Daughter of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The crossbows are meant to be used against the Moor when in battle, Sister. You know the laws. The Pope banned their use against Christians decades ago.’

  Preceptrix Ermengarda levelled a look at Ramon that brooked no argument. ‘I find that I could, with ease of conscience, argue that the men against whom we stand can make no claim to Christianity. The murder of ordained knights, a woman in the habit of a nun, and converted Moorish workers. These are not the acts of a Christian. And given that they are preparing to lay siege to a house of the Lord, I doubt there is a lawyer across Iberia, be he priest or squire, who would deny me their use.’

  Ramon nodded slowly. ‘I concur. These men represent the sendings of the Devil. They are no servants of the Lord.’ His expression was suddenly businesslike. ‘How many do we have, again?’

  ‘Eight bows. Plenty of bolts.’

  ‘Balthesar and I can deploy them effectively. Where is he?’

  The preceptrix turned and lifted her gaze to the top of the belfry.

  ‘Let’s join him, Sister,’ Ramon said, then added ‘The horses. I don’t see Guillem. Mateu, get them stabled for me.’

  Mateu nodded, grasped the reins of all four horses, two in each hand, and began to lead them towards the stables. The knight and the preceptrix wandered off towards the tower, and Titborga, having abandoned her attempt to carry everything at once, disappeared with half the quivers. Arnau found himself standing alone in the courtyard, free of orders and with everyone else busy. He’d not been given specific instructions, and though he was certain Ramon had meant him to help Mateu stable the horses, since the command had not been given he struggled for a moment with his conscience. Curiosity won out over duty and he hurried off in the wake of Ramon and the preceptrix, entering the dark stairwell of the tower and following them up.

  When he emerged at the top, he found Balthesar with Luis as well as the two he had followed. The older knight and the squire had placed two crates by the west and north parapets, a crossbow lying on each. Beside each crate stood two quivers, each with near a dozen bolts.

  ‘How long have we got?’ the preceptrix asked, and Arnau’s gaze rose from the deadly weapons and their ammunition to look out across Rourell’s landscape.

  ‘Not long,’ Balthesar said in a breathy whisper. ‘See, they amass already.’

  Arnau squinted. Sure enough, he could see a camp out in the fields towards the farmhouse, and the men – perhaps a score of them or more – were gathering at the near edge of the camp while a companion doused the remains of their fire. The same scene was playing out all about them as they moved around the parapet.

  ‘Where have you placed the other crossbows?’ Ramon asked his fellow knight.

  ‘One in the window above the south gate. There is not room for more than one man to shoot there. One by the west gate on a platform we have made of crates and barrels. One on the roof of the chapter house. One in each necessarium. The windows there have limited visibility, but there are plenty of them. The other I have not yet placed.’

  Ramon shook his head. ‘The necessaria are a poor choice, Brother. Place a second at each gate. If there is inadequate room for two men to shoot simultaneously, then they can take turns and stagger their shots, speeding up the barrage. And, though it might be sacrilege, have one of the smaller windows knocked out in the chapel’s north end. There will be a good field of view from there. Other than that you’ve got it covered well, I think. I especially like this vantage point.’

  Brother Balthesar nodded. ‘Good, since I have you placed here.’ Arnau thought the knight might argue, preferring to be somewhere he could put his sword arm to use. Certainly Lütolf would have done so. Instead, the younger of the two knights nodded. ‘Agreed. Mateu with me?’

  ‘No. Only three men are experienced with the weapon: you, Mateu and Father Diego.’

  Arnau blinked, trying to imagine the ancient, mad-looking priest wielding a crossbow. Even in his head the image was laughable. Brother Ramon must have read something in his expression, for he turned with a smile. ‘Father Diego was once a knight too, you know. More deadly than any of us. He was one of the victors at Santarem over a dozen years ago, before he settled for a more peaceful life. But he will wield one of these in each hand before he will let the dirty boot of those curs out there sully the floor of his church.’ He turned back to Balthesar. ‘So where?’

