The Mystic Rose (17 page)

“I
CONFESS I
find it difficult to believe,” Archbishop Bertrano was saying. He looked from Cait to Rognvald, and shook his head. “That a man like de Bracineaux should be cut down so cruelly…I am sorry; it is most untimely, and it saddens me greatly.”

“Nor are you alone in your grief,” offered Cait sympathetically. “I have only recently lost my father.”

“Accept my deepest condolences, my child,” said the archbishop. “More wine?”

He reached for the silver jar and filled all three cups, beginning with his own. He took a long draft and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, said, “Now then, I have been thinking about this letter you have mentioned. It can only be the letter I wrote and dispatched to the pope some time ago. Did the commander tell you what this letter contained?”

“Only that it was a matter of highest and utmost importance,” offered Rognvald. “I think he feared revealing too much lest our captors somehow discover the secret.”

“In that, he showed the wisdom that made him such a formidable leader of men.” The archbishop took another drink, and laid the cup aside. He fixed his visitors with a stern and cautious stare. “Are you certain he said nothing more about the contents of the letter?”

“By my faith, no, my lord archbishop,” answered Rognvald truthfully. “He breathed not a word to me.”

The table around which the three were gathered was large, round and splendidly made of polished oak; it nearly
filled the chamber. Before them was sweetened wine in a large silver flagon, and a platter of ripe figs. Although modest, the room bordered a walled garden, and for this reason the archbishop often used it to welcome his more intimate guests. Sparrows returning to the roost twitched and twittered in the branches of the orange trees outside, adding to the heightened anticipation for Cait.

“Well, you have said it. For it is indeed a matter of utmost and highest importance,” the churchman continued. “And now that I know my message has gone astray, as it were, I shall send to the pope to inform him of the tragedy.”

Cait swallowed hard. Did he mean to tell them nothing after all? Before she could think how best to proceed, Rognvald, nodding sympathetically, said, “No doubt that would be best.”

It was all Cait could do to stifle a scream of frustration. She took a drink from her cup to hide her aggravation.

“Then it is settled,” Bertrano concluded happily. “I shall write to the pope at once and send it by swift courier.”

Rognvald smiled diffidently, and Cait narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her cup, silently urging him to speak up before it was too late.

“The Templars will be choosing a new Master of Jerusalem soon enough, I expect,” the knight replied. “We can but pray it will be someone who shares de Bracineaux's integrity and zeal.” He paused, then added, “I tremble to think what would happen if the reward of your hard work was to be usurped by an emperor-loving Judas.”

“But what do you mean?” wondered the archbishop, a crease of worry appearing on his brow.

“Just that,” said Rognvald. “Nothing more.”

“Do you think there might be a chance that could happen?”

Rognvald shrugged. “I should not like to say.”

“Come now, sir,” stormed the archbishop, striking the tabletop with a fist. “If you know something, you must tell me.”

“I fear I have said too much already.” Rognvald raised his hands in surrender. “I beg you do not force me, for I would
not like it to be thought that I slandered another man's name. In truth, it is none of my concern, and I will say no more.”

“No, sir!” blurted Bertrano, growing agitated. “That will not do at all. I must know if my purpose is likely to go astray.”

“I assure you, my lord archbishop,” answered Rognvald a little stiffly, “I have told you all that can be said.” He appeared about to say something further, but thought better of it, and closed his mouth instead.

The archbishop saw his hesitation and pounced on it. “Ah, you
do
know something!” he crowed. “Tell me, my son; keep nothing back. I am a priest, remember; with me, all confessions are sacred.”

“It was only a thought,” began Rognvald. He turned to Cait, as if seeking her approval.

“Go on, my darling,” she urged him sweetly. “Let us hold nothing secret from this honest and upright churchman.”

The archbishop gazed at him benevolently; his features, warmed by the wine to a fine mellow glow, arranged themselves in an expression of compassionate understanding. “It is for the good of all,” the archbishop intoned in his best confessional voice. “Allow me to hear your thoughts and we will decide what to do.”

“Let it be as you say,” said Rognvald, as if relieved to have the thorny decision behind him. “Here is the nub: it occurred to me that there might be a way to ensure the harmony and, shall we say, the original integrity of the enterprise so cruelly curtailed by the Saracens.”

“Yes? Go on,” urged Bertrano, “I am listening.”

“If you agree, I might fulfill that certain task which troubled his last days, and which death forced him to abandon.” The archbishop shook his head in sorrow over the sad plight of the suffering Templar's trouble-filled last days. “In short,” Rognvald continued, “I could serve in de Bracineaux's place.”

