Yusuf gave him a nervous look, shook himself, and stepped into the doorway, leading the horse.
‘Will he have stables?’ whispered Arnau in Arabic.
‘No. We will have to tether the animals in the courtyard and then seek out stabling nearby once we are safely settled. If we are safely settled,’ he added in a worried tone.
Arnau looked about in interest as they passed through the door and entered the courtyard. Some legend in Arabic script had been incorporated into the passageway wall. Sadly, though Arnau’s grasp of the tongue had come on in leaps and bounds over recent years with Balthesar, he was still completely baffled by the written language. The courtyard was delicate and beautiful, all arches and columns, coloured tiles and fretwork. The brick floor was slightly angled down from each side to the centre, channels crossing it in places to carry rainwater down to the small pool in the centre. A palm tree grew beside the pool, carefully manicured regularly to keep it under control, and a number of colourful plants grew in ancient pots. Yusuf tied the horses to a low balustrade at one side.
‘Farraj?’ Yusuf called, looking up and around the four sides of the courtyard as he turned slowly.
‘Is that you, Yusuf?’ called a voice from the gate behind them. ‘I have gathered your books.’
Arnau shuffled back nervously as their host appeared as if from nowhere behind them, presumably returning from the mosque, as was much of the city.
‘It is.’ The house’s owner walked into the courtyard with two young men at his heel, a slave closing the outer door, then hurrying along behind. Farraj came to a halt as he entered, his gimlet gaze piercing first Arnau, then Tristán, before falling upon the figure tied to the horse, eyes widening.
‘Yusuf?’
‘Forgive me, old friend. I have no wish to prevail upon you any further than I have thus far, but we find ourselves in something of a predicament.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No, merely unconscious. The situation is somewhat complicated, but I suspect you would be better knowing as little about it as possible. It is my hope that we can resolve our problems and be out of your way before any of this becomes your problem.’
‘I fear it may be too late for that. Merely having Christians in my home puts my entire family at risk in these dangerous times. As for this unexpected addition… let us say I am more than a little uncomfortable.’
‘Father,’ hissed one of the two boys, ‘this is foolish. These men are criminals.’
Farraj turned to the lad. ‘These are still people of the Book, and some crimes are only such because the lawmakers are little more than criminals themselves. These men Yusuf vouches for. His word is good enough for me.’
‘They are Christians! The enemy,’ snarled the other boy.
Farraj jabbed a finger at his son. ‘When hatred rules both heart and mind, the world is beyond saving, Maymun. The Quran itself tells us that every people has appointed rites and ceremonies which they must follow. We can urge them to follow the true path, but we must not compel them, for it is the right of God alone to judge them.’
The young man nodded his acceptance of his father’s wisdom, but his eyes still carried distrust as he glared at Arnau and his friends. Farraj gestured to them. ‘I cannot give you rooms with my family, Yusuf, you understand? But with recent events I find my household diminished, and many rooms that had been occupied by trusted servants now lie empty. I trust this will suit you? I suspect it will be better for all concerned if you have a place more or less to yourself.’
Arnau cleared his throat and stepped forwards. ‘I can only apologise for the danger that my companions and I have brought to your door, and I appreciate your help. It is good to see that in these days of distrust the old ways still hold in places.’
Farraj’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your Arabic is good, northerner. I am surprised. Please ignore my sons’ rudeness. The young are ever at the mercy of their spirit, untampered by the wisdom of experience. Mayhap when this dreadful war passes once more, they will have had their fill of excitement.’
Arnau smiled his understanding but said nothing.
‘Come, Maymun,’ Farraj barked. ‘Come, Safwan.’
With a nod to Yusuf, the tall man strode across the courtyard, pausing as he once more caught sight of the horses. He spun and waved to the slave who was following on behind, pointing at the horses as he turned back to his guests. ‘Darras here will take your animals to stabling just down the road.’
Yusuf thanked his friend, and the three men disappeared into the house, the two boys casting them a last acidic look before they left. The slave coughed. ‘I will show you to rooms, masters, and bring your things before I take your horses to the stables.’
