The Mystic Rose (22 page)

“I
FIRST LEARNED
of the Holy Cup four years ago,” Matthias said, rolling an olive between thumb and forefinger before popping it into his mouth. “This was in Old Alfonso's day, mind, when the king's peace still held—and I was traveling in the high hills to the east, beyond the Ebro valley, where there are many villages without churches. But in one of the places—a small settlement in the mountains reached by a single sheep trail which is all but impassable most of the year—I found that the people already knew Christ and his teachings.

“I asked how this had come about, and the head man of the village told me that they had preserved this knowledge from long before the Muslims came—”

“But that must be,” said Rognvald breaking in, “what? Three hundred? Four hundred years?”

The priest nodded; he broke off a bit of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “You know something of history, my friend. Yes, four hundred years—as you shall see. And for all those hundreds of years the people have remained faithful though surrounded by Muhammedans on every side—like a tiny rock of Christianity in a turbulent Muslim sea.”

“Extraordinary,” breathed Alethea, hanging on the handsome young priest's every word.

“Miraculous,” agreed the monk placidly. “I confess that, at first, I scarce thought it possible. So, during my sojourn with them, I took every opportunity to question the villagers about this—subtly, of course, for I did not care to make them
wary. Gradually, they began to trust me, and to tell me more. And the more I learned, the more extraordinary it became.

“In time, they came to realize my interest in them was genuine, so one night the village chief came to me and asked if I wanted to learn a secret which would answer all my questions. I told him I would welcome it—
if
he wished to show me. But if it would disturb any of his people in any way, I did not care to know it; for I valued their friendship far more than any secret they might possess.”

Alethea clucked her tongue with impatience at such irrelevant civility. “
I
would have made him show me at once.”

“And
that
,” replied Matthias with a wink, “is why you would still be waiting to discover the secret. You see, the hill people are not like others. I believe they are the remnant of a more ancient race. They are secretive by nature, but they can be very loyal and they have extremely long memories. They remember the slights and injuries of centuries as if they happened yesterday, and they never forget a kindness.

“So, my answer was just the right one, for the chief looked at me and said, ‘I would not show you if I had not already asked everyone. I asked them, and everyone has agreed—even Gydon, and he never agrees to anything!' Well, it was the middle of the night, and I thought he meant to show me in the morning, but he instructed me to tie up my shoes and put on my cloak and, taking neither lantern nor torch, we walked out into the darkness and up into the hills behind the village with nothing but the light of a pale quarter-moon to guide us.

“I saw neither trail nor path; like a blind man, I had to maintain a tight grip on the chief's shoulder to keep from stumbling with every step. We walked a fair distance, or so it seemed, and came at last to a hidden valley—nothing more than a crease between two steep bluffs—and high up on the side of one of the bluffs was the entrance to a cave.

“I could not see it—for all it was dark as the bottom of a well—but he assured me it was there, and by virtue of small steps cut in the bluff, he led me up to the cave. Though it was a tight squeeze through the rough doorway, once inside the chamber we could stand upright. My guide knew the
cave well, and by means of some materials left there, he soon lit an oil lamp so we might view what he had come to show me.”

“What was it?” asked Alethea, rapt, her eyes gleaming.

“A small altar had been cut in the rock at the back of the cave, and the entire wall whitewashed and painted with the sign of the cross so as to make a sort of shrine. This painting was of a delicate and intricate craft the like of which I had seen but once before—in an old, old text in the scriptorium of the monastery where I received my priesting. This text was one of the monastery's principal treasures: a gospel of John copied out by the hand of Saint Samson of Dol.

“It was a very beautiful ornament, and I imagined that this was what he had brought me to see—and it was wondrous enough! But no. The chief indicated that I should move nearer the altar, which I did; and on the altar was a curious object. At first I took it for a knife—it was long,” the monk held up his hand to indicate a dagger-length span, “and like a knife, it tapered along its narrow length. A closer look revealed that it was not a knife, however, for although it had a sharp point, it had no edge like an ordinary blade, and no handle.”

