‘Follow my lead now,’ the old knight said as they hurried into place. ‘We are thwarted and innocent. We seek only help and we are somewhat irked, yes?’
Arnau grunted his agreement. ‘He’s definitely the man? Definitely from these offices?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s make a new friend.’
They hurried into place just before the clerk arrived. As Red-hat emerged from the crowd, making for the door of Al-Mudaina, he found two foreign visitors in conversation at the palace’s corner. Paying little attention to them, still angry, he stalked on past, but then the old grey-bearded traveller beckoned to him. The clerk slowed, intrigued despite his irritation, and the old man called out. ‘You are a kuttab of the diwān, yes?’ At least, that was how Arnau translated with his meagre grasp of Arabic.
The man nodded.
‘I do not suppose you speak the language of the mainland kingdoms, do you?’ he tried earnestly in Spanish.
The clerk frowned, but answered after a moment in a neutral, if suspicious, tone, ‘I do.’
‘Splendid,’ Balthesar grinned. ‘My friend and I here are travellers from the mainland researching the history of the islands. We are particularly focusing on the early days of the Umayyad caliph, and even the later days of the Romans before him, and I suspect there are records in the palace that would be of immense interest to us.’
The man shrugged as he replied. ‘The archives are not sealed. Any document that is private is kept locked away and the bulk of public records can be accessed with the permission of the appropriate kuttab.’ He pointed to that door. ‘You may approach the palace quite openly.’
Balthesar nodded. ‘I understood as much. There are problems, however. I hear rumours that the palace currently plays host to the Almohads, and as I am sure you will understand, the men of the caliphate are not lovers of my kind.’
The clerk nodded his understanding. ‘Yes, the caliph’s dogs prowl Al-Mudaina as though they own the city and the emir is nothing. I can imagine your reluctance to meet them.’
‘I wondered whether I could enlist your aid, for any appropriate fee you name, in accessing the diwān and searching for the records we seek, preferably without coming into contact with your visitors. I am fluent in Arabic, so it would simply be a matter of directing me to the appropriate place and leaving me to it. Would that be possible, do you think?’
The clerk frowned for a moment, flicked a gaze at the doorway, and finally nodded. ‘This gate is watched by a dog with the taste of the caliph’s balls still in his mouth. Come. I will take you through the servants’ access and show you to the diwān.’
As the man turned and marched off down the shady side of the palace wall, seeking a second access, Balthesar grinned at Arnau. ‘The Lord will always provide, Arnau. It just has to be remembered that the Lord is sometimes Allah.’
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, 8 June 1199
12.45 p.m.
The Al-Mudaina was breathtaking. The outer walls had hinted at decoration and style despite their military function, but the interior was truly something to behold. The side gate through which the clerk led them, without more than a passing question from the guards, opened into a courtyard decorated with beautifully carved stone lions and delicately sculpted trees and shrubs, pots of brightly coloured flowers arranged at precisely the right position to please the eye. At the centre of the courtyard a fountain with more carved lions threw sparkling diamonds of water high into the air to be collected by a wide marble bowl below from which it ran along narrow channels to irrigate more flowers and fill small troughs.
One channel ran through another doorway in the courtyard, and through it Arnau caught a glimpse of the most magnificent gardens, with pergolas and lawns, pools and fountains. He also caught a glimpse of the inside of the gatehouse they had been watching from the tavern. Sure enough, three figures in black and white with gleaming steel armour stood close by, the only thing to darken Arnau’s mood in that moment.
But then they were moving again. Passing servants, nobles and soldiers all in bright colours and rich apparel, they crossed the courtyard and entered the palace itself, a perfectly proportioned and well-appointed complex of golden, honey-coloured stone, punctuated with windows topped by horseshoe arches and decorative panels emblazoned with the indecipherable, yet beautiful Arabic script. The door they passed through was small and with a delicate pointed arch, positioned in a shady spot beside a staircase, and it took a few moments for Arnau’s eyes to adjust to the darker interior after the brilliant sunlight outside.
He had been in a palace only once in his life – the palace in Barcelona that had belonged to the counts of the region before the union with Aragon. It had been the most magnificent residence Arnau had ever seen, filled with rich tapestries and ornate fireplaces, thick pelt rugs and ancient dark wooden chairs. He had wondered what it was like to live with such opulence.
The palace of the Counts of Barcelona looked like a hovel next to the Al-Mudaina. The walls were only visible where there was architectural beauty to be revealed. Where they were plain and functional, they were hidden behind rich, colourful hangings and painted or ceramic panels of Arabic script. The floors were of marble, the ceilings delicately vaulted with the ever-present Moorish arches. Furniture was all uniformly dazzling, every seat and table, chest and cupboard formed of delicate fretwork and inlaid semi-precious stones.
As they passed through corridors that seemed to have been created for the glory of their architecture rather than simple functionality, and rooms devoted to servants and menial tasks that would make an Aragonese don jealous, Arnau’s gaze nipped here and there, taking in every delicious sight, unable to settle on any one thing for too long. It was as he was marvelling at the most elaborate ceiling he could ever have imagined and dropping his gaze to a chair that was more deserving of the term ‘throne’ that he saw the visitors.
