The Mystic Rose (41 page)

“Then this is where I leave you,” the knight said to the women as he dismounted. He helped the nuns down from the saddle, and then watched as they tripped lightly across the fragile-looking bridge. Then it was Cait's turn. Rognvald wished her God's own speed, and said, “I pray you find all is well, and eagerly await your return.”

Cait, watching the swaying bridge with mounting appre
hension, nodded; gripping the side ropes in either hand she took a deep breath and started across, her eyes fixed firmly on the waiting figure of Sister Efa. Rognvald watched until she had safely reached the other side where she turned and waved him farewell, then he gathered up the reins, turned the horses, and returned to the settlement.

Beyond the chasm, the trail passed between two steep bare rock slopes before arriving at a low tunnel which had been chiselled out of the mountain stone. Although the tunnel was dark and damp, it was not long, and Cait emerged on the other side to find the trail winding gently down beside a racing mountain stream. The three women walked along, quiet in one another's company, and soon arrived at a stand of tall thin birch trees.

They walked through the wood, which ended shortly, and Cait stepped out from among the trees into a high mountain glade. At the far end of the snow-drifted meadow, she could see a cramped huddle of buildings which, she assumed, formed the Abbey of the Gray Marys.

They followed the trail beside the stream, and soon came to the first of the outbuildings: two simple barns with adjoining stone enclosures for sheep and goats, and four modest but well-thatched storehouses, solid-looking on their stone foundations. Next they passed the square expanse of a field, its rippling ridges visible beneath thick snow. At one end of the field was an orchard of small, well-tended trees; on one side of the grove stood a fine tall stack of chopped wood, and on the other side was a triple row of beehives; the familiar sight of their high-mounded white humps sent a pang of homely longing through Cait and her heart quickened.

Even from a distance she could tell that this was a place of order and peace, of humble industry and dutiful purpose. Closer, she saw the tidy yard, its smooth-cobbled paving swept clean of snow. On opposite sides of the yard were long rows of individual cells, each with a single tiny window and a low wooden door; on the third side of the yard
stood a large, amply proportioned house of two floors with shuttered windows and, rising sharply behind this larger structure, a rugged tawny shoulder of the mountain whose sheltering peak soared high above the neat little abbey.

There was no church or chapel that she could see, but the abbey's unadorned, uncluttered simplicity appealed to Cait; she warmed to the place even before she heard the singing—which stopped her in her tracks with its clear, angelic mellifluence.

“What is that?” she said, her breath catching in her throat.

The two sisters glanced at one another. “It is the prayer before the midday meal, my lady,” answered Siâran.

“It is beautiful,” Cait replied, and was instantly reminded of Abbot Emlyn's strong melodious voice as he stood before the festal table in Murdo's hall, head back, arms spread wide, a song of blessing bubbling up from his throat as from a deep sweet spring. It was, she realized, the second time in as many days that she had been brought up short by singing—once in the village and now here. “It reminded me of something,” she said, as a pang of yearning pierced her heart.
It reminded me of home
.

“Alethea will be there,” she said, stirring herself once more. “Let us go and join them.”

The three hurried on, quickly crossing the yard and coming to the door of the refectory. The singing had stopped and Cait could hear the low murmur of voices from within. She paused at the door and allowed Sister Efa to open it and beckon her inside.

Trembling with anticipation, she stepped lightly across the threshold. The large room was dim, but warm; a single wide table occupied the center of the room with benches on either side for the thirty or so nuns who had gathered for their meal. Talk ceased as Cait stepped into the room, and every face turned toward her. She glanced the length of the table for Alethea, but did not see her.

“Welcome,” said a kindly voice, and Cait turned to see a trim elderly woman hastening toward her. She was dressed as the others in a long robe of undyed wool and, like old Abbot Emlyn back home, wore a large wooden cross on a
leather loop around her neck. Her hair was white, and the bones stood out on her wrists and hands, but her step was quick and her dark eyes keen. “I am Abbess Annora. We are just beginning our meal. Please, join us.”

“God be good to you. I am looking for my sister,” said Cait, scanning the table once more. “Brother Timotheus told me she would be here.”