As Yusuf nodded, Tristán untied the unconscious knight from the back of the horse and he and Arnau dragged him after the slave. They entered the house through a door beside the passage through which they had entered and were shown to three rooms up a single flight of stairs, all of which looked out through those triple arched windows and down onto the street outside.
As the two northerners laid Calderon down on the bed, Yusuf watched the slave disappear to bring their gear, and then turned to them. ‘That went better than I had hoped. Farraj is a good man. He himself narrowly avoided similar accusations to the ones that plagued me.’
‘His sons mean trouble,’ Arnau replied. ‘The sooner we are gone from here the better.’
‘His sons will not disobey their father,’ Yusuf replied confidently.
‘I hope you are right. We shall need to be ready to leave at any moment. I want to get the layout of this place straight, need to know any ways in or out in case we need to leave in a hurry. We should find these stables where our horses are kept so that we know where to go, and I don’t want anyone fully unpacked. Keep your gear stowed as much as possible so that we can leave at a moment’s notice.’
He rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. ‘Yusuf, I need you to start thinking on how we depart Cordoba. There have to be ways out of the city that do not require us to march straight through a gate. With luck and the will of God we will be able to leave as we entered, and soon at that, but we must be prepared to effect an escape if everything goes wrong.’ He glanced across at Calderon and corrected himself. ‘If everything continues to go wrong.’
‘And the question of import?’ Yusuf replied. ‘What do you intend to do about Calderon?’
Arnau sagged. ‘I do not rightly know, though I have the bare bones of an idea. When I served in Constantinople there was a preceptor named Bochard. He was obsessed with a futile and dangerous quest to the detriment of all else. I think his mind had been damaged, wounded in some way by the events he lived through in Cyprus. I believe this is somehow similar, but while Bochard never truly recovered, I think – I hope the same is not true for Calderon. Bochard was broken by what he himself had wrought, and the humiliation and disastrous consequences of it, while Calderon has been broken by others. Men who are tortured for confessions reach a point where they will break and admit to any crime and such, I fear, is what has happened to Calderon. He has been brought to the point of madness and then given a crutch by those very men responsible. He now clings to that crutch as if it is his saviour. I am hoping that what has been done can be undone, for one imam did all this to him, and he twitches when he speaks of him. I think this new him is but a fragile shell containing the real Calderon who still fights to free himself. I believe he is close. All it could take is a push in the right direction.’
‘But how?’
‘It sounds cruel,’ Arnau murmured, ‘but I suspect the answer lies in repeating the process. In breaking him once again in order to mend him. He is locked in a shell, and we must break that shell to free the man inside. When I was a boy, we had a servant in the castle who fell from a horse. His leg broke and the idiot who set and splinted it did it wrong. His leg did not heal correctly, and he had great trouble walking. After much consultation, a wise man advocated re-breaking the leg. It was a
n unpleasant time, but it was done, and this time, the leg was tended to properly and healed straight. He went through more than a year of misery, but in the end, he could walk once more with a straight leg.’
Yusuf shuddered. ‘It sounds evil nonetheless.’
‘I know. I do not like it, but I cannot see an alternative.’
They fell silent once more as the slave suddenly reappeared, carrying their kit. ‘I will take your horses,’ the man said.
Yusuf nodded. ‘I will accompany you,’ he replied, then looked across to Arnau. ‘It will be good to learn of the stables’ location, as you said, and I might pick up a few supplies while I am out. I will be back before the evening prayer.’
Arnau smiled as the Moor left with the slave. Alone in the room with Tristán and Calderon, he slumped into a chair.
‘Somehow, Tristán, we have to repeat what they did to him. They made him confront his fears, he said. We must do the same. What his fears might be I know not.’
‘Perhaps Yusuf can help? Have you ever asked if he knew Calderon, because he seems to?’
