The Mystic Rose (19 page)

D
ESPITE THE EXTRAVAGANT
protestations of the hostler, who received the rumor of bandits with, Cait thought, exaggerated emotion, he nevertheless seemed happy enough to permit the company to purchase his animals. “Seven horses and five pack mules,” he said, tapping the side of his nose thoughtfully. “I could let you have them for…” His eyes narrowed as he calculated the figure. “Five gold marks each for the horses, and one for each mule—forty gold marks in all!” he proclaimed triumphantly.

“A moment,” said Cait, and summoned Abu, who seemed to know the trade value of everything. “He says forty gold marks—what do you think?”

“Not a bad price,” granted Abu, “but not a good one.”

“The horses are in good condition,” Rognvald said, stepping near, “but one is blind in one eye, and two of them will need shoeing soon. I cannot say about the mules.”

“They are fair,” said Abu, “for mules. Offer him thirty.”

“Do you have that much left?” asked Rognvald.

She nodded and turned back to the hostler. “Master Miguel,” said Cait reasonably, “you have us at your mercy. We need the animals in order to continue, and there is no one else who can sell to us.” She removed the coin bag from beneath her girdle and untied it. “Therefore, I will give you thirty gold coins.”

“My lady,” replied Miguel with his toothless grin and shaking his head, “if it was my decision alone, I would do it.
But I have a wife and children to feed, and without my animals I cannot earn my crust. Forty gold marks, please.”

“Since you put it that way, I will give you what you ask,” she said, but before he could reply, she raised an admonitory finger. “But I make one condition.”

“Yes?” The eagerness faded from the hostler's face.

“As you know, we will be returning to Bilbao where the ship is waiting. Therefore, once our business is completed and we have no further use for the horses, we will sell them back to you for, say…” she glanced at Abu who showed three fingers, “thirty gold marks. Agreed?”

“Twenty-five gold marks,” countered Miguel.

“Done.” Cait counted the gold coins into the hostler's hands, and bade him farewell. By way of thanks, Master Miguel accompanied them a fair distance from the town to see them well on their way to Palencia before turning back to make his way home.

The ride through the long, lush Nervión valley proved peaceful and wholly agreeable. Never did they see any sign of the fearful bandits; the countryside appeared quiet and serene as the last of the fierce summer's heat dissipated, leaving behind a beautiful, mellow autumn which settled over the countryside like a warm, comfortable cloak. Apart from a few sudden showers which sent the party galloping for the shelter of overhanging chestnut boughs, the days remained bright and clear. Occasionally, they awoke to a crisp nip to the morning air which Cait found both refreshing and exhilarating, but for the most part the days remained warm from early morning to well after dark.

Every now and then, Cait would look up from her solitary meditations to discover a silent partner beside her: sometimes Abu, or one of the knights, but more often Lord Rognvald. He seemed content merely to ride with her, never speaking until she invited his conversation, which she usually did, and in this way Cait began to discover the depths of the man she had redeemed from a slow death in a Muhammedan prison.

“What is it like where you were born?” she asked him one day. The morning air was cool, and the sun warm on her
face; the leaves on the birch and ash trees were just beginning to turn and she felt like talking.

Rognvald cocked his head to one side and looked at her with a quizzical expression. “My home?” he said after a moment. “Or the place where I was born?”

“Most people are born at home,” she said. “Were you not?”

“My home is in Haukeland, near Bjørgvin in the south, but I was born at Kaupangr, where Olav the Holy is buried. It is a most sacred place and a great many people make pilgrimages there. My mother was a very devout lady.”

“Your mother was on pilgrimage at the time of your birth,” Cait assumed, curiously delighted by the notion.

“In truth…” replied Rognvald, shaking his head, “no.” He smiled, and Cait caught the cheerful gleam of his eyes, blue as the cloud-scoured Spanish skies above, as he said, “You see, the king also had hunting lodges there, and he would invite noblemen to come hunting with him. It came about that my father was summoned to attend one of the king's great winter hunts.