  ‘Given your decisions, Mateu at the south gate and Father Diego at the west, each of them with a less trained man they can support. And Lorenç and Ferrando at the other positions – they may not be experienced, but both men have a good eye and a steady hand.’

  ‘And here?’

  Balthesar pointed past Ramon, at Arnau.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I presume you’ve no experience with a crossbow?’

  ‘I’ve never even held one.’

  ‘Then you’re going to have to learn fast,’ Ramon said with that same smile. ‘Because you and I are in the eyrie, Brother Arnau. We have the best seats at the whole performace.’

  Around them, the camps having disgorged their denizens, the mercenary army of Ferrer della Cadeneta began to close in on the monastery.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Arnau’s heart thundered. How could there be so many low-life mercenaries and bandits in Iberia? Certainly della Cadeneta must have recruited every thug, drunk and outlaw across Catalunya and Aragon, for the forces of the enemy flooded across the fields towards Rourell like a tide of unwashed and hostile humanity. Admittedly, they were more of a shapeless mob than an organised army, running wild, brandishing weapons of all varieties, dressed in drab and colourless garments and with little in the way of armour. But the sheer number of them was daunting.

  The young sergeant lifted his crossbow and weighed it. It was heavier than he’d expected. For some reason, since it was constructed of wood and not iron like his sword and mace, he’d expected it to be lighter. If anything it was more weighty.

  He waited nervously, watching the enemy closing on the walls. Still, Brother Ramon had not readied himself. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement from his companion at the north side, and he turned to watch. Instead of preparing his bow as Arnau had expected, the knight dug into a large pouch at his belt and withdrew a flask. Surely not now? Arnau knew that no small quantity of wine would seriously affect Ramon, but surely it would at least slightly influence his aim?

  He frowned as the knight unstoppered the flask and stood it on the crate before him. His brow furrowed further at the realisation that the flask bore a cross upon it, and that there was no cup. He’d seen similar bottles in the buttery below, stored for church use. Sacramental wine.

  ‘Here they come,’ Ramon said quietly. ‘Be conservative with your shots. Make each one count.’

  Arnau nodded nervously and watched as the knight reached out for a strange wooden apparatus on the box and then, gripping the crossbow in the other hand, dropped the tip to the floor. Jamming his foot in the stirrup of the machine, he put the twin hooks of the wooden mechanism against the string and settled the weapon into place. He then pressed the contraption flat, grunting with effort, and by some marvellous means the wooden hooks pulled back the string until it clicked into place. The knight then dropped the wooden thing back to the crate and selected a bolt.

  Realising that he was watching, yet remaining inactive, Arnau grabbed the wooden machine on his own crate, grasped the bow and mimicked the knight’s routine, marvelling anew as the wooden mechanism clicked the string into place with ease and just a little effort. As he reached for a bolt, he heard an odd tinkling noise and glanced across in surprise to see that Brother Ramon had dipped the point of the bolt into the sacramental wine and waggled it around before withdrawing it and placing it into the groove on the weapon. Not having a jar of the wine himself, and baffled by the knight’s action, Arnau simply inserted the bolt dry into his own crossbow.

  ‘Let them have it the moment you’re sur
e of a shot,’ Ramon said, leaving Arnau as clueless as before. He’d never fired one of these in his life. How could he possibly be sure of a shot?

  He was further taken aback as Brother Ramon lifted the crossbow into position, training the weapon on one of the brown-clad bandits hurtling across the last stretch of field towards the ditch surrounding the preceptory, for the knight began to chant quietly.

  ‘This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper.’

  He fell silent as the figure upon whom Ramon had set his sights reached the edge of the ditch and paused, trying to decide how best to cross. The weapon discharged with a click and a thud and the bolt struck the man dead centre, where his collarbones met, punching deep into him and knocking him back to the soil.

  ‘May the Lord Jesus protect you and lead you to eternal life,’ Brother Ramon said quietly as he reached for the wooden apparatus and began to reload the bow. Arnau stared. It might be an oddly abbreviated version, but the young sergeant recognised some of the wording of the viaticum, the prayer for the dying. Strange.

