.
‘There are two crossings,’ Brother Lütolf was saying. ‘The one on the Barberà road we know has been destroyed. It is possible to work round that and continue north by following the river into the hills and through La Riba, crossing at Montblanc, but that means tackling dangerous hilly regions at night and means we will be circling around Cadeneta for much of that time. I think we can all agree that this would be a foolhardy course to take.’
Arnau nodded, as did Brothers Ramon and Balthesar and the preceptrix.
‘Which leaves the longer route. Past the mill, across the river there and north to Valls, then cutting across to the west. This adds perhaps two miles to our journey but has the benefit of taking us further from the area we know della Cadeneta’s men have been watching.’
‘Although we also know that some of his men were at the mill,’ Ramon reminded them.
‘True, although that was for a specific purpose.’ The German rumbled deep in his throat and tapped his lips thoughtfully before tracing the line of the river north from the mill bridge to the broken one, then back. Partway along, his finger came to rest and he tapped the map. ‘There.’
They all peered at the chart, frowning. ‘There’s no crossing there.’
‘No,’ the German admitted, ‘but there, just beyond the La Selva farm, the river is wide and subject to banks of gravel and reeds. At this time of year a rider can cross the Francoli in most places anyway, so long as he’s watchful of what might lie beneath the water to lame a horse. Near the farm there is nothing hidden. The crossing would be easy and shallow. Both bridges have been the focus of della Cadeneta’s attention. If we want to make it north without following Carles into paradise, an unknown crossing might be the best choice.’
Arnau nodded. The sense of it was clear, and that seemed to have struck the others too, as they all confirmed their agreement.
‘Vallbona, see if Brother Guillem has made the horses ready.’
Arnau, who at less tense times might have bridled at the knight’s terse and haughty manner, simply nodded and hurried out to the stables. On the way, he adjusted the hang of the fresh black habit – his daywear one – over his damp skin. He’d not had time for a real bath, given how long it took to fill the wooden tub, but a quick dip in the horse trough had rid him of the soot, at least.
Guillem had saddled Arnau’s horse and made her ready, checking the shoes and stirrups. Another mare stood ready, a white one with a thick mane. Arnau helped settle the saddlebags into place and then led the animals out into the night air. It was odd, seeing the preceptory in the deepest night with all the bustle and activity of daytime, and he prayed it stayed safely this way for some time as he stood holding the reins and waiting for the German knight.
Lütolf appeared a moment later, emerging from the refectory fastening his helmet into place and checking the sword at his side. His mail shushed and chinked as he strode across the ground to the animals and the two sergeants. Approaching them, he reached down to his belt and untied a drawstring bag passing it over to Arnau. The young sergeant took
it with a puzzled frown.
‘The pendant, the documents and the money for our journey,’ the German explained as he hauled himself up into the saddle.
‘Me?’
‘If we run into trouble, I will be the target of choice, Vallbona, as a full knight. They will assume, correctly, that I am the more dangerous, and they will assume that I hold anything of value, with my sergeant-squire along for support. If the worst happens, you can ride on for Barberà while I buy you time. Understand?’
Arnau did so, and nodded, tucking the container into one of his saddlebags and then pulling himself up into the saddle. ‘We can’t afford to run into trouble,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘You’ll be for it if you lose another horse.’
The black look he earned from Brother Lütolf made the barbed joke worthwhile, and Arnau was still grinning to himself as they approached the gate and Simo and Guillem removed the bar and let them out into the dark world beyond the preceptory walls. The night felt truly oppressive out here, far from any notion of safety. Arnau had that same tremor of nerves he had felt before the mill, when he’d stepped out alone and decided that he was easy prey for any crossbowman in the area.
‘Ride steady,’ the German told him, ‘not fast. Save the beast’s energy for when we might need it.’
The two men trotted lightly across the fields towards the farmhouse where only days ago they had found the grisly scene of the hanged family. The moonlight cast a bright, silver light over everything, and the farmhouse loomed large ahead of them just as the monastery dwindled to a small shape behind. Stark in the bright glow, the farmhouse’s arrangement of windows and door suddenly looked oddly skull-like to Arnau, especially given that they lay open and black rather than shuttered as they had been when people still lived there. The place sent shivers through him, partly for the image he had formed in his head and partly through the memories of what had happened there.
He turned his eyes from the place and instead peered off ahead towards the river he knew was perhaps three or four hundred yards beyond, invisible in its shallow valley, hidden by the thick green growth. His eyes rose from that to the distant hills beyond, a blacker line beneath the black sky. Somewhere beyond them lay the mother house. What would happen at Barberà, he wondered? Would they be believed? Supported? Would the master there send knights to aid them? Would he agree to petition the grand master, or the king even, against the villainy of della Cadeneta? This was something of an unknown. Even the German knight did not seem at all sure of what reception to expect, but both men – all of Rourell, in fact – had agreed that there was no real alternative. They had come to a time for decisions, and had made one, for good or ill.
Fifteen miles through field and forest, hill and valley, across rivers and past towns. On other days it might have been a pleasant ride.
The young sergeant’s eyes were inevitably drawn back to that looming shape ahead and to the left. Eye-socket windows staring at them, dark and lifeless. He shuddered and turned away again.
