The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Yours got away,’ Tristán grunted, still in an accusatory tone.

  Arnau turned to the squire. ‘He was losing blood like a leaky dam. He’ll be dead in half a mile. He’ll certainly never reach the enemy camp. Forget about him.’

  ‘This was a patrol. If there’s one, there might be more.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘And it is highly likely that someone will stumble across this scene soon. But for now, we’re safe and we need to get away fast.’

  ‘We won’t be able to bluff again,’ the squire said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You look as though you’ve been butchering goats. A lot of blood.’

  The Templar sighed, looking down at his crimson-spattered apparel. ‘With luck we’ll pass a pool and I can have a wash on the way, but I doubt I’ll get it out of my clothes like that. Still, with luck we’ll not have to meet anyone else. They can’t put too much manpower into scouring tiny valleys, surely?’

  They turned to see the blood-soaked form of Calderon rise to his feet beside what was left of his victim, and both men tried not to look too closely at the thing on the ground. ‘It’ll take a lake to clean him off,’ the squire said.

  ‘We need to move,’ Arnau said. ‘We’re safe for now but time wears on and this lot will be missed by someone in the camp at some point.’

  ‘Can you find your way in the dark?’ Calderon asked, looking up at the mountains. ‘The sun will go down before we even reach the summit.’

  ‘It is the height of summer and a cloudless sky. We should have good moonlight. We’ll just have to be careful.’

  With that, they began to move once more, leaving the two bodies where they lay and the sheep in the fold. All three men were now gripping the spears that had been taken from the Moors, and Calderon and Arnau had swords taken from the bodies of the two who had not bolted. Arnau felt the tension growing once more as they moved further and further up the valley. There was no sign of human life up here, but his confidence in finding the way, and even that they were truly in the right valley to start with, was wavering.

  When they found Arnau’s interestingly shaped rock at a fork in a dry stream bed, he almost exploded with relief. There was a brief and good-natured argument over what the rock looked like. Neither of Arnau’s companions thought it looked like an arrow, Tristán’s suggestion a little uncomfortable and eye-watering for a man of God, and then they moved on, heading up into the hills, following a path that Arnau thought very familiar. At the crest of a hill they paused, looking across the impressive range before them. It took some time in the golden afternoon light to find the cow skull on a stake that marked a path on a hillside half a mile to the left. Arnau was not sure it was the way they came, but it took them deeper into the sierra and, theoretically, a little further from the fortified pass, and was therefore worth taking. Nightfall would hit when they were in the heights. Arnau swallowed.

  ‘Well, let’s hope the Lord is with us.’

  13. Sierra Morena

  15 July 1212, Sierra Morena

  Arnau awoke with a start, a hand shaking his shoulder. His bleary eyes blinked open to see Tristán leaning over him, a worried look on his face. He was up in a trice. The sun was barely showing yet and the sky was still an inky mauve. For a moment, he was disoriented, but things quickly fell into place. They had pressed on in the evening as far as they dared as per their original plan, and in other circumstances Arnau would have tried the crossing despite the dark, but all three men were close to exhaustion and feeling the after-effects of the fight at the sheepfold. Despite the urgency of their task, the trio had by common consent decided to camp in the peaks and wait for dawn, when they were a little better rested and less likely to stumble blindly into a chasm.

  ‘What is it?’

  The squire beckoned, and Arnau followed him to the rock they’d been using as a watch position. Arnau had taken the first stint, Calderon the middle of the night, and Tristán the final morning watch. The squire pointed out to the south, and Arnau suddenly shrank down into the cover of the rock. Half a dozen figures were moving across a ridge they had crossed towards the end of their evening journey. They gleamed with armour and weapons and were moving in the refugees’ direction.

  ‘Just bad luck?’ Arnau hazarded.

  ‘Or your escaping horseman met with some friends before he bled out,’ Tristán said in a flat tone.

  ‘Damnation, but it’s going to be near impossible to move without being in the open at times.’