Arnau blinked, suddenly remembering Yusuf’s reaction as he’d leaned over the bed. Ah yes, Brother Calderon. ‘That had not occurred to me. They both lived at Salvatierra, after all. They probably met several times. Even if Yusuf lived outside the walls, he would have spent months inside during the siege.’
‘Then perhaps he knows something of use, even if he does not realise it?’
As if on cue, Calderon gave a low moan. Arnau snapped round to look at him and then at Tristán. ‘Have you bound him?’
The squire nodded. ‘His wrists. Not his feet.’ At this he sprang from his seat, hurried over and looped a belt around Calderon’s ankles, pulling it tight and then knotting it. He stepped back. ‘Do we gag him?’
Arnau shook his head. ‘We need to talk to him, I think. I do hope he doesn’t immediately start shouting for help, though.’
Calderon made a murmuring noise, shuffled slightly, uncomfortably, and then fell silent once more. ‘He is not quite with us yet,’ Arnau noted, ‘but he is beginning to surface.’
‘I wonder what time it is,’ mused the squire.
‘Some time after Compline,’ Arnau sighed. ‘Today we have broken many rules and been bad Christians, missing much of the liturgy.’
Tristán snorted. ‘I cannot count how many services we have missed since leaving Rourell, but if Yusuf’s heretical god can be forgiving when he misses a prayer, then surely the true God can best him in forgiveness?’
Arnau smiled. ‘Let us hold what service we can while Yusuf is absent.’
The two knights made sure the door was shut, and Tristán retrieved his crucifix from the pack, propping it on the windowsill. Kneeling, the two men went through a somewhat muted and trimmed down version of the Compline service, keeping their voices low.
The service was swift and as the squire looked to Arnau to quote from the scriptures, the senior brother found himself glancing back towards Calderon and automatically slipping into the book of Deuteronomy.
‘The Lord smite thee with madness, and blindness, and wildness of thought; and grope thou in midday, as a blind man is wont to grope in darknesses; and address he not thy ways; in all time suffer thou false challenge, and be thou oppressed by violence, neither have thou any that shall deliver thee.’ There was a pause, and Arnau straightened. ‘Except we shall deliver him.’
The squire coughed nervously. ‘A poor choice of reading, Brother.’
‘Why?’
‘Deuteronomy. Remember how the passage continues? Verse forty-five? “And all these cursings shall come upon thee, and shall pursue thee, and take thee, till thou perish; for thou heardest not the voice of thy Lord God, neither keptest his commandments and ceremonies, which he commanded to thee.” Somewhat reminiscent of our current lack of attention to duty, might you say?’
Arnau shivered and wasn’t quite sure why. ‘But the passage is not about those who serve the Lord, Tristán, remember? Verses forty-seven and forty-eight? “for thou servedest not thy Lord God in joy and gladness of heart, for the abundance of all things that God sent thee. Thou shalt serve thine enemy, whom God shall send to thee, in hunger, and thirst, and in nakedness, and in poverty of all things; and he shall put an iron yoke on thy neck, till he all-break thee.”’
A thud drew their attention, and they turned together to see Calderon lying on the floor, having rolled off the bed, wide-eyed and white-faced, his mouth opening and closing.
‘Brother?’ Arnau said as he rose from his knees and hurried over.
As he closed on the stricken knight, he realised that the man’s mouth wasn’t simply moving, but he was reciting something under silent breath. Leaning close, he frowned. He could barely make out the whispering, but would be willing to wager that what he was almost hearing was Deuteronomy forty-eight, over and over again. A single tear welled in the corner of Calderon’s eye.
‘What is it, Calderon? Brother Martin? Are you remembering? Can you understand what they have done to you?’
The knight turned, his eyes coming up to meet the gaze of Arnau, his mouth opening slowly.
‘Yes, Brother?’
Martin Calderon let out a blood-curdling shriek.
9. The War for Truth
1 July 1212, Cordoba
Before Arnau could do anything, Tristán had dived across the room, wrapping an arm around Calderon’s head, palm flat across his mouth, muffling the scream.
