The Mystic Rose (44 page)

“C
HOSEN,” THE ABBESS
was saying. Her voice seemed to come from very far away and Cait was having difficulty making herself understand the words. “You have been chosen, Caitríona.” She paused, regarding the young woman before her with sympathy. “And now
you
have a choice.”

“You must decide whether to answer the call,” volunteered Sister Besa.

“Do you understand?” asked the abbess.

Cait stared at the livid marks of the stigmata on her wrists and shook her head. “No.”

“In this way the succession is ensured,” Abbess Annora explained. “Whenever a new guardian is required, someone is chosen. The stigmata are the visible signs that the choice has been made. However, no one can force you to serve. That is your decision and you must make it on your own.” She smiled. “The Lord has called you, Caitríona, and now you must decide how you will answer.”

“Will you help me, Abbess Annora?”

“Of course, my dear, I will help you in any way I can.”

“Oh, Cait, this is wonderful,” said Thea, putting her arms around her sister's neck. “God has marked you for his own. Think of it!”

Cait smiled doubtfully; already she could feel the unwieldy bulk of responsibility beginning to settle upon her. From the other room came the sound of a benediction spo
ken aloud, and then the scraping of benches on the stone floor as the sisters began to breakfast.

“Do you want me to tell the sisters?” asked Besa.

“Not yet,” replied the abbess. “I think it would be best for Caitríona to have a little time to herself just now. I will call a special chapter meeting tonight and we can tell the others then.”

She turned toward the door. “Now we will eat, and then you can have the remainder of the day to pray and ponder how you will answer.” To Thea, she said, “I know you are anxious to be with your sister, and there is much you have to tell one another; but, in the circumstances, I wonder if that could wait a little while. I think Caitríona would like to be alone for a time, and you have new duties to perform.”

“Of course,” replied Alethea somewhat reluctantly. “I understand.”

“Thank you, Thea.”

“We will talk later.” She kissed Cait on the cheek and went out. Besa followed, closing the door behind her.

“Will you stay with me?” asked Cait. “I have so many questions and I would rather not be alone with them just now.”

“If that is what you wish,” replied Annora. “In the end, however, it is to God you must go for guidance. I can only tell you the way it has been for me.”

“That,” said Cait, “is what I want to hear.”

“Come, let us walk. The day is bright and the cold will clear your head.”

They passed through the busy refectory. A few of the nuns raised their heads from their meals as they passed; both Besa and Thea glanced up briefly, and then looked away again lest either by expression or sign, they should draw attention to her. For that, Cait was grateful.

The abbess led Cait out into the yard, then along the path leading to the barns and outbuildings. They walked in silence; Cait took deep breaths of the cold mountain air and found it helped banish the fevered thoughts from her mind.

At the first barn they stopped to put some fodder into the crib for the animals. The barn was warm, and heavy with the
sharp smell of sheep and their oily wool. The abbess left the door open to allow the fresh air inside. Several of the ewes were already round-bellied with lambs, including one poor old ewe which appeared ready to burst. “We call that one Sara,” the abbess told her. “She was barren once, but no more. Every year she has triplets or twins.” She reached out and stroked the animal's woolly head. “But this lambing will be her last. Sara is getting too old. Like me.” She looked at Cait. “It is time for someone younger to take my place.”

“Abbess Annora,” began Cait, “surely I cannot—”

“Hush, daughter, I did not mean you—at least not yet. As I said, the choice is yours. I merely meant that I have been feeling my age of late. I know the time is coming when I must lay my burden down and step aside.”

“I see.” Cait nodded, brow puckered in thought.

“All in God's good time, child.” The abbess regarded Cait in the dim light of the barn's open door. “But there is something else, I think.”

“I have a confession,” Cait said. “Once you have heard it, you may change your mind about me.”

Abbess Annora laughed. “Do you know how many confessions I have heard over the years?”

“I doubt you will have heard this,” Cait replied, frowning. There was nothing for it but to name the black deed and face her judgment. She drew a deep breath and blurted, “The cup—the Mystic Rose—I came here to steal it.”

An expression of wonder rearranged the elderly abbess's features. “Well, you are right. In all my years I never have heard
that
. And now that I hear it, I am not at all certain that I believe it.”

“Oh, I assure you it is true. Sadly, I am no better than the worst thief who ever lived.”

“Neither do I believe that. Still, I suspect there is a tale here, and I would hear it. Come, you can tell me while we see to the pigs.”

They walked to the next barn to refresh the water in the pigs' trough, and while they went about this homely duty, the abbess scratched the old boar behind his large ragged ears and listened to Cait's long and rambling explanation of
the events that had brought her to the abbey and to this decisive moment.

