The Mystic Rose (37 page)

The visitors were led to a place on one side of the hearth where skinned pine logs formed benches of sorts near a slab of rock upon which had been spread a fine rug and a satin cushion—this, Cait guessed, was where the outlaw chieftain held court. They sat down, and after a short wait three more bandits entered the chamber. One of them cried out as he entered: “Hasan!” It was, Cait thought, a greeting of particular intimacy.

The guests turned to see Ali Waqqar step quickly around the hearth fire and approach the prince with open arms. Cait regarded the bandit with keen interest, and felt unexpected relief in the certainty that she had never seen the man before; he was not among those who attacked her camp that day.

A man of imposing height—made more so by the elaborate turban of gleaming blue satin on his head—he walked with the eager, rolling gait of a man hurrying from one dissipation to another. Closer, Cait could see the tell-tale signs of long and habitual overindulgence: a muscular frame now thick and flabby, loose wattles about the neck, dirt ingrained in the lines of his face and beneath fingernails; once-handsome features bloated. His clothes were of good quality, but filthy, and the cuffs of his sleeves and the hem of his mantle were threadbare. In all, his appearance proclaimed a man much come down in the world—and yet, he still possessed the arrogant confidence of a warrior.

The prince rose to receive the homage of the bandit and it was then that Cait realized the dealings the prince admitted to having with Ali Waqqar were of a more familiar kind than he had led her to believe. The recognition produced a perverse sort of hope that the apparent amity between the two men would lead to release for her sister and Abu.

What was more, she could see from his expression that Rognvald discerned this, too, for his eyes narrowed and his
nostrils flared with suppressed anger. Cait quickly averted her gaze lest he see that she did not share his indignation at being deceived.

Hasan and the outlaw leader stood gripping each other's arms for a moment and exchanged a few pleasant words. Then the prince turned and said, “Allow me to present my friends: Lord Rognvald of Haukeland, and Lady Caitríona of Caithness.”

Ali Waqqar stepped before them; Rognvald rose as he was introduced, his face impassive—magnificently so, Cait thought, considering what she had seen only a moment before. Whatever he felt at the sight of the marauding brigand, there was now no visible sign at all.

And then it was her turn. She made no move as the bandit chief turned from Rognvald and made a slight bow before her. To her horror, he reached down and took up her hand. She writhed inwardly from his touch but, emboldened by Rognvald's poised example, forced a thin smile and lowered her head demurely.

Prince Hasan spoke a few words to the bandit, who nodded his head in assent, and then, in the manner of a hosting lord, clapped his hands. A dirty boy appeared, bearing a battered silver tray containing an ill-matched assortment of small golden cups. The bandit took up one and indicated that the others should do likewise. Raising his cup, Ali exclaimed, “My friends, though my cave is a stinking hovel unfit for nobles of your obvious rank and refinement, you are welcome here. I drink to your health.”

To Cait's surprise, his Latin was polished and smoothly spoken. She wondered whether he had stolen it along with everything else he possessed. She put the cup to her lips and sipped daintily, unwilling to taste even the smallest morsel of the brigand's rude hospitality.

They were invited to sit once more, and resumed their seats on the log benches, while Ali took his place on the rug-covered slab, adopting the manner of a potentate enthroned. Hasan and Ali exchanged idle pleasantries until the cups were drained, and then the bandit called for meat to be brought.

One of the roasting joints was pulled off a nearby spit and brought dripping to the bandit leader. He pulled off a strip of flesh and stuffed it in his mouth and, licking his fingers loudly, indicated that the others should likewise enjoy a succulent bite.

“Now then,” said Ali, chewing thoughtfully, “pleased as I am to entertain noble guests…” He lifted an ambivalent hand in their direction, “in my experience, people do not seek out Ali Waqqar unless they desire something of him. So, tell me, if you please, what is it that you wish of Ali?”

