Realising that they were on the cusp of victory, Arnau found an unexpected reserve of strength and he staggered towards the tent’s entrance in the wake of the king and his companions, with the knight who had become his companion in the fight shuffling along at his side. As they stumbled forwards, the knight turned a weary smile on Arnau.
‘Tibalt of Azpeitia,’ he said by way of introduction.
‘Arnau de Vallbona,’ the Templar replied, and the pair staggered on, exhausted. Around them, the last survivors of the caliph’s guard were struggling on, trying to leap in the path of this powerful king, each one being put down brutally, almost out of hand, corpses groaning and falling back to the grass, littering the hillside.
By the time they pushed their way into the pavilion, the king and his men were already at the far side, looking out of a matching entrance directly opposite. The place was empty, barring a few cowering slaves. No sign of the caliph. Ignoring the lavish furnishings, the gold and the jewels, the half-naked woman on the purple cushions in the corner, Arnau and Tibalt emerged from the far side of the enormous pavilion and into the bright sunlight close to King Sancho and his men.
From here they could see across the rest of the Almohad camp, down a shallow dip and then up to the heights of the valley sides. It took Arnau only a moment to spot what the king and his men were watching. A column of horsemen bearing banners and gleaming in the sunlight were racing south along the valley. The caliph had fled.
‘Do we give chase, sire?’ asked a Navarrese nobleman, shading his eyes.
King Sancho watched the fleeing Almohad for just a moment, then shook his head. ‘Our horses are all dead or exhausted, as are the men. We will not catch him now, but it matters not.’
‘Sire?’
‘Listen,’ the king said, cupping a hand around his ear. They all did. The sound was unmistakable. Back across the hill, the battle was over. They could hear the distinctive sound of an army in flight, and the identity of that army was made clear by two things. Firstly, it was coming closer, fleeing up the slope, south and west, away from the crusaders. Secondly, it was accompanied by triumphant cheering and singing in Latin. Word of the fall of the pavilion and either the death or the flight of the caliph had clearly reached his army, causing panic and chaos.
Even as Arnau and the others walked back through that great tent to look down the slope up which they had fought so hard, the Almohad mass was peeling off and swarming around the hill to left and right, none of them willing to cross the crest where the caliph’s tent was now host to a Christian king and his men.
Arnau dropped to his knees and watched the battle end.
They had won.
The army of Christendom had avenged Alarcos at long last, lifting the shadow that had hung over Castile and Aragon since that dreadful day. They had crossed the uncrossable mountains and won the unwinnable battle.
The reconquest of Iberia had truly begun.
18. A Great Victory
16 July 1212, Las Navas de Tolosa
Arnau had experienced the aftermath of battle before and knew full well what to expect. Sure enough, Las Navas de Tolosa swiftly proved to be no different from the battle against the skirmishers so many years ago in which his lord Berenguer had died, or from struggles against the Lion of Alarcos on Mayûrqa, or from the dreadful siege of Constantinople where the world of Christendom encountered its darkest day.
Firstly, jubilation swept across the hillside hot on the heels of the fleeing Almohads, the army celebrating their victory even before the enemy were out of sight. But such jubilation was a fleeting thing and passed in moments as the reality of their situation began to settle into the mind of every combatant. The army was exhausted, each soldier having been awake now for almost two days and having fought a desperate battle at the end of a harrowing journey. The knowledge that hung over them all was that but for a single stroke of luck, and the seizure of a slim chance by a brave man, they could even now have lost the battle and be hunted among the side valleys by howling Almohad cavalry. And beneath it all was the knowledge that while this was a phenomenal and unprecedented victory, it marked the start of a campaign, and not the end. There were still at least two months left of good summer weather, and those months would now be spent pressing this success ever further, pushing the Almohad frontier back, keeping the caliph on the defensive, preventing him from regrouping and fighting back. The Christian kingdoms of Iberia had long learned to their cost how quickly the Moors could recover and pose a whole new and increased threat.
Arnau stood leaning on an empty weapon rack close to the grand pavilion, watching the post-battle activity around him. Small parties of Templars and knights of Calatrava and Santiago had drifted up to the camp wearily, having chased off the Almohads as far as they could, and were now dealing with the half-buried lunatic converts. Sadly, barely a handful agreed to surrender and gave themselves over to men who would take every care to undo what had been done to these poor folk. Most of the buried human fence continued to flail rabidly at anyone who came near them, even as their master fled the valley and abandoned them. They were put down without difficulty, but with tangible regret.
In the wake of the battle on the hilltop, one of the first Christians to arrive on the scene had been King Alphonso of Castile with a strong force of knights. He had clearly been determined at the end to be involved in the caliph’s demise, and his disappointment at discovering that the enemy commander had fled was palpable. Despite the king of Navarre’s patient insistence that any attempt at pursuit was now futile, Alphonso had gathered his tired knights and raced off in an attempt to intercept and deal with the caliph. Arnau could still see the knights of Castile down the valley, and it was clear they would fail. All that could be seen of the caliph and his men now was a distant puff of dust on the horizon, and already the Christian knights were slowing, lagging.