Before the churchman could respond to this, Rognvald turned to Cait, stretched out his hand and took hers, saying, “I am sorry, my love. I know I should have discussed it with you, but the notion just occurred to me.”

The cleric gazed at the knight thoughtfully, and then, with a clap of his hands, declared, “I am liking this. Continue.”

“It seemed to me that a letter, even by swiftest courier, would take several months to reach the Templars—
if
it should reach Jerusalem at all. It could so easily go astray and fall into the wrong hands.”

“Too true,” agreed Archbishop Bertrano. “I feared as much with the first epistle. But if you were to act for me in this, it would hasten our undertaking to a favorable outcome.”

“Am I to have nothing to say in this matter?” Cait said, adopting the manner of a neglected and much-put-upon wife. Turning to the churchman, she said, “You must forgive me, archbishop, if I find the prospect of losing my husband less than agreeable. He was three years in prison,” she lowered her eyes modestly, “and I have only just got him back.”

“I can but apologize, my love,” answered Rognvald, “and beg your pardon.” To the archbishop he said, “My wife is right. I pray you will excuse me, and release me from the duty I have so rashly proposed.”

The trusting cleric, distressed to see the perfect solution to his dilemma receding as swiftly as it had presented itself, raised his hands in a fatherly gesture of mediation. “Peace, dear friends. Let us not make any hasty decisions we will soon regret. I am certain there is nothing to prevent us proceeding along a harmonious and, dare I say, mutually beneficial path.”

To Cait he said, “My dear, I can well understand your reluctance in this regard. But once you learn the nature of the prize before us, you will understand. Moreover, you will embrace our purpose with a zeal you cannot now imagine.”

Cait regarded the cleric doubtfully. “Since you put it that way,” she allowed, none too certainly, “perhaps you had better tell me about this
prize
, whatever it might be.”

“Oh, my lady, it is not to be spoken of lightly,” said Bertrano, growing earnest. “For it is a wonder long concealed from the world, but pleasing God to reveal in our time to further the glorious conquest of his Blessed Son over the heathen infidel.”

He raised his cup and gulped down more wine, as if fortifying himself for what he was about to divulge. Delicately wiping his mouth on his sleeve once more, he leaned forward in an attitude of clandestine solemnity. Cait and Rognvald drew nearer, too.

“The Rose of Mystic Virtue,” he announced, savoring the words. Eyes shining with excitement, he looked from one to the other of his guests, and seeing the uncomprehending expressions, exclaimed, “Here! Does the name mean nothing to you?”

“Upon my word, it does not,” Cait confessed, beguiling in her innocence. “What does it betoken?”

“The holiest, most worshipful object that ever was known,” declared the archbishop. “It is nothing less than the very cup used by our Lord and Savior in the holy communion of the Last Supper.”

Yes!
Cait's heart quickened.
At last! Oh, and what a rare treasure indeed. Beyond price, to be sure. The treasure of the ages,
she thought, remembering the description on the parchment,
our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come.

It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud for the sheer joy of having discovered the secret.
Oh, yes!
she thought
, this is what I have been called to do. Like my father and grandfather before me, I am to seek a prize worth kingdoms!

Adopting a more solemn tone, she said, “But how do you know? I mean no disrespect, my lord archbishop, but it has been lost a very long time, as you have said. Forgive my asking, but how does anyone know it is the selfsame cup?”

“It is a fair question,” allowed Bertrano, “and one I did not hesitate to ask myself. But the good brother who brought this discovery to my attention is stalwart and trustworthy. I have known him for many years as a priest of unquestionable faith and character. Furthermore, he is most adamant about the provenance of the holy relic. In fact, it was his revelation that prompted my letter to the pope.

“You see, ever since the reconquest began, the Moors have been pushed slowly but steadily further and further
south and east. Many of the Moors who used to live on the plains and in the valleys have fled to the hills and mountains to escape the king's relentless pursuit. Thus, unless its loss can be prevented, it is only a matter of time before the most sacred and holy relic ever known falls into the hands of the infidel.”

“I understand,” replied Rognvald thoughtfully. “Then the pope must have passed the letter on to Master de Bracineaux.”

“Who else?” asked the archbishop. “No doubt the pope entrusted the task of recovering the holy relic to the Templars. It follows, since the commander would be charged with guarding this inestimable treasure once it has been returned to its proper position as the centerpiece of our faith. Indeed, that, to my mind, will be the most difficult part—protecting it from the Saracens, heathens, pagans, and Greeks who would undoubtedly try to steal it so as to mock our glorious salvation.”

“Do you know where it is?” Cait asked, unable to keep the tremble of excitement out of her voice.