“What was it?” demanded Alethea, hugging her updrawn knees and rocking back and forth in anticipation.

Matthias, enjoying the suspense, gave her a smile. “That is what I asked him. The chief stretched forth his hand, and said, in a prayerful and reverent voice, ‘This is the spike which pierced Our Blessed Redeemer's feet as he hung on the cross for our salvation.' Just like that.”

At these words, Cait felt a tingle of excitement trickle up along her spine.
This is ordained
, she thought.
We are meant to be here. This is a sign.

“How did it come into their possession?” asked Rognvald.

“That is what I asked,” chuckled Matthias. “I said to him, ‘My friend, tell me, how did it come to be here?' Crossing his arms over his chest, the village chieftain bowed low before the altar and spoke out a prayer in a language I have
never heard before. And then, pointing to the spike he said, ‘Iago gave it to us.'”

“Iago?” echoed Cait. “You mean, Saint James—the same whose tomb is at Compostela?”

“The same,” replied Matthias, enjoying the wide-eyed wonder of his listeners. “The old Galicians called him Iago, and hold that after the infant church was driven from Jerusalem, Saint Iago fled by ship with a number of other followers of the Way. They landed in the north and wandered here and there, performing signs and wonders, and preaching the gospel of salvation through belief in the Risen Lord Christ.

“He lived among the Galician tribes for many years, and toward the end of his life decided to return to Jerusalem. His proselytizing landed him in trouble with the Jewish authorities, who had him arrested and taken before Herod Agrippa, who tried him and put him to death. So that his grave should not become a place of worship, Herod refused to allow him a proper burial.”

The priest paused to take a drink of wine before continuing. “When word of the sainted man's unfortunate end eventually reached the new-founded churches of Iberia, the people grew very distraught. They came together and chose a delegation of twelve strong and righteous men, led by a priest of undoubted holiness. The delegation was sent to Jerusalem to claim the body of their beloved Iago.

“Through many travails they persevered, and were at last granted permission to recover the corpse of the great saint, which they placed in a specially prepared casket and carried back to Galicia to be buried in the place where he and his followers first made landfall, and where his bones have been venerated ever since.”

“Was it really the true spike?” Alethea wanted to know. “It might have been any old scrap of iron.”

“There is no deceiving you,” declared the priest. “You put the Blessed Thomas to shame.” Leaning close, he said, “To tell you the truth, I had my doubts, too. I asked how it was that after such a long time they could be certain that it was the selfsame spike of the crucifixion—and do you know what the chief did?”

Alethea shook her head. The nearness of the priest made her stomach flutter, and she noticed how the sun had burnt the hair on his bare arms to a fluff of golden curls. “What did he do?” she asked, almost swallowing her voice.

“He told me to pick it up. He said, ‘Iago was a powerful prophet, and he foresaw the time when the Galicians would suffer under the Moors. He gave us this inestimable treasure so that we should never forget the teaching he left behind, for he knew the gospel he preached would help us endure and survive. And he told the truth.' Then the village chieftain stretched out his hand toward the relic and bade me to pick it up.”

“Did you?” asked Cait.

“Lady, I did. I stood before the altar and I reached down and plucked up the spike and held it in my hand. It was heavier than I imagined, and cold to the touch. ‘Now I know you are a holy man,' said my host, ‘or else you could not lift it.' I did not know what he meant; but before I could ask, he bade me make as if to steal it away.

“Still holding the spike in my hand, I turned away from the altar and started toward the doorway and, wonder of wonders, the spike began to grow warm. In the space of a single step, the cold iron grew so hot as to scorch my palm. I looked and the metal now glowed red as if fresh from the smith's fiery forge.”

“What did you do?” said Alethea.

