The Mystic Rose (20 page)

“For heaven's sake! Must I do everything myself? It is to be a feast, Grieco. Tell him we want three sheep as well.” He paused, considering the quantity of meat to be provided. “Yes, and a pig—a big one, not a skinny runt like last time. Oh yes, and five dozen loaves. No, six dozen, tell him.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Why are you waiting? Go! Hurry! There is everything to get ready.” The young man made to dash away. “Wait!” cried his uncle. “Go to Tomas at the inn and tell him we want wine for sixty guests. He is to bring it to the banqueting hall. And olives, too. Everything!” He fluttered his hands at the havering youth. “Be off with you now! Hurry!”

The gangly Grieco flapped away down a side street, leaving Cait and Alethea and Carlo to proceed at a more leisurely pace to the magistrate's house where they were received with all cordiality by Carlo's sister, Manuela, who acted as housekeeper, cook, and companion to the busy official. The ladies were conducted directly to places on a low bench under the leafy boughs of a lime tree in the corner of a terracotta tiled courtyard. While Manuela saw to the refreshments, Carlo, drawing up a greenwood chair, settled himself in the pleasant company of his captivating guests.

“Now then,” he said expansively, “about these tiresome concerns—please, tell me everything that troubles you.” Cait smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but her host held up his hand, and said, “Remember, it is the Magistrate of Palencia you are speaking to—by authority of the Castilian Crown. Therefore, tell me everything, and we will see what can be done.”

He waved his hand imperiously, settled back in his chair, and closed his eyes. “Please to begin.”

“M
Y DEAR ARCHBISHOP,”
said Commander de Bracineaux smoothly, “I am very pleased to meet you at last.”

“And I am astonished to meet you at all,” answered Bertrano, eyeing the Templar narrowly. “You are supposed to be dead.”

De Bracineaux laughed. “Then I think you will find me a most corporeal ghost.” As if to demonstrate his material presence, he reached out and took the churchman by the arm and squeezed it. “I assure you, my lord cleric, I have a good deal of life left in me yet.”

Archbishop Bertrano, seated in his throne-like chair outside his hut, regarded the hand on his arm; his flesh seemed to squirm under de Bracineaux's hand—as if he had been touched by something from beyond the grave. “Indeed, sir,” replied the archbishop, pulling his arm away. “But how am I to know you are who you claim to be?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” sighed de Bracineaux as if the question had plagued him down the years. “What proof will you accept?”

“It is not up to me,” grumbled the archbishop.

“Perhaps you would not mind telling me how you came by word of my demise,” suggested the Templar commander.

“But I
do
mind, sir,” snapped Bertrano. “I do not see that I owe you any explanations. It is for you to prove yourself, or get you hence.”

“A moment longer, if you please,” said de Bracineaux. “I do
not know how this confusion has come about, but I can guess: there was a woman—not pretty, but young still, with dark hair. She had a letter—
your
letter—the one you wrote to the pope asking for help to save a treasure called the Mystic Rose. This woman told you I was dead.” Regarding the churchman closely, he said, “I believe I am close to the mark.”

Archbishop Bertrano fingered the wooden cross at his belt, but said nothing.

Turning to d'Anjou, the commander said, “You see, baron? It is as we feared—the thief has already been here before us. We are too late. The damage is done.”

“Be of good cheer, my lord,” answered d'Anjou with practiced, if slightly oily, sympathy. “All is not lost.” He turned sad, imploring eyes to the archbishop. “With God's help we may yet be able to recover the holy relic.”

“You are right to remind me,” replied de Bracineaux glumly. “We wait upon God's good pleasure—and upon this prince of the church.” Turning once again to the archbishop, he said, “It rests with you, noble cleric. We are in your hands.”

Bertrano frowned and pulled on his beard. He gazed long at the two men before him and made up his mind. “Then I will not keep you waiting, my lords. I tell you now I want nothing more to do with you.”

“I protest—” began Baron d'Anjou.

The archbishop cut him off. “Hear me out. You come galloping into my city with your horses and men, covered with dust and stinking of the trail. You come making demands and shouting orders at everyone, raising an unholy turmoil in the streets. You command audience and bully my monks until I abandon my work to see you.” He glared at his two unwelcome visitors.

“Well, I have seen you,” concluded the archbishop brusquely. “And I do not mind telling you that I do not like what I have seen.” He rose from his chair and stepped from the table. “Now, sirs, I will thank you to excuse me. I have a church to build.”