“No.” Archbishop Bertrano shook his head. “And I do not wish to know. Owing to Brother Matthias' careful directions, however, it should be easy enough to find.”

“The directions—were they in the letter?” said Cait, thinking of the obscure text she had not been able to read.

Again, the archbishop shook his head; he reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “No,” he said, between gulps of wine, “I did not think it wise to trust information of such importance to a mere letter.” He lowered his cup, and smiled with sly satisfaction. “Instead, I told the pope where to find Brother Matthias; the good brother knows where the cup is to be found. And I wrote the directions in a secret language.”

Cait was about to ask the nature of this secret language, but Rognvald spoke first. “Very wise,” he agreed. “You seem to have thought of everything.” He poured himself more wine, and filled Caitríona's cup as well. “But now, everything has changed. If we are to help protect the Mystic Rose, then we will need to know where to find Brother Matthias.”

“In time, my impatient friend,” replied the churchman. “All in good time. First, you must find fearless and trustworthy men to help you. From the little Matthias has related, I believe the Sacred Cup resides in Aragon far away—in the mountains somewhere, if I am not mistaken—and there are a great many Saracens between here and there. You will need troops.”

Rognvald slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Ask and it shall be given,” he declared jubilantly. “As it happens, I have men with me—countrymen who were imprisoned with me in Damascus. They are sworn liegemen, tried and true; I trust them with my life.”

The archbishop raised his hands in benedictory praise. “Truly, you have been sent by God himself for this very purpose.” Turning to Cait, he said, “My lady, you can no longer have any objection to your noble husband pursuing this enterprise. It is blessed and ordained by the Lord God himself, and Heaven stands ready to pour out grace and honor and glory upon any who undertake this service.”

Rognvald regarded Cait with the look of a loving husband. “What say you, dear heart? Will you allow it?”

At the knight's use of the intimate term—the one her father had so often used in their talk together—her throat tightened and it was a moment before she could answer. “Yes,” she replied at last, gazing at Rognvald with genuine admiration, “I will allow it. How could I, a mere woman, stand against Heaven's decree?”

H
AVING TAKEN THEIR
leave of Archbishop Bertrano, Cait and Rognvald stood up from the table and walked through the dark and quiet streets of Compostela alone. Save for occasional roisterers, whose loud singing echoed from the walls and galleries round about, they had the city to themselves; respectable townsfolk were asleep in their beds.

“Lying to an archbishop, now,” Rognvald said, shaking his head in mock remorse, “that is a very low thing.”

“De Bracineaux dead in prison,” remarked Cait. “If I had my way he
would
be.” She regarded the tall knight with a new appreciation. “Wherever did you think of that? I confess, when I heard you say it, I thought you had taken leave of your senses.”

“I know we agreed that we should pretend the pope had commissioned us to look into the matter on his behalf, but that did not sit well with me. It raised more questions than it answered.”

“You might have warned me,” she said, her tone more irritable than she felt.

“In truth, I did not think of it until I said it.”

“Well, it all came right in the end,” she allowed. “What is more, it was a better tale by far. Indeed, you told it with such conviction, I began to believe it myself.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Rognvald, pleased to have earned her guarded praise.

“God willing,” she added, “we will be far away from here before anyone learns otherwise.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, listening to the roisterers and the crickets chirruping in the long grass beside the walls. Upon reaching the inn they found the doors barred and locked, but Rognvald's insistent rapping on the door eventually roused the disgruntled landlord who took his time letting them in. Caitríona, enraptured with their triumph and exhilarated by Bertrano's revelations, lay down on her bed and tried to compose her mind. It was no use. Her thoughts whirled with gleaming images of the wonderful treasure waiting for her, the Mystic Rose, Chalice of Christ—even the sound of the words on her lips made her feel quivery inside with an almost unbearable excitement. The most holy object in the world and she, herself alone, had been given the task of finding it, and protecting it.

Oh, but that was not all, far from it. For, once she had the sacred relic in her possession, she could use it to lure Renaud de Bracineaux to his richly deserved doom. Her thoughts teemed with ways to bring about his demise. Time and again she brought his fleshy, gray-bearded face before her mind's eye and imagined his astonished expression as the realization broke upon him that he had been bested by the daughter of the man he had so rashly, thoughtlessly, viciously murdered. Just how and where this fateful meeting would take place, she could not determine. But time and again she imagined the moment when cold, implacable justice would find its fulfillment.

Swiftly and without warning, the dagger clasped tight in her hand, she would strike. The narrow blade would enter his gut—just as his own knife had pierced her beloved father's side—and de Bracineaux's imposing bulk would crumple to the floor. As he lay dying, she would stand over him and watch the light of recognition come up in his eyes only to fade as his lifeblood spilled out in a slowly deepening crimson pool.