“What
could
I do? I swiftly returned the sacred object to its place on the altar lest my hands be burned to unfeeling stumps. Lo and behold! No sooner had I replaced the relic than it resumed its former appearance. ‘Touch it,' said my host, and I did.” The monk stretched forth a tentative finger, recalling the gesture for his astonished audience. “What did I find? The ancient iron was cold once more.”

“A very miracle,” said Rognvald with satisfaction.

“You are a trusting soul,” replied the priest. “I would I were more like you in this regard. Unfortunately, ever since childhood I have suffered the affliction of a suspicious nature. I could not let the matter rest. I saw a stack of kindling wood lying on the floor next to the cave entrance; so I took
up a stout chunk of wood in each hand and returned to the altar—thinking to get the object between the two pieces and remove the iron spike that way without burning my hands.”

“Did it work?” asked Alethea, slightly breathless with awe.

“Sister, it was even more wonderful than before. For no matter how hard I tried, I could not move that spike. Though I applied all my strength, the holy relic would not be diverted by so much as a whisker's breadth. The wood splintered, and my fingers grew raw, but I could not move it.

“The village chief watched me with great amusement. He laughed at my efforts, and then calmly walked to the altar where I was struggling and, bowing before it, took up the spike and placed it once more in my hand as if it were no more than a feather. ‘Were you less holy than you are,' he told me, ‘you would not be able to lift it, for to the man of evil intent, it contains the weight of the world.' I replaced the holy relic then, and knelt down before the altar and thanked the Heavenly Father for allowing me to witness this great and powerful sign.

“When I finished my prayers, we departed the cave, and returned to the village, reaching the settlement just as dawn rose over the eastern hills. I thanked the chieftain for showing me the marvelous relic, and vowed I would treasure it always, and tell anyone who cared to listen so that faith might increase. As I said this, a great smile spread over the chieftain's face, and he said, ‘Do you see that sunrise? Our poor relic is as the darkness of the valley through which you walked compared to the shining glory of the gra'al.'”

The three rapt listeners repeated the strange word.

“Like you, I had never heard of this gra'al, and did not know what it might be,” the priest told them. “I asked what was betokened by this word. My guide made the sign of the cross and said, ‘It is the Lord's Cup—the Cup of the Communion of Saints, which was blessed by the Christ at the table of the Last Supper.'”

“The Mystic Rose,” whispered Cait.

Brother Matthias nodded. “I thought he meant that the village possessed another secret in the form of this relic, and so
I asked if he could show me. But he merely smiled, and said that it was not his to show, for long ago the cup was removed by the will of God, and taken to a refuge where it could be guarded lest the Moors learn of it and seek to steal or destroy it. My excitement made me rash, and in my unthinking haste, I asked him to show me where the Blessed Cup had been taken. I asked him to lead me there at once. My guide recoiled from my unseemly alacrity. It seemed then that he feared he had revealed too much. He quickly bade me farewell, and would say no more.”

“Agh!” cried Alethea in protest. “You should have made him tell you!”

“In the end, I did learn the rest of the tale. A few days later, he came to me after dark. I was at my prayers, and he came into the room where I was staying and said that he could not rest knowing that he had betrayed the Sacred Cup. ‘How betrayed?' I asked. ‘I am a priest of the church. All things touching the holy are safe in my hands.'

“Even so, I failed to convince him, and so I suggested that the best way out of his dilemma was for me to learn the rest of the tale from someone else. ‘That way,' I told him, ‘the burden is lifted from your shoulders because you were not the one to tell me.'

“Well, he saw it as his redemption in the matter, and told me that if he was a man wanting to learn secrets of this nature, he knew a place deep in the high Pyrénées where all such questions could be answered. The way he said it gave me to know that this secret place in the mountains was where the cup now sheltered, so I agreed, and he instructed me on how to find this place. I listened with utmost care to all he said, and when he left, I quickly prepared a pen and wrote down all he had told me. I wrote the directions in the margin of the gospel text I always carry with me so that I would not forget them, and a few days later I concluded my work and set off to find the Sanctuary of the Cup.”