It mattered not. The victory had been almost total. The fleeing Almohad forces that were trying to melt away into the hills were being overrun by the crusading infantry and butchered. The death toll in the enemy force would be immense, most of those killed while attempting to flee the field, for, tired as they were, the men-at-arms of all the countries knew that whoever they managed to kill they could rob of valuables.
The looting had begun almost immediately. Soldiers drenched in blood, mud and sweat picked their way across the slope like the crows that were beginning to settle on the bodies for an unexpected feast. The ghouls of the victorious army swept across the hillside, cutting off fingers for gleaming rings, emptying purses, snatching weapons and anything of value they could find.
A more official and organised looting had begun in the caliph’s compound. As the king of Navarre and his knights stood and recovered, congratulating one another on their achievement, nobles and churchmen from several nations began to strip the pavilion and its surroundings, taking everything, whether it be valuable or not, heretical or not, indiscriminately. The caliph’s banners and anything critical would be sent to the Pope in Rome, the rest divvied up to help pay for this great expedition.
Arnau half expected to be co-opted into some onerous duty, yet no one seemed to be interested in bothering the blood-soaked, limping Templar on the hilltop, nor his companions. Three other brothers had survived the attack, and each of them stood in silent, weary contemplation, unmolested.
Indeed, there seemed to be some confusion among the military orders. So many of their commanders had been killed or seriously injured that there was a singular lack of central command for the orders. Already word was filtering across the hilltop that Calatrava had lost its bannerman, and its master had been so grievously injured that no one dared move him. That the Order of Santiago had lost its senior commander. That the Templars had lost the commander of Portugal and Castile. And these names were only the top men. Arnau had seen several masters fall that were not yet being spoken of.
Clearly the secular commanders had fared better. Among those men who drifted up onto the hill in the
aftermath came the king of Aragon, Pedro, and those men who had commanded the centre, Lopez de Haro and Núñez de Lara. Both men were well bloodied. Arnau felt a minor sense of relief to see a Frankish banner and the Baron de Roquefeuil, wounded but alive, being helped to a seat by a pair of Castilian soldiers.
In all, it could have been so much worse.
The royal parties had now dispersed, the king of Castile off chasing the caliph with his men, Sancho of Navarre and Peter of Aragon disappearing beyond the pavilion deep in discussion over the next steps to be taken. The hillside was abuzz with muttered conversation and Arnau’s gaze took in the scene for a moment, noting the absence of anyone he knew personally. Finally, he closed his eyes and let the numb ache of his left arm and the sharp pain in his ankle throb freely.
A voice drifted across the hilltop then, somehow managing to cut through the general hum of conversation, the groans of the injured and the dying, and the clatter and shuffle of organised looting.
‘We praise Thee, O God: we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord. All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting. To Thee all angels cry aloud: the Heavens, and all the Powers therein.’
The Te Deum. Arnau turned to the high, clear voice chanting the ancient prayer in lilting, graceful tones. As he did so, he saw every face across the hilltop turn, praises and arguments forgotten as they all peered at the figure. The Archbishop of Toledo stood at the entrance to the caliph’s pavilion as a dozen men struggled to raise a huge wooden cross, dropping the heavy base of the upright into a hastily hacked hole in the hillside.
‘To Thee Cherubim and Seraphim continually do cry, Holy, Holy, Holy: Lord God of Sabaoth; Heaven and earth are full of the Majesty of Thy glory.’
As the archbishop sang, priests and noblemen flocked to his side and joined in, their voices raised with the senior churchman. The forces of Christendom gave thanks for their victory in the heart of the Moorish camp. Arnau swiftly joined the chorus, and as the last lines of the ancient chorus faded, he felt a wash of peace over him.
‘We therefore pray Thee, help Thy servants, whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy precious blood. Make them to be numbered with Thy Saints in glory everlasting.’
He sighed. It was over.
‘You treacherous, deceiving, cowardly, godless horse-turd of a man,’ snapped an angry voice suddenly, and Arnau frowned, it taking him precious moments to realise that the stream of invective had been aimed at him. All eyes on the hill now slid from the archbishop to Arnau, who turned in shock.
Henri d’Orbessan stood not six paces from him. The man was so drenched and sprayed with blood and muck that there was barely a hint of original colour to his surcoat. He had a stained and nicked sword in his fist and his stance was belligerent. His left hand was tucked into his belt and hung limp, a strange reflection of Arnau’s own numb limb, and that odd parody became all the more prevalent as the man lurched a step forwards and his leg almost gave way.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ barked a senior Templar, his white mantle spattered with red and black. He stepped close to the two men.
‘This coward left us to die,’ d’Orbessan said accusingly, thrusting his sword out to point at Arnau.
‘Is this true?’ the master murmured, his gaze moving to the injured Templar.
Arnau looked around at the sea of faces, looking for potential support. He was momentarily relieved to see three in particular. Tristán was here now, leaning on a stick; nearby, Calderon carried the torn and bloodied banner of the Order of Calatrava; and the Navarrese knight Tibalt of Azpeitia, who had fought back to back with him in the press, was leaning on a shield.
