The Mystic Rose (28 page)

“What is that?” growled de Bracineaux, eyeing the fourth bowl balefully.

The landlord hesitated. The ladle wavered uncertainly above the table. “Stew, my lord,” he replied, timidly. “For the archbishop.”

“You were told he was to have nothing but boiled cabbage and water,” the Templar said darkly.

“Of course, my lord, but…” he swallowed, glancing anxiously from one to the other, “that is, I thought you were in jest.”

“I do not expect you to think,” the commander replied menacingly, “I expect you to obey. Pour it back, and get him the cabbage as you were told.”

The innkeeper appealed silently to d'Anjou, who softened. “As this is his grace's last night with us,” suggested the baron, “why not let him have the stew? Let him join us. He can tell us what he knows about this priest Matthias.”

“We have asked him already,” de Bracineaux said. “He has told us all he knows—which is little enough.”

“Get some wine into him, and he may surprise you and sing like a lark,” said d'Anjou. “It is the last chance to find out.”

“Very well,” said the commander. To Gislebert, he said, “Fetch the disagreeable priest and tell him he can join us if he minds his manners.”

The sergeant stuffed a last piece of bread into his mouth,
then rose and lumbered off; de Bracineaux regarded his companion with dull petulance. “You
are
an old woman, d'Anjou. Do you know that? You should have been a priest.”

The baron sipped his wine. “I lack the mental rigor,” he replied placidly. “I am too easily led astray by frivolity and caprice.”

The commander stared at him, then laughed, the sound like a short, sharp bark. “God's wounds, d'Anjou.” He lifted his cup and drank again, then pulled his bowl before him and started to spoon hot stew into his mouth.

In a moment, Gislebert appeared with the churchman in tow. “Sit down, Bertrano,” said de Bracineaux, kicking a chair toward him. “The baron here thinks you should join us for a farewell feast. What do you say to that?”

“I say,” he replied, “a shred of common decency still clings to the baron. Perhaps he may be redeemed after all.”

“I would not be too certain about that.” The commander pushed a bowl of stew across the table. “I want you to tell me about the priest—this Brother Matthias.”

“I have already told you all I know,” said Bertrano. He bent his head, murmured a prayer, crossed himself, and began to eat.

De Bracineaux reached out and pulled the bowl away again. “First the priest, and then the food.”

The archbishop looked up wearily. “I can tell you nothing I have not already said before. The man was unknown to me before I received his letter. He roams about, building churches and preaching to the poor. That is all I know.”

“It will be a pleasure to see the back of your disagreeable carcass,” said the commander, shoving the bowl of stew toward him once more.

“You are too harsh, de Bracineaux,” said the baron affably. “Our friend the archbishop is a very font of wisdom and good will. The road will be a far more lonely and cheerless place when he is gone. We shall miss his merry japes.”

“Thanks to you, the building work will have fallen be
hind. Winter is upon us, and if the roof is not in place much of the work will be ruined.”

“Has no one ever told you that it is folly to store up treasures on earth where moth and rust do corrupt?” wondered de Bracineaux, bringing a snort of derisive laughter from Gislebert.

“And is it not written: ‘Because it was in your heart to build a temple for My Name, says the Lord, you did well to have this in your heart…' and, ‘The temple I am going to build will be great, because Our God is greater than all other gods'?”

“And: ‘Who,'” retorted the Templar commander, “‘is able to build the temple of God? For heaven is his throne, and the earth his footstool.'” He raised his cup in mock triumph.

“Even Satan can quote scripture,” replied the archbishop sourly.

De Bracineaux bristled at the jibe. “Away with you,” he growled. “Your self-righteous prattling wearies me.”

The archbishop finished his stew, raising the bowl to his lips and draining it in a gulp. Then he stood. “How is it that a man can see the mote in his brother's eye, yet miss the beam in his own?” With that, he wished them a good night and went back to his room.

“Remind me to give him that lame horse when he leaves tomorrow.”

“Better still,” said Baron d'Anjou, “why not give him an ass so he has someone of like mind for company?”

“Well said,” laughed Sergeant Gislebert. “A man after my own heart.”

“You are only half the wit you think you are, d'Anjou,” de Bracineaux grumbled, shaking his head.

