The Crescent and the Cross

by S. J. A. Turney

  The Frankish noble gestured to the trio of brothers at the table, and the full knight waved the two sergeants away. ‘Baron?’

  ‘Good day, Brother. I need to speak with the senior man from Rourell. Is he available?’

  The knight frowned, taking in the three of them. ‘He is in a conventual meeting with the masters of the Barbera houses. If it is a matter of urgency, I can enquire whether they will see you?’

  The baron smiled. ‘If these men are to be believed, it is a matter of the utmost urgency.’

  ‘Then you had better follow me, milord.’

  The knight rose from the table, casting a weird look at Arnau and his friends, as though trying to work out where he’d seen them before. He led them up a flight of stairs to the next storey and along a corridor that ran parallel to the main curtain wall. Some way along, two sergeants stood beside a door, both bowing their heads respectfully as the Templar from Barbera came to a halt, trying not to stare curiously at the three shabby figures. The senior knight rapped on the door and there was a muffled exchange inside before a voice called out, bidding them enter.

  The three men followed the Baron de Roquefeuil in and lined up inside the door as Arnau took the room in at a glance. His first thought was how strange it was to see so many brothers and masters, the heart of the most pious order in all of Christendom, filling a hall that still bore all the décor and flourishes of a Moorish palace. He recognised the figure in the main chair at the end of the hall, which had been furnished with long benches around the edge in the manner of a chapter house, for he had seen the master of Barbera a number of times over recent years. The man had never been overwhelmingly friendly. Like most of the order, the master of Barbera disapproved of the preceptrix Ermengarda, considering her an aberration. A woman running a Templar house was wrong, to him, and yet because such an oddity had never been called to account by the upper echelons, he endured it with bad grace. The men around the edge of the hall were all either preceptors or senior knights from Catalan and Aragonese preceptories. The representatives of every house that lived and worked under the authority of the Barbera mother house, he realised. It took him but a moment to spot Balthesar, who was at the very far end of the room, almost directly opposite the master of Barbera. Probably by the master’s design, he thought uncharitably.

  ‘Baron de Roquefeuil,’ the master said reproachfully, ‘we are engaged in a convent.’

  ‘I apologise for the interruption,’ the nobleman replied with a bow. ‘These men were found wandering in the mountains and were brought in by a patrol. One of them is a brother of the Rourell preceptory, the others his squire and a brother of the Order of Calatrava.’

  Arnau saw Balthesar lurch to his feet, eyes wide, and had to suppress a smile as the master of Barbera spoke but was ridden down by a sudden torrent that flowed from the oldest brother of Rourell.

  ‘In God’s name, but it is Vallbona,’ Balthesar grinned. ‘I had thought you lost to the Almohads, young Brother.’

  The master glared at Balthesar until the old man sat back, silent but smiling, then turned back to the men who had recently arrived. ‘Then there seems to be little need to test their identity, given the venerable brother from Rourell’s unseemly outburst. Now, please enlighten us as to why you were found wandering the Sierra Morena dressed like grubby Moorish peasants?’

  Arnau bowed his head. ‘We have been in Almohad lands, Master, at the bidding of our preceptrix, attempting to rescue one of the survivors of Salvatierra, a knight of Calatrava who had been held captive by the caliph’s men.’

  ‘This has all the marks of fiction about it,’ the master said suspiciously, nose wrinkling in distaste.

  Arnau gestured to his companion, who stepped forwards. ‘I am Brother Martin Calderon, of the Order of Calatrava, formerly of the garrison of Salvatierra. I was held by the Almohad lords in Cordoba for more than half a year until these men sought me out to bring me home.’

  The master huffed, frowning. He clearly did not like the fact that Arnau’s story had seemingly been so swiftly supported. ‘Your identity will have to be confirmed with your own order, sir knight. The men of Calatrava are currently in the main camp at the pass.’

  Arnau frowned. ‘Brother Calderon bears the same information as I do, Master.’

