FIFTEEN
“That is a beautiful blade.”
Lazare faltered, struggling to steady himself as his rhythm with the grindstones was interrupted. The sword blade on the anvil was nearly finished, less than a hand’s breadth near the tang remained unpolished. He had been working on it extensively over the last few days, since the Templars had abandoned the crusade. Since he had been cast out of the Cistercian order by the abbot. There had been little else to occupy his time. Like everyone else, he was waiting for the kings of Castile and Navarre to reach a decision.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lazare said as he looked up and recognized the three men who were gathered at his makeshift smithy.
His visitors this morning were the archbishop, Don Ruy, and Brother Crespin. The archbishop had been the other mysterious figure in the tent when Helyssent had refused to aid the king of Castile. He and the king of Navarre had arrived during the night, and they had secretly waited to see the outcome of the dispute between Castile and the crusaders before revealing themselves.
“Toledo steel?” Don Ruy asked as he stepped closer and inspected the shaped blade.
“Aye,” Lazare said, lightly brushing off some of the dust clinging to the sword. He squinted at Brother Crespin, who was standing a little separate from the other two. He and Crespin had not spoken in several days, and the few times he had seen the other man in the camp, Crespin had avoided his gaze. Crespin smiled weakly as Lazare looked at him, but said nothing.
“The king has received word from Al-Andalus,” the archbishop said as casually as he had spoken of Lazare’s smithing. “Al-Nasir’s army numbers nearly two hundred thousand men. More than four times our number. The king has been consulting with King Sancho day and night in an effort to assemble a successful battle plan, but…”
Lazare nodded. The loss of the Templars was devastating, not just in pure numbers—each knight was invaluable on the battlefield—but in morale as well. Campaigns had been won with worse odds, but to willingly engage in battle at such a deficit was the sign of an ill-prepared commander. Miramamolin might show mercy on the field, but the other kings of Iberia would be less forgiving.
“But he needs an edge,” Lazare finished for the archbishop. “He needs an advantage that is not simply numbers.”
“Yes,” the archbishop said. “An edge.” He flicked his thumb against the tip of Lazare’s sword. “Something that will give his men a reason to fight. A reason to believe they will win.”
Lazare thought about what King Sancho had said in the meeting. “For hearth and home isn’t enough?” he asked.
“If it were, would you be here?” the archbishop asked. “Marcos of Toledo told me you spoke of seeking symbols that would rally men’s hearts.” He flicked his thumb against the sword again.
“Durendal,” Lazare explained to Don Ruy who was following the conversation with a raised eyebrow. “Tizona.”
“Ah,” Don Ruy said, his face brightening. “Now I understand.”
“Good,” the archbishop nodded. He held out his hand to Lazare, who took it without fully understanding why. The archbishop clasped his other hand over Lazare’s. “Good luck,” he said, staring intently at Lazare, and then he let go of Lazare’s hand. As he turned away, he laid his hand on Brother Crespin’s shoulder and whispered a blessing to the Cistercian, who nodded sagely.
Lazare watched the archbishop walk away. “I don’t understand,” he said to Don Ruy.
Don Ruy cast about for something to sit on, and finding a stool, he pulled it close and leaned toward Lazare. “We need a symbol,” he said. “It could be a sword such as this one. Or it could be a man. Or it could be both.”
“Me?” Lazare said, trying to figure out what Don Ruy was suggesting.
Don Ruy shook his head. “You are not Castilian,” he said. “The archbishop trusts you. He says you understand what it is to be an Iberian, even though you are from…where? England?”
“France,” Lazare corrected, stealing a guilty glance at Brother Crespin, who gave no indication he had heard or cared about Don Ruy’s slip.
“It is okay to be English,” Don Ruy said, mistaking Lazare’s correction. “King Alfonso’s wife is English. Sister of the Lionheart, in fact.”
“So I have heard,” Lazare said, licking his suddenly dry lips.
“Have you heard the local legend of Calatrava?” Don Ruy asked. “The monster that is neither man nor beast, but who haunts this plain, slaughtering Moors in their sleep?”
“I have not,” Lazare admitted.
“Nearly twenty years ago, the Moors drove my order out of Calatrava. After the battle at Alarcos. Those of us who survived became knights without a castle. We even changed our name for a while, but such a decision diminished the sacrifice of our fallen brothers, more so when stories started to circulate about the Beast of Calatrava. Whoever he was, he didn’t accept the loss—he would never accept the loss—of our namesake. How could we call ourselves the Order of Calatrava if we did not fight for what was ours? Calatrava was abandoned by the Templars long ago, because they were not Castilian. They did not belong here. This is our home, and our name reflects who we are and who we protect. For many years, we have been less than we should have been.”
“You want me to masquerade as this man?” Lazare asked.
“No, no,” Don Ruy said with a chuckle. “I want you to help me find him.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you believe in the stories, and because you believe in the truth that lies behind the stories.” Don Ruy fumbled with his hands in his lap. “And because you are not from Iberia. Sometimes we listen to a stranger more readily than we do our own countrymen.”
“This man is a legend,” Lazare said. “A twenty-year-old legend. How is this not a fool’s errand?”
“Because he has been seen. Less than a month ago. In a tiny village named Almuradiel, near the Sierra Morena.”
They all wore plain garb, though Brother Crespin was loath to set aside his Cistercian robes. Lazare wondered aloud why the Cistercian brother was even joining their mad quest, and Crespin’s simple response had been Better a mad quest than a mad priest. Lazare had embraced him for that, and after an awkward pause, Crespin had returned the show of affection.
On horseback, with an escort of three other knights of the order—equally attired, though outfitted with maille hauberks and helms—they headed west across the wide campo of Calatrava and the plain of La Mancha, chasing the story of the Beast of Calatrava.
Two days later, in Valdepe?as, they heard of a drunken troubadour who told a stirring version of the legend of the Beast, and Lazare heard for himself the story of what had happened in Almuradiel. Though, later, Don Ruy told him that it was only four Moors that the Beast had slain, and not six.
A day later, in a squalid tavern in Cózar, they met a man named Diego who, for a price, told them a story about a stolen goat.
The next morning, they turned south, heading for the Sierra Morena. They were looking for the Despe?aperros River and the valley it had carved through the mountains.