“Be of good cheer, commander,” the baron replied. “Eat, drink, and rejoice—for tomorrow the search for the Mysterious Rose begins in earnest. With any luck, you will have it tucked safely away before the season is through. We can be in Anjou before the snow flies, and winter at my estate—what do you say to that?”

“I say,” replied the commander, “we do not yet have the
relic. I will not revel and make merry until I hold it in my hands.”

“Then let us drink to the quest,” said the Baron, raising his cup. “May our joy be swiftly consummated.”

T
HEIR SUPPER WAS
peas porridge and black bread again—and for the next three nights—as each day's search took the party further into the wild, desolate mountains. The weather grew steadily worse, each day colder than the last, the clouds lower, darker, filled with mist and rain. Wind blew down from the barren heights, buffeting them by day, and invading their sleep by night.

One cheerless day they found one of Abu's markers in a broad, grassy glen. Nearby lay the remains of a campfire; there were tufts of wool on the bushes and brambles, and sheep droppings on the ground. “Probably a shepherd taking his flocks down to the lower valleys for the winter,” observed Paulo, raising his eyes to the mountain peaks which now loomed over them. “God willing, we will soon be going home, too.”

The next day they rode out in the direction indicated by the marker and promptly lost the trail. By nightfall they had not found it again. “It is gone,” Paulo concluded dismally.

“We must have missed a marker,” suggested Yngvar.

“Perhaps,” allowed Paulo. “But I do not think so.”

“We will find it tomorrow,” Cait said, “when the light is better.”

“I am sorry, Donna Caitríona,” he said, shaking his head, “the ground is mostly rock and chippings. If not for Abu, we
would not have been able to trail them this long. Something must have happened to him.”

“If he was injured or killed,” said Svein, “we would have found him on the trail.”

“The bandits must have caught him,” Yngvar concluded. “This is what I think.”

“Then God help him,” said Dag.

“What are we to do now?” Cait asked, turning to Rognvald, who stood nearby with his arms folded over his chest to keep warm.

“I suspect they have a stronghold hidden in one of the high valleys,” the tall knight replied. “We will establish a camp at the last marker, and then we will ride out from there and examine each valley in turn until we find them.”

The place Rognvald suggested was a grassy dell formed by the junction of two larger glens running either side of a great, jutting spur of a peak. A fresh-running stream flowed around the foot of the mountain, so they never lacked good water; there was a sizable stand of trees on one side of the meadow where they could get firewood, and green boughs with which they constructed crude shelters to keep off the worst of the rain and wind. Not for the first time did Cait wish they had been able to bring the tents—and the extra clothing she had left behind.

The next morning they began searching out the many-fingered valleys, following the rough mountain pathways through one wind-blown canyon after another. It quickly became apparent that there were far too many canyons, gorges, dales, and hollows to be explored; so, to make the most of their efforts, they decided to pair off, each pair of searchers pursuing a different direction.

They changed horses every day, to rest the animals and allow them to graze on the lush grass of the glen. Each morning they rode out with hope renewed. This day, they were certain, their dutiful perseverance would be rewarded; but each evening they returned to collapse beside the coldwater stream, exhausted and frustrated, to spend another dank night on the ground. Each day Cait's hopes, like the
late autumn sun, rose a littler lower than the day before, the light that much weaker, and more distant.

The horses ate their fill of grass and began to grow thick winter coats; but Cait and her company of knights were not so fortunate. They soon ran out of the most perishable provisions: eggs, cheese, and bread; then the wine slowly disappeared, leaving only the dried meat, meal, and beans. Each night there was less to eat, and it grew increasingly apparent that if their efforts were not soon rewarded, they must abandon the search to return to the lowlands where they might find a settlement or town where they could replenish supplies.

“We have enough for ten more days, maybe,” said Dag, who had become cook and provisioner for the company. They had awakened to find a fine white haze of hoarfrost on the ground; a delicate coating of frost edged the stream and spiked the bare branches of the trees. “After that…well, it is in God's hands, I think.”

“The supplies will not outlast the weather,” Paulo pointed out. “Winter is on us. The snow is coming—it could come any day—tomorrow maybe, or the day after, but soon—and when it does, it will close off the passes and we will be lucky to get out of here.”