‘Ballocks, but that will have been heard across half the city,’ the squire grunted as the captive knight continued to howl into his hand, eyes bulging as if in horror.
‘But it was brief,’ Arnau replied. ‘Not enough time for anyone important to pin down who and where it was. I think we should get away with it. Don’t let go ’til he stops, and even then be ready to do it again. Gods, but what was that about? Something to do with the service, I think.’
‘Deuteronomy, I reckon,’ Tristán muttered. ‘He was flat out until we began quoting from the Book, then he started to rave.’
Arnau nodded, cupping his chin thoughtfully. ‘I think we’ve found a key. I’m not sure I like what it unlocked, but any change has to be good, I suppose.’
‘Are you sure? When we found him, he might have thought he was a Moor, but at least he made sense. We’ve turned him from a sane enemy into a raving madman.’
‘No, I think that madman is part of what was lurking inside already. All we did was open the door. I know it seems like we made things worse, but I don’t think that’s true. Calderon said that they made him confront his fears, that in horror he found his new truth. It might be that we’re walking that same path, which is more or less what I planned to do, insofar as I’d planned anything at all. Heavens, but I would like nothing more than to pray for guidance in the matter, but suddenly I fear praying in front of the poor man. The last thing we want is to make him worse before we understand what we’re doing.’
‘He’s stopped screaming,’ Tristán said quietly, ‘but his mouth is still moving. I can feel it.’
‘Take your hand away, but be ready.’
The squire did so, prepared to pounce again at a moment’s notice. Lying bound on the floor, the knight was repeating something over and over, his voice little more than a breath, not even a whisper.
‘What is he saying?’ Arnau asked.
The squire leaned closer, making sure to stay just out of biting distance should the madman suddenly feel the need. He listened intently. ‘I’m not sure. It sounds like “malka”.’
‘Could it be malā’ikah?’ Arnau mused.
‘Quite probably, yes. What does that mean?’
‘It’s the Arabic word for angels.’
‘Lord, but the man is truly mad if he thinks we’re angels.’
‘I’m not sure he’s talking about us. It’s something to do with what he heard. With Deuteronomy. What were we quoting again?’
Tristán began repeating the scriptural quotes, but Arnau immed
iately held up a hand to stop him. ‘I don’t think saying it in front of him is a good idea.’ Falling silent, the two men thought back over the verses concerning the disobedience of Israel and the curse that disobedience could bring. Somehow that didn’t seem to ring true of Calderon. From what they had heard he had been the model Christian for his order. To the point of madness, his fellow brothers had said, back in Toledo. Perhaps this state had never been too far from Calderon, even when he served in the Order of Calatrava.
But what had they said? That Calderon had left the column as they departed from Salvatierra through the enemy lines. That he had run at the enemy and grabbed their banner, endangering the entire surrendering force. Was that not disobedience?
Another thing they had said suddenly slipped into his mind and he turned to stare at Calderon.
‘Angels speak to him in his head.’
Tristán frowned. ‘What?’
‘That was what his friends in Toledo said. He hears angels. Malā’ikah.’
‘Then he is either truly one of the blessed, or he’s as mad as a dancing bear.’
Arnau nodded at this succinct pronouncement. ‘He reminds me more and more of Bochard. Perhaps he has spent his entire life walking the edge of the knife of madness, but a madness born of true faith. One of those men who believe they are doing the will of God, regardless of where it leads them.’
Calderon had fallen silent now, his mouth closed, eyes locked on them.
‘Despite everything, I can almost feel this working.’
‘Either that or the pommel of my dagger smashed the last fragment of sense out of him for good.’
Arnau pulled a face. ‘I think we really have to hope that is not the case.’
‘This is going to be a nightmare if we can’t sort him out,’ Tristán grunted. ‘It’s worrying enough trying to pass through the city gates with just us masquerading as Moors. Imagine doing it carrying a man bound and gagged. I can’t see us getting very far.’
The Crescent and the Cross Page 13