His heart jumped as Brother Lütolf’s horse suddenly screamed and reared. The German knight, caught completely by surprise, tumbled from the back of the beast, his ankle twisting, caught in the stirrup. Arnau watched in horror as the animal dropped back to the ground and Lütolf fell, bouncing on the earth painfully. There was an unpleasant crack from his leg and then the horse was off, running, dragging its rider by the leg.
Arnau panicked. What to do? Why had the horse reared?
He ripped the sword from his scabbard on instinct alone and felt for the shield attached to his saddlebags, his eyes all the time on his companion. By some miracle, despite what had to be a broken leg, the German managed to get his foot from the stirrup and collapsed in a heap on the ground as his latest horse ran off into the darkness, screeching.
Arnau kicked his beast into life and raced towards the German as Lütolf tried to stand. He managed to get to his feet for moments, but then fell with a cry, his ankle giving way beneath him, turned at an unnatural angle. Damn it. A broken ankle not only put the German out of action, it might easily kill him, or at the least end his career as a man of the sword.
Panicking, Arnau reached him and dropped from his horse, running over.
Lütolf turned, seeing the black-clad sergeant hurrying to him, and his face blanched.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You’re injured. You need help.’
‘Ride for Barberà, idiot!’
It was then that Arnau realised his mistake. That was precisely what he should have done: as soon as the German was unhorsed, he should have kicked his mount into speed and raced north. Instead, he had dismounted. But there had been no sign of danger. Just a horse that—
He heard the crossbow bolt thrumming through the air and had only the blink of an eye to wonder what dying would feel like before the missile whispered past him and thudded into his horse’s head. The beast perished on its feet, with no time even to cry out, slumping to the ground, silent. Arnau stared.
‘Run, you fool,’ the German snapped, waving a desperate arm.
No. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t leave Lütolf to his fate. Instead, he reached down and grasped the German’s shoulder and helped him upright. Lütolf struggled to push him away, but Arnau held tight.
‘You’ll get us both killed. Run.’
‘No.’
The German cried out as they took a step towards the olive press shed, and Arnau changed his footing to ease the pressure.
‘I’m done, Vallbona. Get away from here.’
‘I can’t.’ Could he? There was certainly no point in going on without a horse. He could run for Rourell once more, though how long he would last in open ground in bright moonlight he could not guess.
With Brother Lütolf repeatedly berating him for his continued presence and rhythmically whimpering as any pressure was applied to his right foot, the two men shuffled towards the dubious safety of the press house.
Arnau’s eyes rose once more to that skull-face of stone and timber.
There was a thud. Lütolf pushed Arnau away from him, and the younger man staggered to one side, almost falling, as the bolt thudded into the German. Roaring with pain, Lütolf lurched forward a pace, sword rasping free of his scabbard as he reeled. Arnau could see the shaft of the bolt, an ash shaft with bright white flights, jutting from his chest, just below the left shoulder. His mind calculated what their positions would be had he not been pushed out of the way, and came to the instant and unpleasant conclusion that Lütolf had saved his life, and that he would otherwise have taken that missile full in the face.
‘God’s blood!’ bellowed the German as he lurched and hopped forward.
There was a horrible silence, and Arnau realised that there was only one crossbowman and he was having to reload between shots.
He ran. For the looming arch of the press shed, and for the German knight, who was between him and it, snarling and shouting as he limped and hopped forward. He reached Lütolf a moment later and could almost feel the unseen archer preparing to shoot once more. Without stopping, he hit the German full pelt, knocking the man forward as he fell, taking care to hold his sword out to one side to prevent injury, keeping his shield between the two of them and those skull windows as much as possible.
The bolt thudded into this shield a heartbeat after they hit the ground, and he felt a searing pain as the tip punched through the linden boards and carved a small nick from his forearm. The German was howling in pain as he tried to get to his feet. In another heartbeat, Arnau went through the last few shots in his mind. The crossbowman had to jam his foot in the stirrup, haul back the string – something that took strength and effort, probably with a hook for the job judging by the power of the bolts – and fish another missile from his quiver, drop it in place, lift and aim. Another count of ten, and the man would be ready again, he reckoned.
Ticking off the seconds in his head, he rose to a crouch, and passed Lütolf, sheathing his sword.
Five.
‘What are you doing, you fool? Run!’ Lütolf said again.
Two.
One.
More. Either he’d mistimed it or the man was slower this time.
Two.
Three.
Thud. The bolt slammed into the prone German’s already ruined leg, punching straight through muscle and bone and drawing a cry of agony from his lips. But then they were disappearing into the shelter of the shed, the welcoming darkness defying any archer’s eye. He rattled out apologies as he dragged the knight, the fresh bolt head catching repeatedly on the ground as they moved, making his shattered leg bounce and dance about, bringing him fresh and constant agony.
‘We’re safe,’ he breathed with relief.
‘We are not safe, you idiot.’
Arnau could hear them then. More than one voice and the clatter of armour and weapons. There was more than a lone crossbowman, then. They had simply not come out into the open for fear of getting between the archer and his prey. But now the two Templars were hidden from missiles, it would be the turn of the footmen.
Damn it.
‘Where is the bag?’ Lütolf hissed, tears of pain running down his face. Arnau’s heart chilled. He’d been so busy worrying about the wounded German he’d not given a moment’s thought to the bag of documents and evidence. Now those all-important records were still in the saddlebags of his dead horse, out in the open and in full view of the crossbowman.
‘Shit.’
‘You left them with your horse?’ the German said, wide-eyed in disbelief. ‘You reach new heights of foolishness, Vallbona.’