“Well, one of the old vassals—a wise woman with uncanny powers—had foretold bad luck for a winter birth, and that doubled for a child without a father. My mother took this to heart, so naturally my father was loath to leave her alone.”

“Naturally,” echoed Cait, staunch in her conviction that childbirth ought to take precedence over trivialities like hunting.

“Yet even so, the hunt was to take place during the Yuletide celebrations, and fortunate indeed were those allowed to observe the Christ Mass with the king—a rare and singular honor, and one not to be spurned, for otherwise it would certainly never come again. So, my father did what anyone in his position would do.”

“Heaven forbid it!” said Cait.

“He took their bed from the house and lashed it to the deck of his ship and covered it with a tent. Then he wrapped my mother warm in his huge bearskin cloak, tucked her safely in bed, and sailed off to Kaupangr to visit the king.”

Cait laughed out loud, her voice falling rich and warm on
the leaf-covered trail. Rognvald thrilled to hear it, and several of the others riding along behind raised their heads and smiled. “So, you were born at the king's hunting lodge,” she guessed.

Again, the knight shook his head. “My mother would not endure the noise—all the shouting and singing, you know. When men hunt they get thirsty, and King Magnus was never one to stint on anything. His öl was sweet and dark and good, and served in foaming vats that never were allowed to run dry. The noblemen and warriors feasted and reveled every night with the same zeal as they pursued the harts and hinds by day. This made the lodge a very clamorous place.”

“King Magnus, you say.”

“King Magnus was a cousin of my father,” he said. “In the same way, King Eystein is now my cousin.”

“Is now?” wondered Cait. “Was he not always your cousin?”

“No,” explained Rognvald, “he was not always the king.”

Cait laughed again, and they rode on, happy in one another's company. The knight related how his mother, having refused the king's boisterous hospitality, was lodged instead at the nearby convent. “And that was where I was born,” he told her, “two days after the Christ Mass. I am told the queen herself attended my birth and presented me to my mother. So, perhaps my birth was not so unlucky after all.”

“Indeed, not,” murmured Cait. She grew silent, thinking about the strangeness of life and its many unexpected turns.

After a time, Rognvald turned in the saddle and asked, “Something I have said has made you thoughtful, I see.”

“I was just thinking that if not for King Magnus, you and I would not be riding together at this very moment.”

“Then he is a far greater king than I imagined. I must remember to lay a gift at his shrine and thank him for his fortuitous assistance.” He looked sideways at her and asked, “But how do you reckon we owe our meeting to Magnus?”

“It was Magnus who befriended my grandfather,” she told him, and went on to recount how it was that Murdo had
come to follow his father and brothers on the Great Pilgrimage, traveling on a ship in the hire of the king. “We lost our lands in Orkney,” she told him, “but the king was just. He gave us Caithness instead.”

“That was very good of him,” replied Rognvald approvingly. “He must have liked your grandfather very much.”

“Well,” Cait allowed, “it was mostly the king's fault we lost the land in the first place. It was the least he could do.”

“No,” laughed Rognvald suddenly, “it was never that. You must not know many kings.” He regarded her, trim and comely in the saddle; her cloak falling low on her shoulders—for all it was a warm day—and her dark hair neat beneath her silver combs. “Do you like Caithness? Or would you rather have Orkney?”

“My grandfather might feel differently, I cannot say. But Caithness is home to me; I have never known any other.”

“My family owns an estate on one of the Orkneyjar islands,” the knight confided. “They tell me I visited there once with my family, but I cannot even remember which island it was.”

They talked amiably, passing the time as they rode along, each enjoying the easy companionship of the other—until Alethea grew bored riding by herself and decided to join them, whereupon the pleasant mutual feeling gradually shriveled under Alethea's irritating whining about the heat, the dullness of the countryside, the sun in her eyes, how thirsty she was, how rough the saddle, and how disagreeable her mount.

“I cannot see why we have to ride anyway,” she complained. “You should have bought a carriage instead, and then we could travel like queens.”

“If only everything was that easy.”

