The Mystic Rose (15 page)

T
WENTY-SIX DAYS
out from Cyprus,
Persephone
passed the Pillars of Hercules, leaving the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean behind and entering the green-gray foam-traced depths of the cold Atlantic. Almost at once, the fair warm weather changed. Brilliant blue, cloudless skies gave way to low, heavy gray ceilings of endless overcast; cold winds gusted out of the northwest, kicking up a rough chop which hammered the prow and kept the ship pitching and lurching from crest to trough for days on end.

No stranger to heavy seas, Haemur reduced the sail—once, and then again—and kept a firm hand on the tiller and an experienced eye on the heavens. When the rain and mist finally cleared, the Iberian coast came into view. Two days later they sighted the entrance to the great shallow saltwater bay which the locals called the Sea of Straw.

Weary of the wind and rain and bouncing deck, Cait gladly gave the command to make landfall, and in a little while they came in sight of Lixbona, with its wide and busy harbor tucked into the curved arm of coastline on the Tagus river. The white Moorish city, rising on terraced hills, glistened in the sun with a fresh, rain-washed gleam. The air seemed sharper, more invigorating, too—heralding an early autumn, Cait thought.

Persephone
's eager passengers stood on the deck as the ship passed through the narrows and into the bay, and watched the city grow larger as more of the gently undulating hills were revealed to them. “There is the
al-qasr
,” said
Abu Sharma, pointing to the citadel sitting square atop the steep promontory overlooking the harbor.

“Do you know this place?” wondered Rognvald.

“No,” he said, and explained that the word simply meant “fortress” in Arabic. “And, look, there is the central
mosq.
” He pointed to a large, domed building with a tall, pointed tower rising beside it like a finger pointing toward Heaven. But the tower, or
minaret
, as he called it, was topped by a large wooden cross, and another had been erected in the center of the mosq's bulging dome. For when the city fell to the Christians there had been no gross destruction; instead, the practical people of Lixbona merely converted the Muslim buildings to new uses: the fortress became the king's palace, and the mosqs were made into churches.

Thus, Lixbona resembled a true Damascus of the north: wide marketplaces, covered bazaars, mosqs, synagogues, and chapels scattered among the tall, white-washed houses with their elaborate screened balconies and flat roofs, on which families gathered after the day's work was finished. And like Damascus, it was a city of brisk commerce, too. The rolling brown Tagus was a well-traveled road along which the people of the fertile southern valley shipped grain, meat, wine, and green produce all the way from the craggy Sintra mountains to the coast.

Upon reaching the great river harbor, Haemur could find no berths along the huge timber wharf, so took a place among the ships anchored in the bay; while the seamen made
Persephone
secure, the others prepared to go ashore. After a few attempts, the knights succeeded in attracting the attention of a ferryman, who took them to the wharf. It was the first landfall since leaving Cyprus and it took some time to get used to solid, unmoving ground beneath their feet. For the knights, the day began and ended at the first alehouse they encountered on the street leading up from the harbor. Meanwhile, Cait and Alethea, accompanied by Olvir and Otti, purchased fresh provisions to be delivered to the ship. That finished, and with no wish to hurry back, they walked along the market stalls and marveled at the variety of goods. Feeling generous, Cait allowed Alethea to buy a sky-blue
beaded shift and mantle, and gave Olvir and Otti a similar amount to spend on two used, but serviceable, daggers. Ever since the knights began their arms training, she had noticed how the seamen lusted after their Norse companions' handsome weapons, and considered it would be no bad thing to arm her sailors as well.

By evening, they were back aboard the ship, and remained in the harbor for the night. Having discovered the Norsemen's fondness for ale, Cait thought it best to move on as quickly as possible, putting out to sea again at first light the next morning to continue their journey north along the coast. The evening of the second day, they arrived at Porto Cales, where again they stopped for the night. Haemur's chart was good, but not so exact that he felt confident to navigate the treacherous, often lethal waters of the rock-strewn coast ahead; he wanted to talk to the local fishermen and find out all he could about their destination. So they put in for the night and, while Abu and Haemur, with chart in hand, spent most of the next day conversing with the boat owners and sailors of the town, the others prowled the marketplaces—except for Svein, Dag, and Yngvar, who prowled only as far as the waterfront inn and remained blissfully occupied drinking ale until Rognvald came and fetched them back to the ship.

