Trying to straighten and look less like a bedraggled vagrant, Arnau strode across the open space and into the stable. A short, wizened man with a pointy grey beard and a pale yellow cap hurried over to him, hands clasped together and head bobbing like a water lift. He rattled out an enquiry in Arabic and though Arnau was sure that he knew two or three of the words the man used, he was far too tired to consider any attempt at translation or reply. Instead, he placed all his trust in the old wazir who had proved to be correct at every turn thus far.
‘Abu Mansur?’
The grey-bearded man looked as though he might argue for a moment, frowning as he looked Arnau up and down. Then he gave a strangely enigmatic smile and nodded. ‘Abu Mansur. See. Knight from wazir, yes?’
The young Templar nodded, relief flooding through him. Despite everything, he had harboured a faint worry that the horse would not be here and he would fail at the very end, but the emir’s man had proved true and good once more. The man with the pointy beard led Arnau through the stables into an enclosed stall, where the young sergeant was overwhelmed to see that his benefactor had thought of everything.
His horse was already saddled and she was a magnificent grey, some fourteen hands tall, with a darker mane and tail. She had already been saddled and tacked up, Arab style. But more than this, a pack pony stood ready in the same stall, tethered and with saddlebags already in place and filled with provisions. On the bench to one side lay a chain shirt, pointed gleaming helm, green burnous and a sword with a soldier’s belt, even a pair of good heavy boots. The wazir had given him not only a steed, but a disguise and gear for his journey.
Arnau found himself thanking not only God, but also the old wazir at the palace, the older man in this stable, and even Allah, in his outpouring of gratitude. He was hardly surprised to realise that he was actually crying with both relief and thanks.
He began to strip from his damp clothes and the little man made no attempt to leave and grant him privacy. Arnau didn’t care. He was alive and safe, and now about to climb into dry clothes and tuck into whatever food the wazir had had packed for him. His promise to deliver the message to the island’s self-exiled leader now seemed a small price to pay for such generosity. As he dressed once more, he gestured to the stable owner.
‘The emir. His villa. Al-Fabulous?’
The grey beard’s eyebrow rose and he gave a smile. ‘Al-Fabia.’
‘Yes. Where is it?’
‘Al-Fabia. Musuh Bunyula.’ He pointed, and Arnau estimated it to be north-east, back towards those mountains he had crossed when he arrived with Balthesar. Nodding his thanks as he dressed, Arnau continued to repeat to himself his new mantra.
Al-Fabia. Musuh Bunyula.
Al-Fabia. Musuh Bunyula.
Al-Fabia. Musuh Bunyula.
There he would find the emir, and for the sake of all right-thinking folk of any faith on these islands, he would persuade that clever, strong man to return and fight for his throne. And maybe, just maybe, the emir would be able to find Balthesar, too.
To the emir’s estate, then…
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, 10 June 1199
1 p.m.
The journey took far longer than it really should have done. By the time Arnau climbed the last slope towards his destination, he surmised that he had only actually travelled some ten miles or so from Madina Mayūrqa, yet he had probably ridden more than twice that, maybe even three times as far, though by a very winding and curious route. Moreover, he had stopped regularly and once, cautiously, for the night.
Taking his cue from Balthesar even in the old man’s absence, he had left the city by the coast, laying a false trail, should anyone manage to identify him leaving Madina, however unlikely that might be. Then, to be absolutely sure, he’d ducked off the road, spent two hours as night set in waiting until anyone who might be following him passed, then doubled back and skirted Madina’s walls once more at half a mile’s distance before passing into the hills in the island’s heart. There he had camped beneath a tree for the night in a nicely hidden dell. He had explored the packs on the pony and discovered everything he could want for a journey. He had set up his tent and cooked a hearty meal and then lay there on his side and let his aches and injuries heal a little more in a warm, comfortable bedroll.
Though his shoulders were sore and would be for a long time now after being suspended in the cellar, and his throat still felt scratchy, it was the stripe of raw scabbing on his buttocks that caused the most discomfort, for every bounce in the saddle had brought fresh pain. He had forgone ease of riding in favour of dulling the pain, and wadded up two blankets between saddle leather and braies to dull the shock. Still his backside felt as though it had been minced when he rested for the night.
After so long as his companion, the hole left by Balthesar’s disappearance was tangible and left Arnau with far too much opportunity to think. Throughout the ride over late afternoon and evening, he had worked through things with a depth and concentration that had been impossible during his imprisonment and tense flight. They had come to Mayūrqa seeking an old bone, and it had been only Balthesar’s will that kept them to their quest as danger closed in around them over the days.
But things had changed now. Arnau’s repeated fears that they had been chasing ghosts when they should have been running for home seemed to have been borne out, for though the emir had promised them information on the relic, he had now been forced from his palace into exile and the island was under the de facto rule of a monster. There would be no chance to pursue their quest further.
And all that had taken a secondary place now in Arnau’s mind, for his primary concern had become the Lion of Alarcos. The man was clearly intending to pursue his vengeance against Balthesar to the ends of the earth, and Arnau and everyone close to him would forfeit their life in that mission. The Lion had to be stopped.