“Most astute,” replied the prince affably. “As always, you have discerned the heart of the matter. The day is speeding from us, and we have a long ride awaiting, so I will be brief. It has come to my attention that you may have a slave to sell. We have come to buy.”

“I see.” The bandit nodded, looking from one to the other of his guests. “Although it grieves me to say it, I fear you have had a long cold ride for nothing. I have no slaves at this time.” He took another draft from his cup. “None.”

“We seem to have been misinformed,” replied the prince. “Forgive me, but I was certain they said you possessed a young female slave.”

“Truly,” said Ali placidly, “I wish I had such a slave to sell, for she would be yours this instant. Alas, my friends, I have no slaves at all of any description. Business this year has been very poor, owing to the prohibition on travel between cities. You must have heard of this.”

“To be sure,” said the prince. “Even so, it is a very great pity to have come all this way to no purpose. Perhaps I might be so bold as to suggest that I would be willing to pay seventy-five thousand dirhams for a likely young woman,” he paused, “
if
you should happen to hear of anyone who has such a slave to sell.”

“I will bear it in mind,” agreed Ali Waqqar. “Now, I beg you to excuse me, but you have had the misfortune to find me in the midst of a particularly busy day.” He rose from his
cushioned slab. “Accept my apologies. Duty, you know, is a harsh task master, and never satisfied.”

“Of course. As it happens, our return cannot be delayed any longer.” Hasan stood slowly. “Until we meet again, Ali Waqqar.” The prince made a flourish with his hand.

The outlaw chieftain made a cursory bow and the visitors were escorted back through the cave and returned to their waiting horses. Cait watched the prince climb into the saddle; she strode to his mount and took hold of the bridle. “Is that it?” she demanded. “Is that the end of it?”

“Ketmia, hush!” he cautioned. “They will hear you.”

“He was lying! He has Alethea. I know it.”

The prince glanced toward the cave entrance where the guards were watching them with dull interest. “He does not have her,” he said in low tones. “Believe me, he would never have allowed seventy-five thousand dirhams to slip through his fingers. If he had even the slightest hope of producing her, we would be haggling over the price even now.”

“If he does not have her, then he knows what happened to her,” Cait countered. “He
knows
, and you must make him tell us.”

“Ketmia, please, this is not the way.” He looked to Rognvald for help. “We must leave at once.”

“I think the bandit was lying, too,” Rognvald said. “He may not have Alethea now, but I believe he knows what happened to her.”

Cait held tight to the bridle. “I am not leaving until I learn what happened to my sister.”

“And I am telling you that if we do not depart at once, we will join her in her fate.”

“You seem very well acquainted with these brigands. It seems to me you know them better than you led us to believe.”

“It is because I know them that I say we must go,” growled the prince, losing patience. “If you do not believe me, then believe your own eyes.” He indicated the cave entrance where three more of Ali's men, carrying swords and lances, had joined the first two; behind them, others could be seen moving in the dark interior of the cave.

Frustrated beyond words, Cait gave out a strangled shriek and stormed to her horse. She mounted quickly, and started away. Rognvald waited until she had passed him, then fell in behind her. They had ridden only a few hundred paces when there came a cry from the cave.

“
Sharifah!
”

Cait heard it and glanced back. Over her shoulder, she saw a slender, dark-haired figure racing toward them. The cry sounded again, and she swung around for a better look. Her heart clutched in her breast.

“Abu!”

Instinctively, she jerked hard on the reins; her horse halted and reared. “Rognvald!” she shouted. “It is Abu!”

R
OGNVALD'S SWORD WAS
in his hand before her cry had ceased. He flew past her, shouting, “Ride on, Cait!”

Ali Waqqar appeared at the mouth of the cave, saw Abu darting away, and roared a command at his men, who stood looking on in flat-footed indecision. He roared again and started shoving men right and left, knocking two or three over; those still on their feet leaped after the fleeing youth.

Abu put his head down and ran as if all the hounds of hell were snarling at his heels.