  In moments they had Calderon awake and were gathering their gear. As they did so, Tristán, who was almost ready anyway, continued to watch the figures on the far hill. As Arnau gestured for them to move, the squire hurried up beside him. ‘I don’t think they know about the cow skulls. They don’t seem to be looking for them.’

  ‘Then they either know where they are going already, or they’re tracking us.’

  ‘Can we move through terrain they can’t track?’

  Arnau shrugged. ‘I don’t know enough about tracking to know. All we can do, I reckon, is to make sure we stay ahead of them. If they’re tracking us, then they should be slow, at least.’

  And yet, as they spent the morning trying to keep north, or just west of north, reasoning that they should be able to avoid contact with the pass and its force at least, the small group of soldiers on their trail did not lag further and further behind. In fact, Arnau was beginning to worry, as they paused for breath beside the stump of a dead tree and watched their pursuers swarming across yet another escarpment, that they were in fact catching up.

  The critical moment came an hour later when they emerged from a path between boulders and into the open, and a cry of triumph arose behind them. Turning, they saw one of their pursuers waving to his companions and pointing in their direction. They had been spotted. Now it truly became a race.

  For another hour, as the sun climbed, they moved with much less care than the trail demanded, and Arnau felt the fear rising once more as they edged out onto a pathway that came close to a ravine and Calderon suddenly exploded into a fit of panic. Thus far they had somehow managed to achieve routes that, while lofty, were accompanied with gentle enough slopes and had avoided precipices more by luck than judgement. In doing so, Arnau had completely forgotten about the knight’s reaction to the drop at Farraj’s house, and now it was clear that his fear of heights could be their undoing.

  ‘We have to move,’ he bellowed, reaching out and grabbing the shoulders of Calderon, who had backed away against a huge boulder, eyes wide, pressing back from the drop. The knight just pushed him away, his lips moving in a torrent of silent prayer.

  ‘Come on,’ hissed Tristán ahead and Arnau shot him a helpless look, then turned the other way to see the half-dozen Almohad soldiers closing on them, just one valley away now.

  Arnau shook the man by the shoulders, but Calderon just fought him off, eyes staring wildly. Steeling himself, Arnau drew back his hand and delivered a ringing slap to the man’s cheek. Calderon stiffened, but said nothing. Grunting, Arnau headed him from the boulder, turning him forcefully north, and began to all but push him along the path, being sure to keep himself between Calderon and the drop into the ravine. It was slow going as they moved to the far end of the dangerous path. Calderon was not exactly resisting movement, but he was certainly not doing more than shuffling along in trembling, sweaty panic.

  By the time they reached the end and moved away from the drop, Arnau figured they were little more than a quarter of an hour ahead of pursuit. With Calderon gradually recovering from his fear, they picked up the pace as much as they could and moved on. By mid-morning, they crossed a ridge which gave way to one of the many high pastures, an old shepherd’s hut crumbling in the bright sunshine, and paused there, taking the time to cook up a small stew of foraged fruit and eat the last of the meagre provisions they had left Cordoba with or had gathered through larceny wherever they could upon the journey. As the sun crossed the zenith, they descended the northern side of the sie
rra more rapidly, and finally, as they rounded a tall dome of grey rock, Arnau saw a familiar sight; one that made him flinch.

  A castle sat atop a crag on a high hillside between them and the plains of the Meseta beyond. Arnau remembered it well the moment he spotted it, though this time he was seeing it from a new angle. When they had been travelling south and found the pass blocked, they had moved along the periphery of the range looking for another route, and they had seen this fortress from the north. Another Almohad strongpoint, it had been, barring their way. Worst of all, now they were trapped between it and the unit pursuing them, with nowhere else to turn.

  ‘God’s blood,’ he spat, ‘but we’ve come into Almohad lands again after all that.’

  Tristán pointed at the heavy fortress. ‘Look again, Brother.’