The relief at their presence was muted by the realisation that neither of them could support him against such an accusation. Indeed, there was no one on this hilltop who had been there. He felt his spirits sink. He would deny the accusation, but somewhere deep in his heart he felt a little throb of that same guilt that had struck him repeatedly as he’d ridden away from the centre. He’d had a good reason, and he would do the same again, but the fact stood that he had abandoned the Franks to their fate. He sighed and straightened.
‘It is true that sir d’Orbessan called out for support when the Franks were hard pressed, and it is also true that I and a number of my companions rode away rather than offering such support, but this was no matter of cowardice. The fate of the battle itself was held in the balance and one of the Temple’s masters was gathering a party to ride for the three kings and prevent disaster. As a man who had briefly had the ear of the king of Navarre before the battle, it was important that I join that group.’
‘How convenient that you have an excuse for having left us to die; we, a handful of Frankish knights who, against the decision of our own countrymen, remained with the army to serve God, and who this particular Templar despises.’
‘That is not true.’
‘You deny that you hate me, Vallbona?’
Arnau sighed. This was not the way he’d seen the battle ending. ‘I do not hate you, d’Orbessan. I disapprove of your attitude and your methods, but I do not hate you.’ But did he not really? He bit down on the guilt once more. ‘I might add that I know how much you despise me, d’Orbessan, and how you now readily work to see me fall because of it. But this is not the time for such rancour. You lived. We lived. The battle is won. Can you not let this feud go and revel in our joint victory?’
‘Coward.’
Arnau took a single step forwards now, limping badly. ‘I am no coward, and I will brook no such accusation from you.’
‘Silence,’ bellowed the Templar master, glaring at them both.
‘Vallbona speaks the truth,’ came a familiar and welcome voice. Arnau looked up to see Balthesar pushing his way through the crowd. ‘I was with the group who withdrew from the centre,’ the old knight announced, ‘deputised to visit the kings at the rear lines.’
‘Conveniently, one of his cronies speaks up for him,’ spat the Frank.
Balthesar wagged a finger at the Frank. ‘Falsehoods are forbidden in our Order and in four decades and more of serving the Lord, I have never had an accusation of such levelled at me. Take care, Frank.’ He stepped back and spread his hands, appealing to the crowd. ‘King Sancho is in conference with his counterpart from Aragon, but he will be able to corroborate this.’
The Templar master nodded his acceptance of this, his relief visible.
‘I care not your conceited and arrogant reasons for needing to be part of such a group,’ spat d’Orbessan. ‘All I know for sure is that we were about to fall, I called for this man’s aid, and instead of granting it, he left the field. Had it not been for the timely arrival of the Castilian knights from the reserve, we would surely have all died. Thus again I call him coward.’
Arnau snarled. ‘I will not take such an insult from a mindless killer like you, d’Orbessan.’
‘You would back that up with steel?’ demanded the Frank.
Arnau frowned and looked about at the gathered faces. Most were concerned, undecided, disapproving. One or two glared at him in disgust, and others at the Frank in the same way. The faces of those Arnau trusted – Balthesar, Calderon, Tristán, Tibalt – were all shaking their heads, urging him to refuse.
‘A duel?’
‘Let God decide the guilt of it,’ snapped d’Orbessan, glowering.
‘Lord, but look at the pair of you,’ the Baron de Roquefeuil sighed from where he sat, too wounded and weary to stand. ‘Like half the men on this hill, you’re both exhausted and injured. Neither of you look as though you could even lift a sword, let alone swing it.’ The baron pointed at his man. ‘D’Orbessan, I know you and the Templar are not in concord, but an accusation of cowardice to a man like that is tantamount to a slap with a gauntlet. He cannot back down from it, and you know as well as I that whatever Brother Vallbona might be, a coward is not part of it.’
But d’Orbessan would have none of it. He shook his head. ‘Baron, this man left us to die. I will have his blood for
his cowardice or die trying.’
The baron sighed. ‘Then I will not refuse you your right, no matter how much I disagree.’
‘A duel?’ the Templar master asked, astonished.
‘I know that duels are not your way by nature,’ the baron murmured, resigned, ‘but in the north it is a common way to settle such disagreements. It is d’Orbessan’s right.’
The grand master beckoned Arnau, who staggered over, limping badly. ‘I do not like this,’ the senior brother said, loud enough to be heard by those nearby. ‘It reflects poorly upon our Order, such disagreements and bloodshed will drive wedges between men on this hillside at a time when unity is paramount, and it is wasteful to watch men of God kill one another when the true enemy are still so close.’
He leaned nearer, his voice lower, meant now only for Arnau.
‘Can you win?’
Arnau took a deep breath. ‘If the dog insists on a fight, I will put him down.’
The master nodded and leaned back. ‘Then I remove any embargo upon this action. You may deal with this matter as your conscience dictates, Brother Vallbona.’
Arnau straightened with difficulty. Turning, he drew his sword, so recently cleaned carefully before returning it to its sheath. He’d not imagined he would be drawing it again today, especially with the intention of bloodying a Christian. He sighed. ‘If things cannot be reconciled and you are committed to this course of action,’ he said, wearily, ‘then let us finish this.’
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