Rognvald, naked blade high in the air, raised himself in the saddle; he swept by the young man and made instead for his pursuers, closing on them with blinding swiftness. With a rattling battle cry, he drove headlong into them, scattering attackers in all directions. Wheeling his horse and making long, looping slashes with his sword, he kept the wary bandits at bay.

More brigands boiled out of the cave. Ali Waqqar stood in the center of a confused knot of men, shouting and shoving. And then, even as Cait looked on, the chaos suddenly resolved into an attacking force. They came forth in an angry rush, shouting, swords flailing.

Heedless of Rognvald's command, Cait hastened to Abu's rescue, galloping across the rough, rocky ground, reining up hard as she reached him. With a tremendous bound, the young man flung himself onto the back of her horse, shouting, “Fly! Fly!”

She turned her mount and felt one bony arm encircle her waist. “Fly! Fly!” Abu screamed. Away they flew: Cait, head down, lashing with the reins, and her passenger bouncing like a sack of meal and clinging on for dear life. She found the path by which they had come and headed out across the narrow valley.

Prince Hasan sped past them, racing to Rognvald's aid. “Make for the ridge!” he cried as he thundered by. “Summon the knights! We will hold them at the ford.”

His shout dissolved into a whirring sound—like the sizzling buzz of an angry hornet—and suddenly the prince jolted upright in the saddle as an arrow instantly appeared in his upper chest. Grasping the shaft with his free hand, he wrenched it out and threw it carelessly aside, continuing his headlong plunge into the fight. Another vicious
whirr
sounded in the air, ending with a meaty thud. Abu gave a startled cry. “Go, sharifah! Fly!” Cait urged her horse to greater speed, streaking away over the rocky ground.

Two more arrows fizzed past before she was out of range. She struck the path and raced to the broken stone slab, passed through the gap, and splashed across the ford, speeding along the stream to the base of the ridge where she was met by the knights who had seen her approach in haste and had come down armed and ready for battle.

As soon as she was near enough, she shouted, “Go! Rognvald and Hasan need you!”

Yngvar was the first to reach her. “Where are they, my lady?”

“Follow the stream,” she gasped, breathless from her ride. “You will find them beyond the ford. They are attacked. For God's sake, hurry!”

Yngvar turned to the others. “Ready arms!” he cried. “Follow me!”

With a shout, the knights clattered off. The last was Dag, who paused long enough to ask, “Would you have me stay to protect you, my lady?”

“No. We will be safe here. Go!”

The knight bounded away. Cait watched as the warriors raced out along the stream; in the near distance, she could
see the pool which marked the fording place and, beyond it, the divided slab. Yngvar and Rodrigo reached the tumbled stone, and disappeared through the gap. The others pounded through one after another and were gone. “They will return soon,” she said with more hope than conviction. “You will need a mount, Abu.”

When he did not answer, she swivelled in the saddle to look behind her. Abu, one hand still holding to her cloak, sat with his head down as if contemplating the tip of the arrow which had passed through his upper back and now protruded between the bloody fingers of his other hand.

Cait slid from the saddle and caught the wounded youth as he toppled to the ground. She laid him down as gently as she could; forcing calm to her shaking hands, she rolled him onto his side.

The arrow had found its mark in his back just below the shoulder to emerge on the other side between two upper ribs. The iron arrowhead was small, but it was barbed; pulling it out the way it had gone in would do far worse damage, so she thought it best to break off the fletched end and remove it from the front. Grasping the slender wooden shaft in her hand, she tried to break it; the movement brought a groan of pain from Abu, so she decided to leave it for the moment.

“Ahh, God forgive,” he gasped, his voice thin and brittle. “I am sorry, sharifah. You were proud of me once. I wanted you to be proud of me again. I failed. I am sorry.”

“Never say it.” Removing her cloak, she shook it out and draped it over him. “I
am
proud of you, Abu. If not for your markers, we would never have found our way. Rest here a little while I go and fetch Halhuli. The arrow must come out.”