  The older Templar did so, and for a few moments he could not work out what the squire meant. When he saw it, he blinked, and a slow smile crossed his face. Two flags flew from the battlements, and neither of them were the dreaded Almohad banner. One colourful pennant was a little too intricate and busy to identify, but the red cross on white was clear enough. The precise form of the cross was unclear from this distance, but it would be one of the military orders, either the Temple or Calatrava.

  ‘Ballocks, but I never thought to see that cross again,’ Tristán laughed.

  Relief wavered within Arnau at the sight, uncertainty suddenly inflecting it as realisations settled upon him. ‘That bodes badly, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because either the army has already begun to commit here, and are bogged down fighting their way through the pass, or part of it has come south ahead of the rest and has garrisoned a castle inside enemy lands. And we know how that can work out,’ he added ominously, glancing at Calderon.

  ‘No,’ the knight replied firmly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No,’ Calderon repeated, straightening. ‘I had reached the edge of reason, my wits all but torn away in the fear that all I had ever believed in had in reality been the twisted truths of the Prince of Lies. But it was you, Vallbona, who showed me the truth: that this is all part of God’s divine plan. That everything I have been through – everything we have been through – has a purpose, and that purpose is to save the army of Christendom. And because this path is defined by the Lord, it will not lead us astray. We are here because we are meant to be here. Proverbs sixteen: Lots may be sent into the bosom; but they be determined by the Lord.’

  Arnau nodded slowly. ‘Whatever the case, I suppose it is better to find that flag than the caliph’s barring our way.’

  They crossed the green hillside, more relaxed than they had been in weeks, and Arnau actually laughed with relief when three men suddenly burst from a thicket, spears and swords brandished, jabbing them threateningly at the weary travellers.

  ‘Who goes there?’ demanded one in Aragonese, a tall man with a shaggy black beard in a plain tan arming cote. His companions wrinkled their noses. ‘Moorish peasants,’ the second replied, also in Aragonese but with a distinctly Frankish accent. ‘Just farmers. Nothing of value.’

  ‘I thought it was clear that looting was unacceptable anyway?’ the first man reminded them archly.

  ‘Just kill them. They could be spies,’ added the third.

  ‘Father,’ Arnau said in his native tongue, casting his eyes upwards and pressing his hands together in prayer, allowing his stick to fall away, ‘forgive them, for they know not what they do.’

  The three men facing them frowned and, while the points of the weapons continued to jab towards them, the trio huddled closer together and whispered among themselves.

  ‘Spies,’ one of them said again, stepping apart. ‘Moors who know our language. You can’t fool us, Mohammed.’

  ‘Then you had better take us with you to the castle for questioning, eh? And fast, as there’s an Almohad patrol chasing us.’

  Another brief huddle, and the sentries fanned out, weapons still in evidence. ‘Walk ahead,’ the tall one said, ‘and no funny business.’

  It took them almost an hour to trek down the hillside, across a dry seasonal stream bed and back up onto the hill upon which the castle sat, and, looking back, Arnau could see no sign of their pursuers. Likely they had seen the crusaders ahead and had finally, at the last moment, given up their chase.

  ‘Castro Ferral,’ Calderon noted. ‘Always a Moorish stronghold. In all the time we occupied Salvatierra, Ferral, that they called Al-basila, was a constant thorn in our side. Our master called it the Caliph’s Claw. I never thought to see a Christian flag fly above it. Truly the world is changing.’

  Arnau wasn’t sure that he liked the look of the paired flags as they closed on the fortress, which consisted of three heavily fortified baileys staggered across the slope. The red cross was that of the Temple but the other, more colourful one, he was fairly sure was a Frankish flag, and the very thought of Frankish crusaders brought back all sorts of bitter recollections.

  As they neared the place, he could see other patrols out and about across the hillsides, with small groups of men digging trenches as best they could in the dry, rocky terrain, and raising palisades. They were expecting a counterattack imminently, from what he could see. The castle itself veritably groaned under the weight of men and artillery, as the sight of three dusty, shabby natives being marched at spear point to the gate brought stretched bows, primed crossbows and even the creak of taut catapults from the tower tops and battlements. Hundreds of eyes settled on the three shabby travellers.