  Trying not to ponder on yet another oddity of this place, he lifted his crossbow, nestled the stock against his shoulder and weaved the point among the many possible targets, selecting a howling fellow in grey waving a sword. He tracked the man’s movement and then twitched the trigger.

  The shot had three unexpected effects. The first was that the bolt missed its target by a huge margin, and Arnau could only count himself fortunate that completely by chance it plunged into the thigh of a man further back, sending him spinning to the ground in the press of men. The second was that he only saw part of that, for the weapon’s string snapping back into place actually pulled the whole thing forward rather than the kickback he’d been expecting, and he staggered forward a pace, almost falling across the crate. The third was that he’d been trying to sight along the groove, and the weapon snapping forward had grazed the skin of his cheek and chin in the process, leaving a fiery pain in his jaw.

  ‘Keep the stock away from your shoulder, cheek and chin,’ advised Brother Ramon without even looking around, then, having settled his second bolt, wine-coated, into place, began to intone the viaticum once more. ‘This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world…’

  Still shaken, wincing at what he knew would be a horribly bruised jaw, Arnau dropped the tip of his crossbow, inserted his foot in the stirrup, and used the wooden mechanism to pull back the string. Lifting it once more, he inserted his second bolt and looked around. The sounds of battle suddenly became apparent to him. He’d been so intent on his first shot he’d not heard the shouts and screams, and the thuds of the other weapons being discharged around the preceptory. Men were falling here and there, but there were hundreds of them, and the difference the crossbows were making was negligible.

  He scanned the bodies and, quite by chance, found that same man in grey who’d escaped his first shot, making for the causeway to the west gate. Frowning, he lowered the tip a little, assuming that the shot would go high as the first had.

  He released, and felt chagrin as the shot this time fell slightly short, punching into the earth by the man’s foot, entirely unnoticed as Grey-tunic hurtled forward to pound on the gate. Behind him, Brother Ramon was busy readying his third shot, intoning his prayer of salvation for the man he was about to kill. Arnau readied his own weapon once more, settling the thing into place. He chose a tall fellow and tracked him, keeping the point aiming at the centre of the man’s torso. He came closer. Closer. Onto the causeway. Close to the walls.

  Arnau released.

  The bolt was perfectly on target. Unfortunately, the man disappeared behind the wall as the bolt was in flight, and the tip struck the parapet, sending it ricocheting off high into the air. He did not see where it came down, but Rafael, who was busy pushing yet more benches and barrels against the gate directly below the misfire, turned and glared momentarily up at the belfry. Arnau felt the flush in his cheeks, and bent to reload.

  ‘Stop overthinking it,’ Ramon said, again without looking. ‘Every time you pause to check whether you’re still on target, you’re increasing the chances of missing because you are allowing the target to move more. Pick your target, estimate in your head how far he moves in the count of three, move that far ahead of him and release. Do it swiftly and all in one movement, and you’ll be much closer.’

  Arnau frowned, but lifted the stock, aiming his second bolt at the tall man. One… two… three… He twitched the bow forward by his estimated distance and pulled the trigger. The shot missed once more, but was close enough that its passage by the man’s hip as it thudded into the ground made him stumble to a halt in shock. Arnau would have wagered good money, if he’d had any, that the man had pissed himself.

  Feeling more confident, Arnau dropped the tip once more, pulled back the string and inserted another bolt. His loading had become much speedier already. He lifted it, found a target with ease among the men running at the walls and shifted it ahead by the estimated distance. He released, and the bolt thumped into the man’s shoulder, sending him flying backwards to the ground. Grinning in a most unseemly way for a man thieving life from another human, Arnau reloaded, taking the briefest moment to count the remaining bolts while he jacked the string back. Thirteen, including the one he’d just picked up and dropped into the groove.

  Select. Aim. Snick.

  Another man spiralled into the ditch, shrieking.

  ‘How has della Cadeneta managed to hire so many men?’ he breathed as he reloaded.