But perhaps this was not punishment enough. Perhaps she would force him to confess his crime and beg for his life. She could see him: stripped of his robes of office, humbled, on his knees, holding up his hands to her, beseeching, wail
ing, pleading for mercy—before she slit his throat like a hog at the slaughter.

She lay for a while, savoring the sweet, hot tang of revenge.
Lord,
she prayed,
the blood of a good man cries out to be avenged. You, whose judgment against the wicked is everlasting, make me the instrument of your vengeance.

And then, as the gray dawn's light began seeping in under her door, she decided to wake Rognvald. They could be on the road by sunrise, and back in Iria and under sail by evening. With favorable weather, they could be in Bilbao in a few days, and from there it was an easy ride to Vitoria, where the archbishop had told them they would find Brother Matthias.

“What if the Templars reach this Brother Matthias first?” asked Rognvald once they were on the road again.

“I cannot see how that is possible,” replied Caitríona smugly. “We have the letter, and we know where Matthias is to be found—de Bracineaux does not.”

“No? I wonder,” mused Rognvald. “He must have read the letter. If he read it, then he knows enough to find the monk to lead him to the treasure.”

“Bertrano said the directions were in a secret language,” protested Cait, her confidence beginning to erode.

“Secret to us, perhaps. But not to the pope and perhaps not to the Templars.” Rognvald was silent for a time, then said, “I think we must assume the Templars are searching for the treasure as diligently as we ourselves. They may even find it before we do.”

“They will
not
find it first,” declared Cait.

“Can you be so certain?”

Thanks to Rognvald, a dark cloud of doubt dogged the return to Iria, and Cait begrudged every moment spent on the trail. By the time they arrived back at the ship, she was anxious to set sail immediately. But those who had remained behind had first to be collected from the town; the knights were easy to locate—a search of the waterfront inns brought them from their cups—but Abu and Alethea were more difficult to find. By the time she spotted them, Cait's anxiety had long since boiled over into desperation.

She heard a laugh that brought her up short. It was
Alethea, no mistake, and Cait glanced quickly around to see her sister strolling across the town square with Abu Sharma at her side. They were talking, and Thea was laughing and swinging a cloth parcel. The mere sight of the two of them together, and Cait's anger flared to white heat. “What in Heaven's name are you doing?” she demanded, flying at the two young people.

Alethea, smiling, oblivious to her sister's rage, glanced at Abu and laughed again. “Oh, Cait, you have to hear this. Tell her, Abu. Tell her about the spitting monkey you saw in Damascus.”

The young man, more mindful of the elder sister's mood, wisely declined. “Another time, perhaps,” he said, the smile evaporating from his face.

“Oh, please, Abu,” insisted Alethea blithely. “Tell her. You will like it, Cait. It will make you laugh.”

She glared at her sister. “I do not want to hear it,” she replied, her voice flat with menace.

“What's wrong with you—sit on a bee?” quipped Alethea.

Cait turned on Abu. “Leave us! Get back to the ship.”

“At once, sharifah.” He ducked his head in a hurried bow and swiftly removed himself from the vicinity.

Taking her sister's arm, Cait marched the complaining Alethea to a deserted corner of the near-empty square. “Must you always humiliate us?”

“Me!” gasped Alethea. “What did I do? Anyway,
you
are the one always causing trouble all the time.”

“He is an
infidel
!” Cait hissed. “Can you understand that?”

“Who?” demanded the younger woman. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Abu!” spat Cait. “You cannot be seen going around with him like that. It is disgraceful. I forbid you to be seen with him.”

“
You
forbid
me
!” Thea charged, her voice going shrill with indignation. “You are not my mother and father.”

“No,” snapped Cait. “Father is dead and your mother is a world away. Like it or not, you answer to me. I will not have you behaving like a lowborn slut.”

“Abu is friendly,” countered Thea weakly; she was be
ginning to wither under the lash of her sister's fury. “I like him. He is kind to me, and he makes me laugh.”

“He is a Muhammedan!” Cait's voice was a stinging slap in her sister's face. “He is also a servant, and I will not have you consorting with him in public.”

“Who else have I to talk to?” Thea moaned, tears starting to her eyes. “You are always rushing about, and the knights only care about drinking and fighting.”

“They do not,” said Cait, “and anyway what they do is none of your concern.” She took Alethea's arm and squeezed hard. “Now you listen to me. You are a lady of a noble family, and you are to keep yourself chaste and above reproach. Abu is impertinent and brazen enough as it is without you encouraging him.”