She made to move away, but his hand snaked out and snatched hold of her sleeve.

“You need help, Abu. I will go and quickly return. I will—”

Abu threw aside the cloak and struggled onto an elbow; the effort sent blood spilling from the wound in a scarlet rush. His face contorted with pain. “Thea,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I must tell you about Thea.”

“I am listening.” She lowered him back to the ground and replaced the cloak.

“Thea is not here,” he said, gasping. “She escaped…ran away. I helped her.” He opened his eyes, imploring her to understand.

“Where, Abu? Where did she go?”

Before he could answer he was taken with a fit of coughing which left him panting for breath and unable to speak. “Rest easy,” she told him. “I will get some water.”

She dashed to her mount and untied the small waterskin from beside the saddle, and brought it to him. Kneeling down, she drew the stopper and allowed a little water to flow out onto his lips. “Here,” she said, lifting his head, “drink.”

He sipped a mouthful of water and then looked at her, his eyes big and bright with pain. “Listen, sharifah, there is a lake…and a village beside the lake. I learned of it from shepherds. She is there.”

He drank again, swallowing hard, and then laid his head on his arm and closed his eyes.

“Where is the lake?” Cait asked.

When he did not reply, she put her lips close to his ear. “Please, Abu, tell me. Where is the lake? I must know if I am to find Thea.”

His eyelids fluttered open. His dark eyes were no longer as bright as they had been only a moment before. “The lake…”

“Yes, Abu, where? Where is it?”

“There…” he said, his voice a breathless whisper. “The mount of gold…”

“The Mount of Gold? Abu, I do not understand. Tell me, what is the Mount of Gold? Where is it?”

His mouth opened and a small gurgling sound came from his throat as he tried to make the words. “
There…”
he gasped at last, staring straight out across the crooked valley. Cait saw the tawny glint of reflected light in his eyes and followed his gaze to a snow-topped peak rising in the near distance; bathed in the light of the westering sun, it glowed with a rich golden hue.

“Is that the mountain?” asked Cait. “Abu, is that the one you mean?”

She turned and saw that although the reflection of the mountain still filled his eyes with light, sight was already fading. “Oh, Abu,” she said, her voice cracking. She bent her head and placed her hand on his cheek, her tears falling onto his still face. “Go with God, my friend,” she whispered, then gathered him in her arms and held him as deep silence descended over them.

Halhuli found her that way—crouched beside the trail, shivering with cold, still holding the young man's corpse. “Lady Ketmia,” he said, hastening to her side. “May I assist?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the young man from Cait's grasp and lowered him gently to the ground. He removed the cloak from Abu's body and put it over Cait's shoulders, then, taking hold of the arrow below the head, gave a solid tug and pulled it through the wound. He laid the arrow on the ground, and set about straightening Abu's limbs, placing the knees and feet together and folding the hands over his chest. He closed the young man's eyes and mouth, and as he worked, Cait became aware that he was praying over the body—his low, murmuring chant had not ceased since he began tending Abu's ragged corpse.

Next, he poured some water from the waterskin and washed the young man's hands, feet, and face. He then washed his own hands, dried them, and kneeling beside the body raised his hands and face to heaven and intoned a prayer in Arabic. When he finished, he bowed and touched his forehead to the ground.

“Thank you, Halhuli,” said Cait.

“He will commence his journey with an easier spirit now,” replied the prince's overseer.

At that moment a raw, wordless cry sounded across the valley; it was followed by the savage rattle and clash of weapons. Cait and Halhuli rose and stood gazing toward the gap in the broken slab as the sounds of battle waxed and waned, much as the sound of sea waves tumbling rocks on a pebbled shore.

And then the clamor stopped. Cait held her breath.

She balled the fabric of her cloak in her fists and watched the gap for warriors to appear. “Lord save us,” she prayed through clenched teeth.