  ‘He’s had a week or so,’ Ramon reminded him. ‘The disaffected, the poor, the greedy, they live in every corner of this land. Centuries of warfare have ravaged Iberia, my friend, and left her broken. Finding a man who will kill for money or food is far from difficult, and many still see the Temple as something foreign, not part of the Church they understand. Many will not baulk at standing against us in the same way they would against a Benedictine or an Augustinian. Della Cadeneta will have offered rich rewards. If he wins, whatever he’s paid will be worth it. And he only has to pay the survivors, after all.’

  Still, it seemed unbelievable to Arnau. How from one small conflict over a potential marriage, in little more than a week they had come to defending holy ground against a veritable army of outlaws.

  He shouldered his weapon once more and took down another man.

  The next shot missed, and the one after, though he was becoming more consistent with his aim and no shot now was falling too short or too long, any misses more down to the enemy’s unpredictable movements or sheer ill fortune. Load. Shoot. Load. Shoot. Swiftly, the supply of bolts beside him dwindled. He listened, and could hear others now falling silent too, where their own supply of missiles had run dry. What would they do then, he wondered? He felt an odd flash of irritation when Brother Ramon reached across and plucked one of his three remaining bolts from the quiver and loaded with it. Taking the penultimate missile, he nocked, shouldered, and loosed, watching the bolt thud into a man’s neck. He reached for the last one, but the knight beside him had already claimed and loaded it.

  Moments later, the last bolt released, Ramon straightened and removed a knife from his belt. Steadying himself with his foot in the stirrup once more, he sawed through the bow’s string until it gave with a sharp snap, the arms of the bow twanging straight.

  ‘What are you doing?’ boggled Arnau.

  ‘No use to us now, but they might have ammunition.’

  Arnau nodded, imagining the bandits laying hands on his crossbow and loading it to aim at him. Swiftly, he found his own knife and cut through the string of his weapon. Leaving the two ruined bows, they hurried back to the stairs.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now we stop them at the gates, if we can.’

  They took the stairs two steps at a time, hurtling back to the ground, where they emerged, blinking, into the courtyard while all around them were screams and thuds and angry shou
ts.

  Lorenç and Ferrando were still atop the roofs, he could see, moving around, peering over the edge here and there to make sure the enemy were not managing to scale the walls. Fortunately this was no true besieging army, and they had no catapults, rams or siege ladders as one might expect. Here and there men would try to climb the walls of the preceptory, but Arnau had seen the outside of the place several times now, and could not imagine any ordinary man succeeding in scaling them. Their only true hope of ingress was the west gate or its southerly companion. Still, the twin sergeants moved around the parapet across both ranges and the chapter house, making sure no one reached the top, casting down tiles or small rocks whenever they found someone making an attempt. Even as Arnau watched, heart in throat, Ferrando had to throw himself to the rooftop bodily as an arrow whirred through the air above him. Their work was fraught with peril.

  As Arnau looked this way and that, wondering where to go, he saw the preceptrix and her maid Catarina carrying a pew out of the church to aid in the blocking of the west gate. Young Simo and Sister Joana emerged from the armoury carrying swords and hammers, looking wide-eyed and panicked. As the two youngsters ran past, Brother Ramon waved them to a stop and grabbed the weapons from them, slipping them all into the same bag.

  ‘Get up the belfry. Once you’re inside, lock the door, then head up to the top and stay silent. Don’t show yourselves.’

  Grateful for the chance to move to relative safety, the pair ran in through the tower doorway, slamming the heavy wooden door behind them and bolting it shut with a heavy clonk of iron.

  ‘Come on,’ the knight said to Arnau, then raced off into the shadowed archway that contained the south gate. In the gloom of the arched passage, Arnau could see Brothers Balthesar and Mateu. The sergeant was pushing furniture and barrels harder against the gates, wedging them as best he could, while the knight, his agility belying his age, was crouched atop the barricade, his sword lancing out through the narrow gaps between the gate’s leaves or below the hinge, driving into bodies unseen outside, as Arnau could tell from the yelps of pain that echoed through the gate and along the passage.