“He is
not
a Muhammedan,” Alethea insisted, her lip beginning to tremble as the tears started. “He is a Druze—which is a kind of Christian. He told me.”

“He could be the Patriarch of Constantinople for all I care,” Cait snarled. “He is still a servant, and you are not to have anything more to do with him.” She glared hard at the sniffing, unhappy Alethea. “Do you understand?”

Her sister nodded and pushed the tears away with the heels of her hands.

“Very well,” said Cait, softening at last. “You have made a poor beginning, but that is no reason you cannot amend your manner and conduct. See that you do.”

They walked back to the waterfront and boarded the ship. Owing to the delay, it was well after midday when
Persephone
slid from her mooring and out into the river. With Ginés' help, however, they reached the headlands as the sun began its downward plunge to the sea. Rather than look for a place to berth for the night, Cait ordered Haemur to sail on, and they reached deep water as the sun dipped below the horizon.

“We dare not go further, my lady,” Haemur said. “It will be dark soon.”

“Ginés says there will be a full moon tonight,” Cait countered.

“That is as may be,” allowed the pilot. “But the waters
hereabouts are dangerous. We should drop anchor in the next cove and start as soon as it is light.”

Cait hesitated. The wind was fair and the weather mild, with a good moon they could be well up the coast by morning.

“Haemur is right,” said Rognvald, who had been listening to the exchange. “Full moon or no, it would be foolhardy to try the rocks at night. Pay the fisherman to stay on, and he can show us the fastest way to Bilbao.”

Much to Haemur's relief, Cait relented and gave orders to drop anchor for the night. With a promise of double payment, she induced Ginés to stay aboard and lead them to Bilbao, and at first light next morning he and Haemur began the long and tedious process of picking their way among the great rocks and tiny islands strung out along the Galician coast like so many shards of broken crockery.

Two days later, they rounded the protruding northwestern hump of the Iberian Peninsula and entered the great, sweeping expanse of the Bay of Vizcaya. Each day they watched the tiny fishing villages of the coast passing one by one in slow and stately procession, glistening white against the earthy greens and browns of the Cantabrian mountains rising behind them like a dull swath of wrinkled cloth.

The sea remained calm, allowing Haemur to sail by night. Once Cait awoke at midnight and, wanting some air, went up on deck to find Lord Rognvald at the helm taking a turn to rest the old pilot, who was asleep on a nearby bench. She watched the tall knight for a moment, before going back to her bed without a word.

Seven days after leaving Iria, they came in sight of the port. “There it is,” Ginés informed them. “That is Bilbao.”

Cait and Alethea looked where the old seaman was pointing; beyond the clusters of crude fishing huts scattered along the coast, they saw a dark smudge of smoke hanging above the low hills divided by the deep-channeled river.

“Not much of a city,” concluded Alethea, dismissing it with a disdainful sniff.

“Perhaps not,” allowed the Galician, “but it is the gate through which you must pass.”

A short time later, they sailed into the cup-shaped bay of
the Nervión river estuary and proceeded to work their way along the wide, slow-flowing channel to Bilbao. As at Iria, they hired horses for the ride to Vitoria. This time, Cait paid for enough mounts for all to go, save the four sailors who stayed behind to watch the ship. It cost a great deal for so many horses, but Alethea obviously needed watching, and she did not like the idea of leaving the knights behind to waste their days in the alehouses of Bilbao. And Abu's usefulness as a translator, along with whatever rudimentary skills as a physician he possessed, argued for his inclusion.

“I do not know how long we shall be away,” Cait told Haemur. “God willing, it will only be a few days or so. But it may be longer.”

“Take all the time you need,” the old pilot told her. “It matters not a whit to me. As I told your father, my lady, never fear: though the Lord return and sound the heavenly trumpet to call the faithful home to paradise, you will find old Haemur here and waiting still.”

“Thank you, Haemur,” Cait replied. “Even so, should we be gone longer than I expect, I am leaving enough money to keep the ship in harborage and for any provisions you will need. And,” she added, “you know where Duncan's sea chest is kept if ill befalls and you need more.”

“Worry not,” the old seaman replied. “In a lively harbor such as this, there are always nets to be mended and hulls to caulk. If our hands keep busy, we should not want for anything. There is just one small matter, however…”

“Yes?”

“Ginés was hoping to stay on with us awhile, if you have no objection.”

“I have no objection whatsoever. He has given us good service, and I am grateful.” She nodded to the Galician fisherman, who was standing quietly aside, looking on. “If he wishes to stay, so be it.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said the pilot with some relief. “In a place like this it helps to have a friend who can speak the tongue of his countrymen, if you know what I mean.”

“I understand. He can also help you keep the young men out of trouble.”