He tried to reason that it was not personal. The Lion needed to be removed for so many reasons. The wazir had been quite correct and quite clear that the emir needed to return and the Lion removed for the future peace and security of these once calm and tolerant islands. He needed to be stopped before Mayūrqa became a bastion of Almohad power in the middle of the sea and a haven for seaborne raiders that would plague the Christian coastline. He had to be removed before he purged every soul that meant something to Balthesar, including all those wondrous souls at Rourell. It was clear that he had to be stopped. But deep down, a small, cankered part of Arnau’s soul knew that the Lion had to die because of what he had done, and what he had planned to do, to Arnau.
That, now, was his mission. He would, as the wazir asked, persuade the emir with all his will to return and face down the Lion. It was the dying agonised face of the Lion of Alarcos that Arnau pictured as he slipped into slumber that night.
The next morning he had felt a little easier, physically at least. Stiff from his exertions in the escape and the ensuing ride, of course, but his shoulders were on the mend and his backside healing, with the best part of a day having passed. He had packed his camp up into the saddlebags and set off once more, determined now to find the emir and begin the task of bringing down the Lion somehow. Knowing that he had to find the rural estate somewhere north-east of Madina, he then made his way back down out of the hills, cutting back across the plain, zagging where he had zigged the previous day.
There had been a moment of panic that morning when he realised that he could not remember the names the wazir and the stable master had given him, and it was only after an hour’s riding that it came back to him. He had grumbled and snarled at his own stupidity and finished by announcing, ‘Fabulous. Now I don’t know where I’m going.’ But that brought back Al-Fabulous. Another half-hour’s cycling through every permutation of sounds he could think of brought him Al-Fabia, and he was content that this was the place. Moos Banal was the best he could manage for the area in which it was to be found, and he knew it was not correct, but he simply couldn’t get any closer.
The route indicated was clear enough. While there were plenty of other valleys to be found in this area on the edge of the mountains, this particular one was wide and deep, and though it naturally narrowed as it marched north, it also became impressively deeper with towering peaks to each side, the slopes terraced expertly to grow fruit, olives and grain. Small farms were dotted around, and he passed into another village perhaps two miles into the valley, and asked for directions once more. He learned that the village was in Musuh Bunyula, while the town of Bunyula itself lay a mile up a side valley to the east from the village.
Al-Fabia, though, lay ahead. Through much gesturing, Arnau surmised that the emir’s estate lay at the head of this valley on a hill a further two miles away, where the road curved to the left, heading for a place named Sûlyâr. One of the villagers offered to guide him, and though he declined gratefully, he distributed a few of the coins that had been thoughtfully provided by the wazir among these folk who had been so much help. He was all but forced to stay for a pre-noon meal, and then thanked them all and left as the local imam began to call to the dhuhr prayer. Grateful as he was for their hospitable nature, Arnau remained aware that his passage would be remembered and the trail would remain for anyone who happened out this way seeking the escaped Templar, even if he was dressed as one of the emir’s men.
Consequently, rather than heading the way they had indicated, he explained that he had something to do at Sûlyâr first, and, leaving the locals thus confused, headed out of the village across the valley. At the far side, where he found another farmstead, he asked for directions to Sûlyâr, laying as much of a false trail as he could manage. A mile up the valley, he crossed back, rejoined the road, and started up the hill to what could only be Al-Fabia.
It was mid-afternoon, a day after he had languished in the dark, licking his wounds, when he climbed the final slope to the emir’s rural retreat.
Al-Fabia was impressive. A complex of golden walls with delicate arched windows and balconies topped by red-tiled roofs, it was easily the size of a substantial country house, and the estate itself was surrounded by a high barrier, though it appeared to be a simple wall rather than a fortified one with a rampart walk atop, and the only guard visible was a man in a single slender tower at one corner, surveying the surroundings. As Arnau turned off the main road and climbed the long white drive lined with slender pines in ordered rows, the man atop the tower clanged a bell, and by the time the young Templar slowed his horse and pony some twenty yards from the ornate door, it had swung open and two green-clad men stood before it.
Arnau reined in and dismounted with a hiss of pain at his various aches and injuries, stamping life back into his feet and wondering if his posterior would ever be a friend to the saddle again. Clinging on to the reins, he used his other hand to sweep the helmet from his head and announced in Aragonese Spanish that he had come from Madina and required an audience with the emir on behalf of his wazir.
The two guards exchanged interested looks and one retreated inside. Arnau stood there for some time under the scrutiny of the other guard, wondering whether he was likely to be admitted, wondering whether the emir would want to see him, wondering even whether the guard had understood him or had simply gone to find someone who spoke his language.
Finally, the guard reappeared and fell into position by the door. Heavy, booted footsteps clumped inside the building, increasing in volume as they neared the door. Arnau’s mind cast back and he recalled the emir from their one encounter in the palace throne room. His memory of the man included soft calfskin shoes and a light tread. This, he was sure, was not the emir, and he braced himself to argue his case and demand an audience with the emir from whatever soldier was coming to deny him.