The older woman smiled. “You must be Caitríona. Alethea has told us about you.” Addressing the nuns at table, the abbess announced the identity of their visitor, and bade the sisters make her welcome. Cait offered them a hurried greeting, then once more turned to the abbess, who said, “Alethea has been praying for you.”

“Then she
is
here,” said Cait, hope flickering bright once more. “Where is she? Can you tell her I am here? She will want to know I have found her at last.”

“Are you hungry?” asked the abbess. “Would you like something to eat after your long walk?”

“Thank you, no,” said Cait, frustration sharpening her tone. “Please, I want to see my sister.”

“Come with me.” She took Cait by the elbow and led her through a door at the far end of the refectory. The room they entered was small, containing only a simple straw pallet bed in a raised box, a chair, and a table. In one corner a fire cracked brightly on a tiny stone hearth.

“Your sister is well,” said Abbess Annora, closing the door behind them. “Moreover, she is happy. But you cannot see her just now.”

“Why?” demanded Cait, feeling the heat of frustration leap up within her. Forcing down her anger, she said, “Please—you must tell me. I have come a very long way, and—”

“Caitríona,” said the elderly nun, her voice soft and caressing as a mother's. “Your sister is in preparation for a special ceremony which will take place tonight.”

“A ceremony…” repeated Cait. Would she never see her sister again? “I do not understand. What kind of ceremony?”

“Alethea has been called to join our order. Tonight she will take the first step toward becoming one of us.”

“A
LETHEA—” CAIT STARED
in disbelief at the kindly abbess “—to become a nun.”

“That is her dearest wish.”

The strength seemed to flow from Cait's legs; she sat down on the edge of the box bed. “But how can that be?”

“Although she has not been with us long, Alethea has changed. The change is profound and it is genuine. She is as astonished by this as anyone.” Annora smiled. “She has embraced the order with a zeal which gladdens the hearts of all who see her.”

Cait shook her head from side to side, trying to take it in. “But we've come all this way,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady against the emotions boiling within her. “Are you telling me that she will not be coming back with us?”

“Caitríona,” the abbess said gently, “try to understand. Alethea has heard the call of God, and she has answered. Her place is here.”

“I want to see her,” Cait said bluntly. “I want to see her now.”

“Rest assured, you will see her—all in good time. Alethea is alone with God and cannot be disturbed.”

“In good time?” Cait snapped, unable to hold back her frustration any longer. “Is she a prisoner here?” She stood abruptly, fists tight, arms stiff at her sides. “I have endured hardships beyond sufferance. I have spent day after day after day in the saddle—cold and hungry and often wet, but what of that? Four warriors, a priest, and one brave servant have
forfeited their lives in pursuit of her freedom—they lie cold in their graves beside the trail and,” her voice faltered, “—and Alethea is not to be
disturbed
?”

Cait stared at the woman in a misery of disbelief as bitter tears came to her eyes. Through every trial she had persevered, hoping against hope that Thea would be found; she had faced death, destruction, and discomfort of every kind only to be told her sister wished to be alone with God. It was beyond her ability to comprehend.

“If you will not help me,” declared Cait, “I will find her myself!” Turning on her heel, she moved swiftly toward the door.

“Caitríona!” said the abbess sternly. “Stop!”

To her own amazement she halted, her hand on the latch.

“Think what you are doing,” said Annora. “If you ever had any feeling for your sister, then I ask you to honor her wishes. She did not enter into this decision lightly, and she will not thank you for interfering now.”

Cait could feel the icy center of her resolve melting away.

Annora softened. “Alethea is coming to the end of a period of prayer and fasting in preparation for the ceremony which will take place tonight. Tomorrow, when the ritual is finished, you will be together.”

Unable to make herself reply, Cait merely nodded. The abbess took her hand. “Come, it is a splendid day. Why not spend it with us? Share our meal, and then I will show you something of our work here, and you will come to know us better.”

Although Cait no longer felt hungry, she allowed herself to be led back into the refectory where she ate a few bites and then gave up as black melancholy overcame her. When the abbess offered to show her the rest of the abbey, she complained of fatigue and asked instead to be shown where she might lie down and rest. The abbess summoned one of the sisters, a woman of similar age and appearance to Cait. “This is Sister Besa—she will take you to the guest lodge.”