  The senior commander waved the man away. ‘This is a convent of the Temple, not of Calatrava. Let the good knight seek his own counsel.’ He turned to the baron. ‘Could you have a detachment escort this man to his brothers, and then return with confirmation of his identity, milord?’

  The Baron de Roquefeuil bowed low and gestured to Calderon, who turned to Arnau. ‘I have no words, Brother.’

  Arnau smiled. ‘Be safe and God go with you. I hope to see you soon.’

  Calderon returned the smile and then departed the room with the baron’s men, the nobleman remaining, which raised an eyebrow from the master, but no argument. After all, the two men shared joint command of Castro Ferral and there were political niceties to maintain. ‘These men claim that a vast force of the caliph’s men is gathered in the valley beyond the pass. If this is the case, we need to change our plans, Master. Forcing our way through the pass will leave us depleted, exhausted and unfit to face an army.’

  The senior Templar tapped his lip. ‘The battle for the pass is at a stalemate. The vile enemy have so thoroughly fortified the crossing that we lose a hundred men every hour until we withdraw for the day. It matters little whether ten Moors or a million await us beyond the range, since we cannot cross.’

  Arnau felt a prickle of an idea and smiled. ‘You have tried other ways, Master?’

  The commander turned a sour face on Arnau. ‘Each minor route leads to catastrophe. The best we have achieved thus far is to wrest this very fortress from their grasp, but it remains little more than an outpost. We have found small units of the enemy in the heights and there have been minor engagements, but there is no hope of bringing the army across the sierra except by that pass. I am informed of other crossings, but they are likely similarly garrisoned, and marching the entire army a week’s journey along the range only to face the same difficulties seems futile.’

  Arnau’s smile blossomed. ‘Cabeza de vaca.’

  ‘Cow head?’

  ‘Yes. I think there may be a way to move the army across the mountains and come at the caliph’s army by surprise.’

  The master leaned forwards, brow furrowing further. ‘Explain.’

  The following half hour passed in a flurry of questions and explanations. Arnau, with periodic interruptions by Tristán, explained how they had reached the pass themselves weeks ago and found it similarly blocked against them. How they had learned of the locals’ signs and the private ways through the mountains. The master and others in the room barraged him with questions. Was it viable for cavalry? Could siege engines conceivably be brought across the mountains? What were the chances of getting large numbers of men over the range unnoticed? How far was it? How long would it take?

  By the time they had finished, Arnau felt drained, and had related things about the mountain crossing that even he had not remembered until probing questions drew them forth. The master and the other preceptors had finished the meeting with clearly mixed feelings, dubious about the viability of crossing the range with the entire crusading force, but equally encouraged by such a sliver of hope after days of horrible attrition, getting nowhere with the assault on the pass. The master had finally called an end to the convent and dismissed the brothers, announcing that he would visit the army’s main camp, along with the baron. There they would find the Order of Calatrava and confirm what Arnau had said with Calderon. All being well, they would secure the sister order’s support, and that of the Order of Santiago, and together the three military orders should be able to persuade the kings and the bishops at least to consider this new plan.

  As the convent dispersed and men went back to their duties, Balthesar crossed to Arnau and Tristán, face cracked into a smile. ‘The good L
ord clearly watches you daily. Your information may change the entire course of this war, Vallbona, but you have yet to tell us what happened in Al-Andalus. Calderon might look hale and hearty, but I know near-madness in a man’s eyes, and that brother was teetering on the precipice of insanity, if I’m any judge.’

  Arnau nodded. ‘I fear he has been through a great deal. It’s not really my place to tell his tale, but I would say with some confidence that while he might teeter on the edge of madness, that is because he has clawed his way back from the depths and is once more standing in the light.’

  ‘If you say so. Ramon will press you for the full story, I’m sure. Let us find him. He will be relieved to discover that you are alive.’