He experienced a moment of confusion, looked away and back as if his eyes had deceived him the first time and a second look might prove him wrong. But no, they were definitely there. Balthesar’s gaze was on them, too: half a dozen very well-dressed Christians from the mainland, garbed in the latest expensive Aragonese manner. They all wore swords, though three were clearly more court swords for show than for actual use. The others, carried by younger, more ferocious-looking men, were swords designed to maim and kill. Three noblemen and three warriors, then, all horribly out of place here.
Yet it was not so much their presence that made Arnau boggle, but rather the fact that he recognised two of them. Baron Alberto de Castellvell, still impossibly gaunt and cadaverous, seemed to be leading the party, and the very sight of him made Arnau shiver. A man who had been della Cadeneta’s sponsor in many ways, who hated Rourell and its preceptrix, and had all but set himself against the Templars there. Castellvell had threatened the preceptrix in those tense days before the siege, had had the temerity and certainty of his power to actually threaten the Order of the Temple. Few had the will to do such a thing, and the man remained a dangerous thorn in their side, yet he was also a powerful nobleman and close to the king, which perhaps explained his presence here.
The other figure he recognised was considerably more welcome. Among the three knights accompanying the high nobles was a young man with neat black hair, clean-shaven and energetic. He hadn’t seen the young man for several years, when the knight had accompanied his father to Barcelona and to Santa Coloma, and the intervening time had clearly been kind to him, for he seemed to be wealthier and more powerful than ever, given his dress and the company he was keeping.
The six Christians did not spare a glance for the two shabby men across the room, and they were gone, out of sight, when the Templars turned a corner and moved into the area of the palace that was clearly reserved for the offices.
‘Did you see them?’ Arnau said quietly, dropping back so that the clerk leading the way would not hear.
‘Castellvell, Gaston de Béarn and Pelegrino de
Castellarzuelo. Leading figures in the Crown of Aragon. They can only be here on official business for the king. Would that we could speak with them, but I fear the presence of Castellvell negates that possibility. He would have me strung up if the chance arose. Perhaps it is better that he remains ignorant of our presence lest he stir up the emir’s court against us.’
Arnau nodded. ‘I know one of the knights with them, too. Guillem Picornell. He’s the son of a Pyrenean nobleman. Actually, looking at him, I suspect he’s inherited his father’s domain now. Spent time at court in Barcelona and Santa Coloma. Good man. I always got on with him.’
‘Still, it might be better if you did not reacquaint yourself. Drawing attention to us will simply alert Castellvell. Come. We are not here for political chicanery. The order has to remain above the dealings of kings and noblemen as far as possible. We serve the Lord and our task is to locate the arm of Saint Stephen.’
The young sergeant nodded again, though he could feel something building in Madina Mayūrqa. A beleaguered independent emir playing host to a deputation from the most powerful Christian king on the peninsula at the same time as a lord of the Almohad presaged great and terrible things.
‘They and the Almohads…’ he said under his breath.
Balthesar crossed himself. ‘May the Lord bestow peace on this place, for I fear no man will in the coming days.’
Ahead, the clerk had paused at a doorway. A small office stood beside it with several more clerks and two soldiers in the emir’s colours.
‘You must leave your swords and bags here,’ the clerk said, ‘and your admittance will be recorded. When you leave, you will be checked for documents, I’m afraid, but will then be signed back out and your weapons returned.’
Balthesar bowed his assent and unfastened his sword, handing it to one of the guards. Arnau did the same, feeling a tinge of worry and regret as he relinquished something he thought he might need in this place. Balthesar gave their names to the appropriate clerk, though without their titles or ranks, and they were admitted to the records department.
Arnau was impressed at the organisation of the place, which had numerous rooms, though he couldn’t tell what they were for since the written language was to him utterly baffling. After a few moments their guide came to a halt beside a door that looked identical to all the others, and tapped his finger on the sign in Arabic beside it.
‘Here are the earliest archives. Documentation from the year two hundred and eighty for approximately two centuries. Anything newer than that will be in the appropriate divisional diwān, and we do not have records from before the arrival of the Umayyads, I am afraid. Is this the room you require?’
Balthesar smiled calmly. ‘That is perfect, my friend. Šukran gazīlan.’
‘Will you require aid in your search?’
The old knight shook his head. ‘I believe we will be fine. Thank you.’
‘When you are done, return to the place you left your swords and bags, and you will be escorted from the palace. Good luck with your research.’
The man hurried off to his own work and Balthesar turned to Arnau. ‘Here we go. Our next clue awaits.’
He pushed open the door and stepped into the room, Arnau following and closing the portal behind him. The room was arranged in a square, all outer walls filled with delicate racks of carved wood, inlaid with what appeared to be marble, except for a small and intricately glazed window. Each compartment in the racks contained several scrolls, and each had a small label in Arabic below it. The centre of the room was occupied by a large table which contained an open book.