 

Three days after entering the Valle de Mena, they came to the walled trading town of Burgos, paused briefly to replenish their provisions, and then set off again before anyone made bold to stop them. Four days after that, they arrived at Palencia.

The town had faded somewhat from its glory under the
Roman legion of Lucus Augusti. The crumbling garrison still stood; having served several generations of Muhammedan rulers as a stable and armory, it was now a monastery in sore need of a new roof. The old Roman walls remained in good repair, however, and protected the town and its inhabitants from the Moorish raiders infesting the hills, preying on the foolish and unwary.

Owing to the king's ban on travel, the local farmers and merchants were effectively cut off from their trading partners to the west. Consequently, they seized on the newcomers' arrival with an interest that far exceeded the significance of their visit. As Cait and her entourage dismounted in the town square, one of the onlookers ran to inform the magistrate that important visitors had arrived. The magistrate and his young assistant came on the run to offer an official welcome.

The town's governor was a smooth-shaven man with a frizzled fringe of dark hair which he tried to keep under a red cap shaped like a deeply notched bowl. Pushing the eager townsfolk aside, he cleared a place for himself in the crowd and then addressed the visitors. “Most noble lady,” he began, bestowing on Cait the sort of bow usually reserved for royalty, “friends, travelers, allow me to introduce myself. I am Carlo de la Coruña, magistrate and governor of this fine and prosperous town.” His deputy smiled and bowed, too, in anticipation of being introduced to the handsome noblewomen and their broad-shouldered, fearsome entourage, but his superior plowed ahead without so much as a wink in his direction.

“On behalf of the worthy citizens of Palencia,” the magistrate announced, “I welcome you and your excellent company. Furthermore, I invite you all to be our special guests at a feast to be held in your honor tonight. Please, rest and take your ease while you are here. Be assured we will do all we can to assist you in every possible way for as long as you care to remain with us.”

Cait thanked him kindly, and said that she and her traveling companions would be delighted to attend the feast, and asked whether there might be a convenient moment for her
self and the magistrate to discuss matters privately. “As it happens, a few small concerns have arisen. I would be grateful for your counsel, Magistrate Coruña. I am certain they will pose no difficulty for a man of your obvious wisdom and authority.”

The magistrate's cheeks took on a rosy glow under Cait's well-aimed flattery. He ducked his head in hasty assent, and said, “With pleasure, my lady. If you would deign to join me in the courtyard of my house during
sixta
, we might discuss your concerns over a cooling drink.”

Cait smiled, but hesitated. Spending the rest of the day with the obliging bumpkin of a magistrate might have its uses, but foremost among her concerns was locating the priest called Brother Matthias. Lord Rognvald saw her hesitation, however, and, leaning close, confided, “Go and see if you can charm him into getting us a wagon and some tents.”

“The priest—”

“I will find him.”

Cait smiled at the eager official. “My sister and I would be honored, magistrate.”

“Your men, however, may wish to observe the—ah…usual formalities at our most excellent inn,” suggested the magistrate delicately.

“I am certain they would like nothing better.” Turning to Rognvald, she instructed him to take his men to the inn and see that the formalities were, in fact, observed. “Take Abu with you, and make certain everyone is washed and prepared for this evening's festivities.” As the knight inclined his head in assent, Cait added in a whisper: “Find Matthias. Tell him we wish to speak to him tomorrow. I will see what I can do about the wagon and tents.”

Turning to the magistrate, Cait smoothly linked his arm in hers and allowed him to escort her across the square—much to the satisfaction of the townspeople, pleased to see their governor esteemed by such distinguished and obviously important visitors. Upon reaching the archway which marked the entrance to the square, Carlo turned to his assistant. “Grieco! What are you doing?”

The young man looked blankly at his superior. “We are having drinks, Uncle Carlo, are we not?”

“No, no, no! Not you! You must run to Master Pedrino at the bakery and tell him we will need twenty chickens roasted for tonight's feast.”

“Yes, uncle,” replied the youth, visibly disheartened. “Twenty chickens—is that all?”