He opened his mouth to forestall any barrage of Arabic denial from the green-clad, mail-shirted officer who emerged from the doorway and, given the apparel, it took him precious moments to recognise the features of Balthesar beneath the turban, his grey beard neatly trimmed to a short, more Arabian style and his hair hidden beneath the folds of yellow cloth.
Arnau floundered, his voice failing him.
‘It would appear that the Lord and Allah both watch over you, Vallbona.’
Arnau stared, and Balthesar’s face cracked into a grin. ‘I worried for quite some time,’ the old man added, ‘but I was impotent at Madina, and so I placed my faith in the Lord and he has seen me right once more. Come.’
He rattled something in Arabic to one of the two guards, who nodded and reached for Arnau’s reins. The astonished sergeant handed them over and followed the older Templar as he turned and passed back through the arch of the door.
‘You came here?’ he managed, as they moved into a wide, high vestibule, an open courtyard bathed in the early afternoon sunlight visible ahead.
‘I found nothing in the office,’ Balthesar said, coming to a halt inside. ‘No records specifically relating to the relic, and those to Muhàmmad the First’s purge were vague and, I suspect, incomplete for some reason. When you did not swiftly return, I gave up my search and asked a kuttab from the desk to find you. He was gone for some time, and I began to worry then. When he returned he confirmed that he could find no trace of you. The bath attendant had not seen you, which was where you had been bound, and there was a rumour flittering around the Al-Mudaina that the Almohad guards had arrested a trespasser. I knew then that Abd al-Azīz had seized you.’
The old man scratched his chin. ‘The realisation struck me that if you had been taken, then I would almost certainly follow shortly. They knew where I was, after all. While I deliberated over what could be done for you, I decided that I had to absent myself swiftly from the place they would immediately search. I thanked the men at the desk and left, though I went only a short distance and stepped into a dark corner, where I waited. Sure enough a few minutes later four of the Almohad guards came looking for me. When they were told I had left, they raced away to seal the gates and put out an alarm. I worked through every scenario I could come up with and could simply see no way to find and rescue you, and with you caught, I realised that my time was also up. I had to leave, else we were both caught.’
‘As it happens,’ Arnau said darkly, ‘the Lion was not seeking to capture you any more. He wanted me, for his plans for you have changed and become ever more brutal and dark. I will explain shortly, but how did you get out?’
‘In the end it was simple and elegant, if I say so myself. I took off my cap, turned my burnous inside out so it showed a different colour, wrapped a cloth around my head turban-style and then when the next call to prayer went up a little while later I watched the bulk of the palace staff flood past in a huge group, heading to the grand mosque. They swept past my dark corner, and I slipped in among them and accompanied them out into the city amid the flow, unnoticed by anyone.’
‘Clever.’
‘I thought so. I changed my clothes for any I could find in the backstreets nearby, may God forgive me for petty thefts, and then spent a couple of hours keeping an eye on the palace to see if you somehow emerged. Finally, when I was left with no conclusion other than you were captive and there was no way to reach you, I did the only thing I could: I sought the emir. I have been here since yesterday evening and the Sidi generously allowed me a change of clothes from
the vagrant’s rags I wore upon my arrival.’
‘The emir is here, then?’
‘He is. We have exchanged pleasantries but he has yet to discuss the relic or Abd al-Azīz with me. I fear he skirts the subject. I shall take you to him and perhaps together we can draw information from him. And then you can explain what you mean about the Lion no longer seeking my head.’
Arnau looked around himself, relieved that he had made it to his destination, had been admitted and, best of all, had been reunited with the old knight. The vestibule was airy and elegant, even in the shadows, with a beautiful coffered wooden ceiling and decorative panels on the walls displaying Arabic script.
‘Allah is great. Allah’s is the power. There is no other God but Allah,’ said Balthesar, noting his gaze.
‘I find that faintly offensive.’
Balthesar chuckled. ‘Of course you do. And I’m sure the emir is overjoyed at the Holy Bible’s similar claim. Exodus, chapter twenty, verse three: “Thou shalt not have alien gods before me.” Or verse five: “Thou shalt not bow down to them, neither worship them, for I am thy Lord God, a strongly jealous father.” Come on, Vallbona. Enough theology. We have much to discuss.’
They walked through the charming courtyard, through another vestibule and then out into the gardens, which Arnau had to admit were certainly the most magnificent gardens in which he had ever found himself. Walkways and long pools, high jets of water and fountains, ornate stepped cascades, neat hedges and lines of exotic-looking trees, with small pavilions here and there set up for seating. The whole place seemed to be built on a number of levels and every time they turned a corner in the gardens, they were treated to a new and unexpected vista.
Several times as they descended the levels, he caught sight of the watchtower with its solitary guard, and he half expected at any moment to hear the bell clang, announcing the approach of the Lion of Alarcos and his men, hunting their escaped prisoner. Yet no bell rang out and no army arrived.
The Last Emir Page 24