‘Date,’ Balthesar mused, tapping his chin. ‘What date to begin with? It was the year of our Lord nine hundred and two when the Umayyad invaders arrived in Mayūrqa. I think we must assume that it was that same year that Father Lucas fled his church in Mahón with the relic, and likely the same year he stopped in that place along the mountain road and began to build his hermitage. On the assumption that it would take him many months to get even as far as he did with the construction, then we are probably looking for records starting in nine hundred and three, but I think we will begin at the beginning for the sake of certainty, yes?’
Arnau shook his head in confusion. ‘The clerk said this room started in two hundred and eighty, and covered two centuries. We’re in the wrong room.’
‘The Moors do not measure time from the birth of the Saviour, Vallbona. Use your head. They date their calendar from the time Muhammad left Mecca. So by Moorish time, the year we need is two hundred and eighty. This is our room, but where do we begin?’ he muttered, peering at the book.
Arnau leaned back against the table. The language was meaningless to him, the dating peculiar, the scrolls unreadable. He could be of little help here. Instead, he strode over to a window and looked out as the old knight pored over the book, murmuring as he went.
The window looked down upon the city’s port, and there was much to observe. Arnau’s gaze stretched from the city walls to the docks below at the mouth to the river. They were bustling, and he could see many ships there. Most bore the white lateen sails of Moorish vessels, but there were a couple of traders there clearly of Christian design and ownership. Trade tended to ignore politics at all times except the height of war.
His gaze strayed down, coming back towards his own location. He found another ornamental garden just inside the walls above the riverside port, and then the seaward edge of the Al-Mudaina complex. A high, ornate brick arch formed part of the palace’s walls there, and the sea flowed in beneath it to create a small, square, sheltered harbour directly beneath this window. A private dock for the palace, and at it sat the ship in which the Christian visitors had clearly come. The pennants of Aragon – stripes of red and gold – snapped and fluttered in the breeze.
‘Castellvell’s ship is in the palace harbour,’ he noted.
‘Perhaps that explains why the Almohads landed at Al-Bulānsa and crossed the island by road,’ Balthesar replied, still bent over his book. ‘Perhaps the emir is doing his best to keep the two groups apart. A sound decision, I might add.’
Arnau nodded. Would the two forces actually openly oppose one another, even in the court of an independent lord of whom they were guests?
‘I can find no record of the bone coming here,’ the old knight announced, which did not surprise Arnau in the slightest. ‘But there is another reference I can find that might be pertinent. Dated to what would in our calendar be perhaps one thousand and twenty. Less than a century after the conquest. Let me see what I can find.’
Arnau continued to peer out of the window, taking in the strangeness of it all as his companion scoured the shelves looking for the section indicated in the book. Finally locating it, the old knight began to sift through the scrolls in the wooden compartment.
‘Marvellous,’ he said quietly. ‘They may be heretics, but they could teach the Church a thing or two about archiving documents. There is one scroll here that I can only assume is original, from more than two hundred years ago. It’s a little delicate and faded, and some clerk has attached a note, marking it for replacement. The others all appear to be faithful copies of ones that have fallen apart or become faded. They even have an iterative copy number on them. The clerks continually renew all records so that nothing is lost. Imagine the mind behind all of this.’
Arnau grunted his passing interest, though he was more fascinated by the city outside
‘This must be the scroll,’ the old knight said suddenly. ‘Come and look.’
Arnau reluctantly tore himself away from the window and crossed to the table, where Balthesar had placed a scroll tied with a silk ribbon. Almost lovingly, the man untied the ribbon and unfurled the scroll.
‘Hold the top for me.’
Arnau did as he was asked, pinning the upper edge of the scroll to the table with his thumb, while the grey-bearded brother pulled it flat and anchored the bottom with his own finger. He then proceeded to run another digit along the strange, beaut
iful text from right to left in the Arabic way. Arnau had no idea what it said, and the older brother simply muttered so quietly under his breath as he read that it came out as little more than a hum.
‘What is it?’ Arnau said, more to relieve the boredom of complete bafflement than to prompt an answer.
‘Shh,’ hissed Balthesar, and Arnau waited as patiently as he could while the knight ran his finger back and forth until he was somewhere in the middle of the page, when he uttered a bark of triumph.
‘Aha. Here we are. Faith – remember, young Vallbona. We have another breadcrumb.’
‘Tell me.’ That familiar surge of excitement in the blood suddenly returned. He’d been swept up in the exhilaration of finding the stones back at the mountain village and had doggedly continued to follow and assist Balthesar, without voicing any further negative view on the quest until now. But privately, deep down, with every mile they travelled from that hermitage the young sergeant had become less and less convinced that they would find anything here. Balthesar’s whole theory as to what had happened to the relic seemed to rely so heavily on guesswork that the chances of picking up any further trail had seemed minute. More than that, on the discovery that the Almohads were in Madina, and now Castellvell too, it would almost be better not to find anything, as they would then have ample excuse to disappear and leave this increasingly dangerous city. But no. It would appear that despite Arnau’s private scepticism, the old knight had been correct yet again.
‘This is a record on the construction of a mosque within the city – the Al-balad mosque. Helpfully it records almost everything about it, from the architects and the masons to the quarries that were the source, the imam appointed to it upon its opening, and so much detail that it is, in fact, quite staggering. But here is the interesting part.’
The Last Emir Page 12