Cait thanked her and followed the sister out across the cobbled yard to one of the cells. “We have few guests,” the nun told her, “but we keep a room ready for anyone the
Good Lord sends our way. It is this one on the end.” The sister lifted the wooden latch, pushed the door open, and stepped in. “Oh, it is cold in here, but I will make up the fire and it will soon be warm enough.”

The sister hurried away, leaving Cait to stare at the bleakly simple room: a table large enough to hold a candle, a three-legged stool and neatly stacked logs beside the tiny half-circle hearth, and a straw pallet topped with a rough woollen coverlet. The room's sole adornment was a wooden cross which had obviously been made by one of the nuns; it was fashioned from two bent pine branches, smoothed and bound together with a strap of braided leather, and hung below the tiny round window.

Cait was still standing in the center of the room when Besa returned with an armful of kindling and some live embers in a small pan. “I suppose Alethea stayed here,” she said absently.

“Why, yes. For a time.” The sister placed the wood beside the hearth and gently shook the embers from the bowl. “She has her own cell now.”

Cait waited for her to say more, but the nun proceeded to arrange the wood around the little heap of glowing coals. After a moment, Cait said, “How long have you been here?”

Besa glanced at her and then quickly away again, as if the question was distracting. “All my life,” she answered after a moment. “Or, very nearly.”

“But you are not from Aragon,” Cait suggested.

The sister lowered her face to the heap of kindling and blew on the embers. “No,” she replied, sitting back on her heels. “I am not from Aragon. I was born on the other side of the mountains.” She leaned forward and blew on the embers once more. Thin threads of smoke were soon curling up from the hearth as a cluster of yellow flames bloomed among the twigs. “But this has been my home so long I do not remember any other.”

“You never visit your family?”

“I did once,” replied Sister Besa, rising to her feet. “But no more.” She smiled wanly, and moved to the door. “I will
leave you in peace now, but if you need anything, my room is next to this one.”

She closed the door quickly behind her and was gone. Cait sat on the stool, watching the flames catch and burn more brightly. When the fire appeared hearty enough, she added several larger chunks of wood from the stack, and then retreated to the bed where she stretched herself out. After gazing petulantly at the age-darkened pine roof beams, she eventually drifted into an uneasy sleep.

She dreamed of hoofprints and felt herself once again on horseback, riding through deep-drifted snow. In her dream she seemed to be fleeing someone—although she twisted in the saddle and craned her neck from time to time, she could not see who it might be. Still, she could feel a disturbing presence gaining ground behind her, and the dull malevolence mounted until she grew afraid to look around anymore.

And then, just as she knew she must confront the swiftly approaching evil, there came the slow tolling of a distant bell. Instantly, she felt the unseen wickedness falter in its onrushing flight. She turned in the saddle, lashed her mount, and raced up the steep mountain trail leading to the abbey. Above the wild drumming of her heart she could hear the rhythmic ringing of the bell.

The sound grew, and seemed to take on a more urgent note and she awoke. It took Cait some time to realize that it was a real bell she had been hearing. As the last sonorous stroke faded into the air she rose and stepped to the window. The fire on the hearth had burned out and the short winter day had ended; it was growing dark outside. She crept to the door, opened it, and looked quickly out. There was no one to be seen, but she assumed the bell summoned the sisters to prayer, and so went out—realizing halfway across the yard that she did not know where the chapel might be. She had seen none when coming to the abbey, nor had the abbess mentioned it.

She paused for a moment, looking around. The sky yet held a blush of fading sunset, but the first stars were glowing high overhead. A light wind was blowing down from the
surrounding flame-touched peaks, and it made her cold. As she turned to retreat into her cell, she heard the bell again, and decided to follow the sound—which seemed to come from behind the nearby refectory.

She flitted quickly to the end of the building and saw, in the rock curtain rising sheer from the ground, a wide, low entrance cut into the living stone of the mountain. The snow was tracked with dozens of footprints leading into a cave; as Cait followed them to the dark entrance, she heard singing from within.

After the first few paces, the darkness was all but complete. With one hand to the wall beside her, and the other outstretched and waving before her, she edged slowly on, guided by the singing of the nuns. The texture of the wall beneath her fingertips as she felt her way along suggested that the tunnel had been carved into the rock; both the wall and the floor were smooth and fairly even.