D'Anjou made to object once more, but de Bracineaux waved him off. “I see we have provoked you, my lord arch
bishop,” he said. “Pray forgive us. If we have acted in haste and without sufficient forethought, it was because we have been long on the trail with but a single thought burning in our hearts—to recover the holy relic for the good of the church.”

The archbishop's scowl turned to anger. “So say you,” he answered. “But I do not know you. The Renaud de Bracineaux I knew perished in a Saracen prison!” He stepped toward the door of his hut. “I bid you good day, gentlemen, and Godspeed.” With that he stepped through the door, slammed it behind him, and was gone.

“How extraordinary,” remarked d'Anjou quietly. “I do believe the man is insane.”

“Perhaps,” agreed de Bracineaux. “But there is more to this matter than we know. We must consider carefully what has happened before we decide how to act.” He rose stiffly from his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. “I am tired, d'Anjou, and in dire need of a drink.”

“Come, de Bracineaux,” replied the baron rising at once. “I sent Gislebert to secure rooms for us at the inn across the square. Follow me, and we shall have wine and meat before you know it.”

The inn was as much stable as hostel, with rancid straw on the floor and a grubby, ill-kept fire on the hearth. It was crowded with rough-handed laborers from the nearby cathedral who sat in dull exhaustion with pots of warm ale between their thick paws, drinking quietly to ease the throbbing in their joints. Several knights from the town had heard about the Templars' arrival and had come to see for themselves what manner of men they were. They were talking loudly and drinking wine as they took the measure of the much-vaunted Grand Commander of Jerusalem.

“This is a noisy place,” grumbled de Bracineaux into his cup, swallowing down the wine in gulps. “And it stinks. Trust Gislebert to find the worst.”

“I have seen better, certainly.” D'Anjou gazed around the room with mild disgust. “We could try somewhere else,” he suggested. “Or would you rather stay at the monastery with the men?”

“Good Lord, no. I have had a bellyful of simpering,
damp-eyed monkery.” He drank again and set the cup down heavily. “We will stay here the night and if all goes well tomorrow we will not be forced to endure another night in this pesthole of a town.”

Baron d'Anjou refilled the cups. “Have some more, de Bracineaux, and tell me how you plan to persuade this disagreeable priest of your sincerity.”

The commander pushed aside the cup. “No more of this vile stuff. See if the innkeeper has anything better.”

D'Anjou rose and made his way to the board behind which the innkeeper and his haggard wife dispensed food and drink to their guests. He returned to the table with a small brown jar and two small wooden cups. He pulled the stopper and poured out a pale golden liquid, then passed one of the cups to the commander, who sampled it, then tipped his head back and swallowed the sweet, fiery liquor down in a gulp.

“That is more to my liking,” de Bracineaux said. “What is it?”

“He called it dragon's milk—if I understood him correctly. The rude fellow's Latin is atrocious.” D'Anjou took a delicate sip. “Not bad, whatever it is.” He refilled his companion's cup. “It seems our friend the archbishop believes you to be someone else.”

“What else should he believe? The man thinks me dead.”

“You think it was the woman?”

“Of course, who else? She spun a tale for him and he believed her, the old fool. And you are a fool, too, baron; I should never have listened to you.” The commander tossed down another bolt of the liquor. “Now we must find a way to convince him of his folly.”

“I wonder what else she told him—and, perhaps more to the point, what he has told her?”

De Bracineaux shrugged. “Once we gain the archbishop's confidence, all our questions will be answered.” Placing his hands flat on the table, the commander shoved back his stool and rose. “I am going to bed.”

He turned to make his way toward the door at the back of the room leading to the three sleeping rooms—one a com
mon room with six grubby pallets of wood shavings and straw, and two small private chambers with slightly better furnishings. As he moved through the room, one of the Spanish knights called to him.

“They say the Templars are God's own soldiers,” the young knight said loudly. “Have you come to enrol the brave Spanish in your holy army?”

De Bracineaux glanced around and saw four large young men sitting at a table, watching him with scowling faces. He saw the ruddy blush of wine on their smooth cheeks and knew they were half in their cups, so decided to ignore them and moved on.

“My lord Templar!” shouted the knight. There came a crash as his stool toppled over behind him. “I asked you a polite question. Perhaps you would have the decency to answer.”

The inn grew hushed as de Bracineaux turned. “Are you speaking to me, pigherd?”

The knight stepped around the table and into the Templar's path. “I am Alejandro Lorca, sir. You will address me with the respect that is due a nobleman.”

“Out of my way.” De Bracineaux put a hand to the young man's chest and pushed him aside. He fell sprawling on his backside, but sprang to his feet with surprising agility. He came up fast, knife in hand.

The Templar commander backed away a step.