“The best counsel, my lady,” reported Haemur on his return, “is to go up coast to Pons Vetus and hire a guide for the way ahead.”

“There are many ways to Santiago de Compostela,” Abu put in. “The entire city is a shrine to Saint James the Great and many pilgrims come there to reverence his bones. It is second only to Jerusalem, they say.”

“Can we go and see it?” asked Thea. “Oh, Cait, can we?”

Ignoring her, Cait said, “And did anyone happen to mention which of the many ways to the city we should take?”

“The best way for us is by river,” answered Abu. “They say the river is wide and deep enough to take the ship, but the channels can be difficult for the unwary.”

“It will cost a little,” Haemur said, “and no doubt I could do it myself if pressed to it. But if it please you, my lady, I
would feel better for the use of someone who knows the water hereabouts.” He paused, then added, “Your father would not thank me to wreck his beloved
Persephone
and forsake you and your lady sister in a foreign land.”

“Nor would I, Haemur,” replied Cait. “But thanks to you, I am certain that will not happen. I am happy to trust in your good judgment.”

“Very good, my lady. God willing,” he said, as if resigning himself to an irksome task, “I will take on a guide at Pons Vetus.”

Two days later, that is what they did. The fisherfolk of the busy little port knew the region well, and when it was discovered there was silver to be had for showing the strangers the way, Haemur had no end of offers from which to choose. Eventually, he decided on a man of mature age, like himself, who had for many years fished the coastal waters and supplied the Galician markets with his catches.

“Wise you are,” the fisherman told them when he came aboard at sunrise the next morning. “To many folk the river is just a river. They learn otherwise to their disadvantage. The Ulla is chancy—especially above the bend. But never fear, Ginés will see you safe to port without a worry.”

With that, the old seaman took his place beside Haemur; and although neither man could comprehend the other, with Abu and Olvir's help, and much use of the signs, nudges, and nods recognized by sailors the world over, the two men soon formed a rough understanding of one another. Ginés directed the old Norse pilot around the peninsula, and up through the scattered rocks and islets on the other side. It was slow work, and the tide was out by the time they reached the river mouth. “It will be dark before the water is high enough again,” Ginés told them. “The weather is going to change. We will find no better place to stay tonight. If you are asking me, I would say to drop anchor right here and proceed when it is light—weather permitting.”

Although the sky seemed clear and the day mild enough, they accepted the old fisherman's advice, and prepared to spend the night idly drifting in the sluggish river current. After supper, Cait soon lost interest in listening to the sailors
trade sea tales and watching the knights drink wine; she summoned a complaining Alethea and went below deck to bed. In her sleep, she dreamed that she and her father had completed the pilgrimage and returned home. She awakened when she felt the ship begin to move again and went up on deck to find what at first sight appeared to be a dream come true: they were back in Caithness.

The sky was thick and dark and low; clouds lay on the hilltops and it was raining gently. The hills themselves were green and steep, and covered with splotches of yellow gorse and the criss-crossing patterns of sheep trails etched in the thick turf. The rounded bulges of granite boulders broke the smooth surface of the hills, like the tops of ancient gray skull-bones wearing through their moss-green burial shroud. White morning mist searched down the slopes, twisting around the stones with long, ghostly fingers.

In all, the landscape of Galicia evoked her homeland so suddenly and solidly that before Cait knew it, tears were running down her cheeks. More mystified than melancholy, she nevertheless felt the inexplicable pull of her far-off homeland and marveled that this place should appear so remarkably like Scotland.

“Here, my lady,” called the old pilot from the helm, “I never saw a place looked more like home. If I knew no better, I'd say we were come to Caithness.”