  As they departed the room, Balthesar leading him through the gold-red stone corridors of the Moorish castle, Arnau peered out of windows and noted the occasional Templar or Frankish man at arms on the wall tops of the bailey. He cleared his throat. ‘What has happened in my absence? How have you come this far so quickly?’

  The older knight glanced over his shoulder. They were alone as they traversed the corridors of Castro Ferral, just the three of them. His voice became oddly subdued as he began to tell his tale while they walked. ‘We departed Toledo on the twentieth. A Wednesday.’

  Arnau blinked. ‘That was but three days after us. We had not even come this far, then, when the army departed. You must have been almost on our heels from Rourell.’

  ‘Quite. The dust of your hooves had barely settled on the road before the Templar column reached Rourell. They did not even overnight with us, picking up further brothers from Barbera and Miravet and moving west that same day. The army set out from Toledo with the aim of marching south, taking strongpoints and rolling unstoppably towards Al-Andalus, and fifty miles south of Toledo met the first major garrison. It was not the main force who struck, though. The bulk of the army had still been gathering their last men, while the Franks were overeager for the fray and had marched ahead, reaching Malagon a day ahead of the rest of the army.’

  Arnau frowned to see a pained, disgusted look cross the older knight’s face. ‘What happened?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘By the time we reached Malagon, it was over. The Franks had been merciless. They had stormed the place and put everyone they could find to the sword. They were loading their booty into saddlebags amid a stinking charnel house of Moorish corpses by the time we arrived, and Malagon looked like it had been struck by the Hand of God, all shattered walls and burning houses. “Therefore the Lord rained on Sodom and Gomorrah brimstone and fire, from the Lord of heaven, (And so the Lord rained down fire and brimstone from the heavens on Sodom and Gomorrah) and destroyed these cities, and all the country about; he destroyed all the dwellers of those cities, and all green things of the earth.”’

  Arnau shivered at the scriptural fragment, and then felt his lip twitch, picturing the savage d’Orbessan standing on a pile of ruined bodies, but perhaps not the agent of the Lord so much as of the Prince of Darkness.

  Balthesar was not finished. ‘We reconciled with the Franks, though our union was strained thereafter. Neither the king of Aragon nor his Castilian counterpart was best pleased with the destruction and looting. After all, these cities and castles will become theirs now, and they want viable territory, not blasted wastelands. There were arguments between the leaders. Only a day later we reached Calatrava.’

  Arnau remembered the great fortress at the junction of rivers. The home of the eponymous order. Likely that had been the army’s main goal to begin with, for the order made up a sizeable number of their warriors.

  ‘The Moorish garrison offered to surrender the castle in return for their freedom, telling our kings that it was only what the caliph had offered at Salvatierra. The Order of Calatrava accepted the terms, content that they would regain their fortress undamaged. The kings and bishops agreed, and the deal was struck, but the Franks argued. They called this a “fool’s crusade”, telling kings, as though speaking to unruly children, that God had called upon them to smite the enemy, not to grant them mercy. There were arguments such as you would not believe, Vallbona. In the end the Franks stayed, unhappily, but when the Moors left and they were prevented from looting or taking slaves in the aftermath, fresh discontent broke out.’

  ‘They give all Christians a bad name,’ Arnau spat.

  ‘Not anymore. Displeased with being refused murder and looting, the Franks departed the next morning. By noon they were gone.’

  Arnau frowned, looking out of a window they passed to see that colourful flag flying above a tower.

  ‘But…’

  Balthesar nodded. ‘A few stayed. Not all the Franks were so vicious and avaricious, it seems. The archbishop of Narbonne and his colleague Tibaldo de Blazon, along with some Poitevin noblemen, held to their convictions and remained with us. Perhaps one hundred and fifty of them remain, and those Franks are the ones you see holding Castro Ferral with us.’

  This required an uncomfortable adjustment in Arnau’s thinking. That d’Orbessan could be one of the Franks who held loftier ideals and remained true to the cause seemed unlikely. Perhaps the man had other motivations.