This bleak prediction cast Cait into a doleful, desperate mood, which she hated, and so she railed against Paulo for speaking it. “What do you know about anything?” she snapped. “If you were but half so observant as you think yourself, we would have found Alethea long since!”

The knight's face fell, and he looked at her with sad, tired eyes. “I beg your pardon, my lady, if I have spoken out of place.”

The slender Spaniard appeared so appalled and crestfallen that Cait did not have the heart to remain angry at him. “It is I who must beg
your
pardon, Paulo,” she relented, forcing down her emotion. “You merely speak a truth my heart does not wish to hear.”

“The truth, yes,” he agreed sadly. “But I would give the world to change it.”

They searched two more days—with no greater success
than before—and then Rognvald called for a day of rest. Cait did not like this any better than the icy fact of winter, but she kept her disappointment to herself this time. As luck would have it, their day in camp proved sunny and calm—easily the best weather they had seen since the raid and Alethea's abduction.

The first snow of the season fell that night, and they awoke the next morning to find the ground covered with a fine, even layer of gleaming white, and a fresh blue sun-dazzled sky. As they were getting ready to ride out, Svein and Yngvar discovered new tracks in the snow: a small herd of roe deer had ventured from the wood before dawn. The prospect of fresh meat overwhelmed all other concerns, and the day's search was swiftly abandoned so the men could go hunting. Cait declined to accompany them, forsaking the thrill of the chase for a rest beside the fire. “Keep the flames burning brightly, my lady,” called Dag. “We will bring back a fine buck or two for our supper tonight.”

She sat by the fire, gazing at the pale blue Spanish sky. After a while, the supply of firewood began to dwindle, and she decided that if there was going to be any roasting of venison that night she had better gather more. So, taking up the sack and rope the men used, she saddled her horse, and rode some way into the forest where she found a ready supply of dead wood. She filled one sack and dragged it back to camp; seeing the men had not returned, she decided to fetch another.

She enjoyed this humble task—the day was bright and crisp; the snow on the trees and on the high mountain peaks gave everything a glistening sheen—and allowed her mind to drift where it would, losing herself in the aimless flow of her thoughts as she moved among the trees looking for fallen branches that would be easily broken up. She thought about Sydoni waiting at home, worried by their absence—and then remembered that they had originally planned to winter in Cyprus, so those left behind in Caithness were not yet missing them.

Unexpectedly, this thought moved her to prayer. She prayed that Alethea was well, and would be found before the
supplies ran out and they were forced to give up the search for the winter.
Please, Almighty Father,
she prayed,
send a sign that you are with us, and that you care.

No sooner had Cait sent up her simple prayer, than the answer came speeding back with the swiftness of an arrow. For she heard a strange jingling sound—like tiny bells high in the air.

Amazed, she looked up quickly. The sound seemed to travel—as if an angel was gliding slowly from east to west over the treetops—but she could see nothing for the close-grown branches. She started forward, following the sound as it drifted overhead and soon found herself standing on the edge of the wood and gazing up into the crisp, blue sun-bright sky at a soaring falcon. As the majestic bird wheeled through the cloudless heavens, she noticed something dangling from its legs—the leather jesses of a trained hunting bird.

The recognition caused Cait's heart to quicken; such a hawk in flight meant a hunter nearby.

Darting back into the forest, she ran to retrieve her mount—only to discover the animal had wandered away; probably it had returned to camp, leaving her to carry her burden by herself. Taking up her half-filled sack of firewood, she began dragging it over the rough ground, scolding herself for failing to adequately secure the horse. The sack was heavy and she labored with it as she struggled back through the trees.

Upon emerging from the wood, she paused and searched the sky once more, but the hawk was gone. Unaccountably disappointed, she turned and resumed her walk, dragging the sack behind her. The track down to the camp passed by a hillock around which the stream coursed as it wound through the valley. Upon drawing even with this small promontory, she heard the light clinking jingle of the hawk's bells once more and turned toward the sound.

It was not a hawk this time, however, but a great black stallion, his glossy coat shimmering in the sunlight. At the sudden appearance of the beast, Cait stopped in her tracks and jumped back, giving out a small cry of alarm.