“He is right,” remarked Olvir. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Cait nodded and moved quickly to the rail so that Haemur and the others would not see her crying; she stood wrapped in her mantle gazing at the mist-covered hills as they slid slowly past. When the knights came on deck to breakfast, she was dry-eyed once more and ready to embark on the next stage of the journey.

It was after midday when the ship came to the small river town of Iria. “There is a hostler at the crossroads in the town. You can hire horses from him,” Ginés told them. “Compostela is not far, and you will soon be there.”

As it happened, the hostler had only two horses left for hire. Not wishing to wait until others became available, Cait
took the two: for herself and Rognvald. The others, she decided, could remain behind with the ship, and she and Rognvald would travel more quickly without a crowd to slow them. Thus, they set off early the next day and undertook the ride through thickly wooded countryside. The road was old and straight, a Roman road, but well-maintained and busy, passing through several little hamlets and holdings in the valley bottoms.

They rode through forests of beech and oak, damp from the rain and heavy with the smell of ferns. As the day progressed, the clouds parted and the sun grew warm. They began to pass bedraggled travelers on foot, some cloaked in brown and stumping along with long wooden staffs, wearing wide-brimmed cockle hats. Most of those they passed had scallop shells sewn on their hats and on their cloaks. No doubt, she reckoned, these were some of the pilgrims Abu had mentioned; but what the crude symbol might signify, she could not imagine. They also overtook farmers carrying braces of chickens, trudging along beside their wives lugging baskets of eggs, or bunches of onions, or carrots, or bushels of beans, and once an oxcart piled high with turnips, and another with yellow squash as big and round as heads.

They made good time and reached the walls of Compostela before sunset. The city gates were still open and upon passing through, they immediately entered a wide stone-paved street leading to a great square, in the center of which stood an enormous basilica. On this pleasant summer's eve, pilgrims without number thronged the square; those who were not waiting their turn to go into the church were either encamped on the bare earth of the square, or crowding around one of the scores of booths and stalls which had been set up to sell food, clothing, or trinkets—such as painted scallop shells, brass badges, drinking gourds, or sandals—to the restless pilgrim population that ebbed and flowed through the city like a brown, beggarly tide.

“He must be a miracle man, this saint of theirs,” observed Rognvald in amazement at the hordes. “I have not seen any
thing of this kind since Jerusalem, and even there it was not like this.”

Besides the holy wanderers, there were traders, moneychangers, merchants, vendors of food and drink and the produce of the surrounding fields, and laborers of every kind. For the precinct of Sancti Iacobi was rapidly becoming a town in its own right; with a dozen or more grand buildings in various stages of construction, the square seemed more like a building site than an ecclesiastical precinct.

In the streets surrounding the square numerous inns had been built to serve travelers of better means. Cait decided on a small establishment with a red rose painted on a placard above the door. “This is the one for us,” she said, and Rognvald went in to inquire about rooms for the night.

“They will have us,” he reported, “for two silver denari a night—each. There are others who will take less.”

“I am content,” she replied. Lord Rognvald signaled a young man who came at a run to take their horses; as he led them away, Cait and Rognvald went in to make the acquaintance of the innkeeper, a small bald man with a large mustache and a swollen jaw from an abscessed tooth. He was wearing a poultice of herbs soaked in vinegar and wrapped in a cloth tied to the top of his head. “Peace and comfort, my friends,” he said thickly, trying to smile through his pain. “I am Miguel. Welcome to my house. Please, come in and sit while I make your rooms ready. There is bread on the table and wine in the jar. I also have ale, if you prefer. Supper will be served at sundown.”

He beetled off, pressing a hand to the side of his cheek, and Cait and Rognvald found places at one of the two large tables in the center of the hall-like room, one side of which was taken up by a great hearth on which half a pig was sizzling away over a bed of glowing coals. Owing to the cost of the rooms the inn was not crowded, and the guests were of a higher rank than the mendicants who swarmed to the monastery porches and hospices. Their fellow-lodgers were merchants and wealthier pilgrims for whom a visit to the shrine of the blessed saint was not a particular hardship.