The wall ended abruptly and the air suddenly became warmer, and held the slightly musty smell of damp rock. Taking a hesitant step, she entered a larger chamber; a gentle, almost imperceptible breeze blew over her face from left to right. Instinctively, she turned in the direction of the airflow and saw the pale glimmer of candlelight on the rim of another tunnel opening a dozen paces to her left. She reached the tunnel doorway just as the glint of light faded, leaving her in darkness once more.

More confident now, she proceeded down the corridor as before, keeping her hand to the wall beside her. The floor slanted downward; she could feel it tilting away, and the slight cant quickened her step as if in anticipation of what she would find when she reached the end. The singing grew louder.

And then the tunnel opened out wide and she was standing in the high-arched entrance of an enormous chamber. In the near distance Cait saw, as through a gloom-wrapped forest of limbless trees, the shimmering of ghostly lights. The trees, she realized, were the tapering, slightly misshapen shafts of great stone pillars rising from the cavern floor to the unseen roof high above. The light came from
candles in the hands of the nuns, whose voices set the vast empty spaces of the chamber reverberating with the rippling music of their song.

Stepping cautiously forward into this peculiar, frozen forest, Cait moved silently from tree to tree, pausing at each trunk to look and listen before moving on again—fearful of being discovered, yet desiring above all else to be allowed to stay and observe.

Closer, she caught a whiff of incense—a cloying sweet vapor that filled her head with the essence of lavender. She felt her empty stomach squirm at the heavy scent, and paused to swallow before moving on.

The singing stopped, and so Cait halted, too. She heard someone speaking, but was too far away to make out the words. Presently the address finished, and there followed a lengthy silence which was broken at last by the ringing of a bell. The nuns began singing again and, flitting from one column to the next, Cait crept carefully, cautiously nearer.

When the music ceased, Cait peered discreetly from her hiding place behind the last rank of pillars, now but a few paces from the first of three low, wide steps which rose from the level floor to make a platform on which the Gray Marys had assembled before an altar adorned with a great golden cross with two lamps burning on either side; in their gently wavering light the ornately patterned gold of the cross seemed to melt and move.

Abbess Annora stood motionless before the altar with hands raised shoulder-high, palms upward, as if expecting to receive a gift. On the floor between the abbess and the waiting sisters, two richly embroidered lengths of cloth were spread; on each a young woman knelt in an attitude of prayer. Dressed in the same drab gray robes as the others, they were set apart only by the long crimson hoods that covered their heads. Both supplicants were bent over their clasped hands, and both were trembling slightly. Although she could not see their faces, Cait easily recognized the slender, willowy form of her sister, Alethea.

At long last…Alethea! Cait's heart leaped in her breast, and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to keep
from crying out. Closing her eyes, she slumped against the pillar and felt the cool stone bear her up as relief rolled over her in waves.

 

The voice was that of Abbess Annora, and she was immediately joined by a chorus of sisters who repeated the phrase three times with but slight variation.

The ceremony was in Gaelic. Although the inflection was odd, and some of the words seemed curiously old-fashioned, Cait understood it readily enough, for the chant had the same qualities she had heard since she was old enough to sit upright in church and listen to Abbot Emlyn's bold, handsome voice declaring the high holiness of the God of Love and Light and his Conquering Son.

Oh, Thea,
she thought,
that you, of all people, should strike such a bargain
. She wondered what her father would make of it, and then remembered that he was dead and would never know. Well, better this, she supposed, than an unsuitable marriage. And where Alethea was concerned that had always been a live possibility; the young woman's gift for making the most ludicrous and improper alliances had long been a worry to almost all who knew her—save Duncan alone. Now, it appeared that his long-suffering faith was about to be repaid.

When she had better control of herself, Cait once again edged from behind the column. After the recitation, there followed another song, which afforded Cait the opportunity to steal to another pillar for a better view. When the song finished two of the sisters approached the kneeling figures with long, tapering unlit candles. Addressing the novices, the
abbess spoke in a low voice to each in turn and was answered, whereupon the candle was offered. The two women rose and approached the altar to light their tapers from the lamps burning there.

Returning to their places, both young women knelt once more, set the lit candles in golden sconces which had been provided, and then stretched themselves full-length face down on the embroidered rugs and extended their arms to either side in emulation of the cross.