An instant later, Prince Hasan rode through the cleft. He paused at the ford, and was soon joined by Dag and Svein; Rodrigo was next, carrying Paulo with him across the back of his horse, followed by Yngvar and, lastly, Rognvald.

They rode to the foot of the ridge trail where Cait and Halhuli waited. The knights, breathing hard from the exertion of their brief but fearsome toil, wiped sweat from their faces, and extolled one another's skill and bravery.

“The dogs have abandoned the chase,” Rognvald informed her. “Paulo and Hasan have been wounded. We must get them back to camp at once.”

“My injury is not so bad,” Hasan said, shaking his head. “But we must not linger here lest Ali Waqqar dares to tempt fate again.”

Rognvald signalled the knights to ride on. As they clattered past, Cait reached out and put her hand to his knee. “What about Abu?” she asked.

Rognvald heard the sorrow in her voice, looked past her and saw the body of the young man lying still on the ground, the fatal arrow beside him. He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “Did he say anything before he died?”

“He told me Alethea escaped,” Cait replied.

“That is something, at least.”

“And I think I know where she may be found.” She quickly explained what Abu had told her, then looked back over her shoulder at his body. “I do not want him left here.”

“Nor do I.” Rognvald dismounted, crossed quickly to the corpse, lifted it in his strong arms and carried it back to his mount. Cait held the horse while Rognvald secured the body, and then they rode silently back to camp.

The sun was dropping below the mountains to the west by the time they reached the top of the ridge; the encircling wall cast the valley into shadow. There were no bandits following them, so they hurried on, making their way along the switchback trail leading down the other side of the ridge. The sun fired the mountain tops, causing the snow-topped
peaks to glow like red-hot brands, and Cait watched the colors slowly fade as the short winter day gave way to a misty dusk.

They halted at the edge of the clearing, and Rognvald lifted Abu's body down from the horse and laid it on the ground. He straightened, crossed himself, then turned to find Cait watching him. “We will bury him soon,” he told her.

“You are wounded,” she said, regarding the ragged rent in his sleeve above the elbow.

He saw her glance and said, “A small cut. It is nothing.”

She reached out to take his arm for a better look, but he held it away from her grasp. “A scratch only,” he insisted. “Leave it be.”

They walked to the camp to find the knights standing around the outstretched body of Paulo while Halhuli examined his wound and the prince's servants scurried for supplies. Cait pushed in beside Svein and watched as Halhuli probed the unconscious Spanish knight's wound, then looked up. “The cut is deep,” he said, “but clean. With rest and care, I think he may recover.”

Satisfied, the knights nodded and moved off to other tasks. While Rognvald and Halhuli made Paulo comfortable in one of the tents, Dag, Svein, and Yngvar found a place at the edge of the camp and dug a deep grave. Then, as the first stars began burning in the east, the knights buried the Syrian servant. While Cait and the wounded Hasan stood looking on, they pressed crude wooden crosses into the mound of soft earth, and prayed over the grave, commending the soul of the slender youth to the Almighty Giver and Receiver of Life.

By the time they finished, the prince's servants had a hot supper prepared, so they all sat down around the fire to warm themselves and eat a simple meal. Cait related what Abu had told her about Alethea's escape and where to look for her. “Then something good has come of this, at least,” Hasan observed. “Allah is wise and merciful.”

They finished their supper in silence, each wrapped in private thoughts which none cared to disturb. When they had finished, Hasan, his face pale with fatigue, rose. “The ex
citement of the day has given me a headache,” he said, “and I am tired. May Allah grant you a peaceful repose.” He bade them a good night and retreated to his tent.

After he had gone, Rognvald called the knights to attend him; they moved a few paces away from the fire. “It may be that darkness will inspire the thieves to boldness,” he said.

“Let them come,” said Yngvar. “We will make the wolves a feast they will not soon forget.”

“Nevertheless,” said Rognvald, “we will take no risks. Rodrigo and Dag will take the first watch. Yngvar, you and Svein take the second watch, and I will take the third.”