Then she saw the man: astride the horse, his head swathed in a shimmering black turban, a richly embroidered black cloak flung back from his shoulders and over the stallion's hindquarters. He saw her in the same instant, and although he gave no outward sign, she saw in the quickness of his keen dark glance that he had not been expecting to encounter anyone in the glen.

That he was a Moor was as obvious as the curly black beard on his face; in aspect and appearance he looked very like the bandits. But where they were sloven and cowardly, the man before her was regal, bold, a man of wealth—his cloak was sewn with silver, and his high-cantled saddle was fine black leather, ornamented with shell-like silver bosses and trimming; the horse's long, thick mane was braided, and each braid interwoven with threads of silver.

Cait stood motionless, holding her breath as the man regarded her with disarming curiosity. Turning away, he lifted his head and raised his arm into the air; he wore a heavy leather gauntlet. He uttered a piercing whistle, which was echoed by a shriek from on high, and an instant later there was a rush and rustle of wings as the falcon swooped down to take its place on its master's fist.

“I give you good greeting, woman,” he said, turning his attention to her once more. His face was fine and handsome, his skin dark and smooth, his limbs slender and graceful.

“God keep you, sir,” Cait replied, releasing the sack of firewood. She straightened under his scrutiny, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword.

“Forgive me for startling you,” he said, “but would you mind very much if I asked you why you are encamped upon my land?” His Latin, although heavily accented with a thick Eastern intonation, was spoken with a low, strong voice. The combination produced a sound which reminded Cait of the magician Sinjari, and the thought produced a feeling of recognition which made her bold.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she replied courteously. “If I had imagined this wilderness canyon belonged to anyone, I would never have spent a moment camping here when I might have come to your house and demanded hospitality.”

His smile was a white glint of teeth in the blackness of his beard. “Indeed! What makes you so certain that this Muslim would honor the request of a Christian?”

“A wise man once told me that among Muhammedans it is considered a sign of true nobility to demonstrate mercy and generosity.”

“Even to enemies?”

“
Especially
to enemies, sir.”

He laughed, his voice rich and deep. The sound roused the falcon on his hand. The bird shrieked angrily and flapped its wings. “Hush, Kiri, naughty girl.” He reached into a pouch at his side and produced a ragged strip of red meat which he fed to the hawk. “Leave us, I wish to talk to this charming lady.” With that, he flung the hawk into the air; the bird disappeared in a rushing flurry of wings and tinkling of silver bells. “Kiri is a cunning and fearless hunter,” he said admiringly, “but she is also exceedingly jealous.”

The Moor slid from the saddle then to stand before Cait, regarding her with a lightly taunting amusement that Cait found slightly disconcerting. “If we are to begin as enemies,” he said at last, “let us at least strive for the virtuous nobility celebrated by your wise acquaintance.”

“The man was my father,” Cait said. “Lord Duncan of Caithness.”

“Then he has my condolences,” he replied with a smile.

“Sir?”

“Any man who would let such a daughter out of his sight, even for a moment, must certainly be suffering a most powerful bereavement.” He smiled again, and Cait felt a strange warmth flood through her—a result, she strongly suspected, of his shameless flattery.

“I am Prince Hasan Salah Ibn Al-Nizar.” He made a low, sweeping bow. “Peace be with you. May Allah the Munificent crown all your endeavors with triumph and glory. Forgive my curiosity, my lady, but what miracle brought you to this lonely and forbidding place?”

Cait gave her name and told him she was on pilgrimage from her home in Scotland.

“Caitríona,” he repeated, then frowned. “That will never
do. My poor Moorish tongue has not the facility to express the natural mellifluence of your wondrous name. I believe I shall call you Ketmia, instead—if I may be so bold.”

Cait repeated the name uncertainly. “It is not disagreeable, I suppose. Ketmia…what does it mean?”

“It is the name of one of the most fragrant and beautiful flowers ever to blossom,” Hasan told her. “In the East it is given to brides on their wedding day. For, like the loveliness of the flower, the memory of that day will last through all time, infusing each remembrance with its glorious perfume.” His smile broke forth in a sudden blaze of delight which Cait found endearing. “When I saw you, I thought to myself,
Ketmia
.”