  The gates creaked open as they approached, and Arnau noted the hard looks on the faces of every man they passed as they made their way beneath that heavy gate. One spat at their feet as they passed, and another kicked a scatter of gravel and muck across their legs. Some frowned in confusion as the trio passed a crucifix that had been raised in the grounds, and all the new arrivals crossed themselves at the blessed sight. All around them, the castle was a hive of activity. Areas of damaged walls were being strengthened, supplies stored, artillery winched up to wall tops. It was clear that Castro Ferral had been in the hands of the crusaders for a few days at best.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded a man in full armour with a bright red surcoat, emerging from a doorway near the gate. The language was Aragonese, but the accent distinctly Frankish.

  ‘Not sure, milord,’ one of their captors replied. ‘We thought they were peasants, but they seem to speak a godly tongue, so there’s something odd about them. Maybe they’re spies, since we found them in the hills.’

  The nobleman sucked on his teeth. ‘Strange times indeed.’ He gestured to the three men. ‘You speak our tongue? Explain yourselves.’

  Arnau pulled his shoulders back and gestured to Tristán, who let his veil unwind and cast away the turban to reveal clearly northern ancestry. The older Templar gestured to his companions. ‘I am Brother Arnau, of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Jerusalem, from the preceptory of Rourell in Catalunya. This is my squire, Brother Tristán, and the third man is Brother Calderon from the Order of Calatrava, late a heroic defender at Salvatierra. We have travelled long and suffered many troubles, but we have news of great import for the commanders of the army.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’ called a new voice, and the three men looked up to see another man descending from the largest tower’s doorway. Arnau felt the thrill of recognition. Count Raymond, the Baron de Roquefeuil, who had accompanied them on the road to Toledo, looked a little wearier than the last time they had seen him, and his left arm was bound to his side.

  ‘Count Raymond,’ Arnau smiled and stepped forwards, a spear point jabbing him in the chest in warning, holding him back.

  ‘God above, but it is true,’ the man replied in wonder. ‘Brother Vallbona. I am staggered at what could possibly bring you crawling out of enemy territory and into my courtyard. And you have news, you say?’

  Arnau nodded. ‘A huge force of the caliph’s is encamped in the valley beyond the pass. If the army is a
ttempting to break through that pass, they will suffer badly and emerge into the waiting embrace of the Almohads. It would be a slaughter, milord.’

  The Baron rubbed his neck with his good hand. ‘Vallbona, I’m sure you will appreciate how difficult it is to take such information on trust, given the nature of your arrival, especially from men who have been missing from the army since Toledo and for whose absence no satisfactory explanation has been given. However, it so happens that compatriots of yours form part of the Templar contingent in this very castle, for it is the Barbera mother house that forms half our garrison. Your friends have been curiously vague and reticent when I have spoken of you, and I am beginning to see why. Come.’

  Arnau noted that their escort remained with them, and the blades were not withdrawn as the trio followed the Frankish baron and a couple of his men down to another gate in the bailey’s curtain wall. Arnau’s gaze darted this way and that, taking everything in as they moved, and it was as they emerged into that second bailey that he caught sight of the leonine shape of the Frankish knight d’Orbessan standing on a flight of steps and regarding them coldly. Arnau gave him a friendly smile and was gratified by the indignant anger that blossomed on the bastard’s face. He paid the man no further attention and focused on their destination instead.

  A banner of the Order hung above the door to a tower in this bailey, and Arnau could see figures in black and in white on the wall tops. He could not have described how exceedingly odd it felt to be back among his own people after the last few weeks.

  The baron nodded to a white-clad brother standing by the door as two sergeants danced back and forth across the bailey practicing their swordsmanship. The Templar bowed his head in return and the Frankish noble led them on into the gloomy tower. Two sergeants stood at a table in the tower’s lowest room, deep in discussion with a white-robed brother, seated and holding a quill. Arnau felt a flicker of recognition at the sight of the white-mantled clerk. The man was one of the knights from the mother house at Barbera, he was sure.