  They emerged from a doorway and crossed the bailey again, where two dozen Templars now trained, swiping and lunging with blades, tilting at quintains and generally maintaining equipment, polishing swords and armour. Across the way sat a squat low building for which the older knight was clearly bound.

  ‘Anyway,’ Balthesar began again, ‘the original idea had been to march directly south, taking any stronghold in our way until we reached this pass, which would grant access to the Guadalquivir valley and the heart of Al-Andalus. However, it turned out that a certain thorn in the side of the kings was too tempting to pass up. The entire army diverted its course west. We hit Alarcos like the vengeance of the Lord. I am not a man to revel in death and destruction, Vallbona, but even I feel a thrill at that victory. To have regained the site of our most vile defeat is a balm to the soul. Despite the altered plan, I feel that the kings were right to pause to take Alarcos, for stamping on the caliph’s toes and regaining our honour has bolstered the spirits of every man in the army.’

  Arnau smiled. Calatrava regained. Alarcos regained. Truly God was with the army of Christendom.

  ‘We took three other strongholds of theirs in the region – Benavente, Piedrabuena and Caracuel – and then turned our course south-east again, making for this pass. We arrived at the fortress of Salvatierra, and the Order of Calatrava lobbied for its recovery, but it was well fortified and strongly garrisoned, and there was no sign of capitulation. Still, we might have stayed and taken it, but advance scouts had returned to the column, warning us that the pass was being fortified against us, so the decision was made to press on and take the pass.’

  Arnau sighed. ‘Shame. Salvatierra is another castle with importance and meaning to the army.’

  Balthesar smiled. ‘The Calatravan grand master declared that it was fitting to leave them cut off in a Christian-controlled world for a time, the repayment of that which he himself had suffered. I suspect he has a mind when the season is over to invest in Salvatierra and make them pay for every week he endured there.’

  Arnau chuckled darkly, imagining how Calderon would feel besieging the castle.

  His thoughts were all knocked aside and scattered, though, as they entered that low building where half a dozen brothers sat fletching bolts until one raven-haired man at the centre stood sharply, staring at Arnau.

  ‘Dear Lord in Heaven, the idiot has returned!’

  14. Crusade

  15 July 1212, Sierra Morena

  Arnau glanced over his shoulder. The forces of Christendom snaked back across the slope behind him like a gleaming and brightly-coloured serpent. He was reminded momentarily of the many times in the history of man when an army had been caught strung out like this and annihilated by a wily enemy. They had to just hope that the Moors had not caught on to the existence of the mountain paths and begun t
o have them watched, especially after one of their valley patrols had not returned.

  After the three men had told their tale at Castro Ferral, the two Templars had waited with their fellows, catching up on all the news and stories of Balthesar and Ramon, until they had all been sent for. Horses had been provided and they had been given sufficient time to change into more appropriate garb, and then they had joined a sizeable group of brothers, including some of the most senior in Catalunya, and ridden for the main force.

  The camp of the army of God sat in the wide mouth of the valley that led to the pass, safely back out of both sight and range of the enemy. Units of Christian soldiers were visible further along the pass, fortified where they could, advance points in the ongoing struggle to control the crossing. But the bulk of the army languished in the camp, and the general mood Arnau had sensed was one of impatience and dismay. An army needed heart to even hope for victory, and the army of the kings and bishops was beginning to fail in that.

  Their first port of call had been the encampment of the knights of Calatrava, where there had been another convent held between the leaders of the two orders and the senior knights, a brief and sharp reunion with Calderon, and then another set of questions put to them all by senior men, revealing nothing new that they had not explained the first time. The three travellers were then made to wait outside while the matter was discussed. The two orders came to an accord, and an hour later they rode together for the Order of Santiago.

  At this next camp the entire process was repeated, the same questions asked yet again and the same answers given once more. Another wait in a corridor as masters decided upon their course of action, and finally, in the mid-afternoon, the three great military orders of the peninsula rode together to consult the final authority of man in Christian Iberia: the kings of Aragon and Castile.