The youth grinned stupidly. “Ah, now we shall see the famed courage of the Knights of the Temple.”

He lunged forward, the blade sweeping the air before him. De Bracineaux dodged to the side, took the young man's arm, spun him around and shoved him hard into d'Anjou, who stepped forward at that moment. The two collided, and the youth went down clutching his side and gasping.

D'Anjou peered blandly down at him.

The young knight pulled his hand away and gaped at it in disbelief; his fingers were covered with the blood which was rapidly spreading from the gash in his side.

“Impudent pup,” intoned the baron coolly. “I ought to slit
your throat.” He bent down and the young man flinched. D'Anjou smiled wickedly and with a flick of his hand wiped the blade of the short dagger on the wounded knight's tunic. “Perhaps next time,” he said, then stepped over his victim and continued toward the door, the incident already forgotten.

De Bracineaux regarded the young knight with loathing. “You want to be more careful, pigherd. You could get hurt.”

The two men disappeared into the room at the back of the inn. The knight's friends and the rest of the patrons rushed to the young man's aid as soon as the door was closed. Lifting him upon their shoulders, they hurried from the inn to the physician's house in the next street to have his wound stanched and bound before he bled to death.

The next morning the innkeeper greeted his two prickly guests with extreme deference, bowing and bowing until d'Anjou asked if the man's bowels were loose.

“No, my lord,” replied the innkeeper, mystified by the question.

“Then kindly stop bobbing around like a goose with distemper and bring us some bread and a bowl of sweet wine.” The man bowed again and darted away. “Mind the bread is fresh.” D'Anjou called after him. “Not that worm-gnawed crust you gave us last night.”

De Bracineaux walked to the entrance, pushed the door open and gazed out across the bare earth street. Beyond the low roofs of the surrounding dwellings, the timber scaffolding of the cathedral soared heavenward. “I think,” he mused, “we shall pay another visit to our quarrelsome archbishop this morning, and see if we can persuade him to see things in a different light.”

“How, pray, do you propose to do that?”

“While you slept, I have been thinking. On the evidence of the disturbance here last night, it occurs to me that the people of Santiago do not fully respect the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple. A lesson in courtesy would not go amiss, I think.”

“I am intrigued,” said d'Anjou with a yawn. “Tell me more.”

“You must learn to rein in your enthusiasm,” replied de
Bracineaux, glancing back over his shoulder. “It will do you harm one day.”

The innkeeper reappeared a moment later bearing an armful of fresh loaves and two jars of sweet wine, which he poured into his best cups. “There is honey for the bread, my lords, if you please,” he said with a bow.

“Bring it,” said the baron.

They broke fast on bread and honey and sweet wine while the innkeeper watched them twitchily until they rose to go. “Was everything to your liking, my lords?” he asked anxiously.

“You keep a foul rats' nest of an inn,” d'Anjou told him. “It would be a boon to travelers everywhere if I burned it to the ground.”

The innkeeper drew back in horror at the suggestion.

“Pay him,” said the commander, moving to the door.

Baron d'Anjou reached into the purse at his belt, withdrew two coins and offered them to the innkeeper. As the anxious man reached for the coins, the baron tilted his palm and spilled them into the dirty straw at his feet, then turned and followed de Bracineaux into the gray autumnal mist.

They proceeded to the monastery where, following prayers, the gates were just being opened for the day. The Grand Commander strode into the cloistered square and called in a loud voice for his men to come forth. They appeared from various doorways—some from the chapel, some from the refectory, some from the dormitory. Marshalling his troops, de Bracineaux ordered them to saddle their horses and arm themselves for battle. This they did without question, although there was no indication of alarm; the town seemed peaceful and quiet.

Within moments this placid repose vanished in the clattering tumult of troops rushing to saddle horses and don armor. They assembled in the street outside the monastery gates and many of the townspeople, hearing the commotion, came out to watch the strange soldiers array themselves for war.

As soon as they were armed and mounted, Master de Bracineaux, with Sergeant Gislebert on one side and Baron
d'Anjou on the other, took his place at the head of his company—four ranks of five Knights Templar, each wearing the long coat of fine chain mail and, over it, the distinctive white surcoat with the cross of red upon the chest; armed with lance and sword, and carrying the long-tailed oval shield—painted white and bearing the red cross—they rode out, passing slowly along the streets of Santiago de Compostela and proceeding toward the town's great square and the building site of the new cathedral. As the mounted troops moved slowly on, they gathered a crowd of curious townspeople along the way so that by the time they reached the unfinished square the onlookers outnumbered knights by more than ten to one.