She told it all—about her father's murder, how she had gone to confront the murderer, to hold him to justice, but had been thwarted by the appearance of the White Priest, and had stolen the precious letter instead. The letter, she explained, described a great treasure. She went on to tell how, upon discovering the prize to be won, she had raised a company of knights, and traveled to Aragon with the intent of claiming the Holy Cup of Christ for herself. She told about the attack on the trail, and how Thea had been abducted by bandits, how they had searched and searched for her, and how they had at last been found by Prince Hasan Al-Nizar and taken to his palace in the mountains, the resulting skirmish with Ali Waqqar, and how Abu's dying words had led them to the village by the lake.

She finished, saying, “I prayed to be God's instrument of justice. I thought to use the Mystic Rose to lure my father's killer to his doom. For that, I needed the Holy Chalice, and I came here to take it.” Overwhelmed by the enormity of her crimes, Cait lowered her head, awaiting the abbess's censure. “You must think me a most brazen and contemptible sinner. The audacity of my deeds amazes even me.”

“Aye,” agreed Annora, observing Cait with a shrewd appraising eye. “In truth, it does amaze me also. But I do not know what amazes the more—that you should hold yourself so low, or that you should fail to see the Swift Sure Hand at work in these dark deeds to bring about his glorious purpose.”

Cait made to object, but the abbess asked, “Did you know that the Sacred Chalice was here?”

“Why, no,” replied Cait after a moment. “When Brother Matthias was killed all knowledge of the cup was lost, and we gave up any hope of finding it. Also, Alethea and Abu were missing so we abandoned the search in order to rescue them.”

“You did not know the Holy Cup was here until you drank from it, and then its true nature was revealed to you.”

“Yes,” replied Cait. “That is the way of it.”

“Why did you do that, do you suppose?”

Cait recalled the ceremony in the cave. “I saw Alethea and the other nun drink from the cup, and it produced such rapture that it roused me to envy.”

“It is not envy to see the joy of the Lord manifest and want it for yourself. Rather, it is the voice of the Good Shepherd, calling you to himself.” She allowed Cait to think about that for a moment, and then said, “Let us walk some more.”

Cait followed the abbess out into the bright sunlight and crisp cold air once more. Across the field, some nuns were taking firewood from the pile and carrying it to the abbey yard. “We drink but twice from the Holy Cup,” Annora told her. “Once when we begin our life in the abbey, and once when death's dark angel approaches to gather us to our rest. That is the same for all of us.

“But not everyone enjoys the same experience of the cup. Some see visions, it is true, but visions are very rare, and even more rarely the same. As each soul is different, each encounter with the Holy Cup is different, too. Neither Alethea nor Sister Lora saw what you and I have seen. And, of course, neither of them received the stigmata.”

Abbess Annora stopped walking, turned and took Cait by the shoulders. “Do you not see that you have been led here? All that has happened is according to His purpose.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Cait doubtfully.

“Not perhaps. Not maybe. It is as certain as sunrise.” Taking Cait's hand in hers, she laid her fingertips lightly on Cait's wrist and the livid marks now hidden beneath the cloth of her sleeve. “Tell me you cannot see that even now.”

Cait gazed at Annora, desperately wanting to believe what the abbess said might be true.

“Daughter, I said you were
chosen.
” She squeezed Cait for emphasis. “From the beginning your feet have been directed on the path which has led you here.”

“All is as it must be,” Cait murmured to herself. At the abbess's questioning look, she said, “It is something Abbot Emlyn used to say.” Recalling that old scrap from her child
hood comforted her a little; she clutched at it and held on tight.

The abbess released her and stepped away. “It is a beautiful day, but my old bones do not like the cold. I will leave you to think on this a while. We will talk again in the evening.”

The elderly woman walked back along the path, and Cait watched her until she disappeared behind one of the buildings. So wise, she thought, so patient and understanding. Could I be like that? she wondered. Perhaps, as an abbess, one might, given sufficient time, grow into such goodness.

She turned her face to the clear, bright, sun-washed sky. The blue was a pale and delicate bird-egg blue, and the snow-covered peaks of the mountains round about shone with an almost aching brilliance. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her neck and shoulders, she wrapped her arms around her chest and walked on. Lost in thought, she did not heed where she was going, but simply walked until the path ended and the trail leading down into the valley began. Although she could not see the village, she knew that the Yuletide festivities were continuing apace. And Rognvald was waiting for her.

The thought of him down there, waiting, knowing nothing of the extraordinary changes she was facing, produced a restlessness in her. Rognvald and the knights, her stalwart protectors and faithful companions—she had promised to lead them home…

Home—the thought of Caithness far away brought a confused welter of images before her eyes: the churchyard where her mother was buried, and where she had vowed to bury the heart of her father…the lands and fields and the wide, restless bay…the slate-colored sea beneath storm clouds…the copper-colored hills when the heather was red…Suddenly the idea of remaining forever within the close confines of the abbey seemed abhorrent to her. It was astonishing enough that Alethea should choose this life; for herself it was inconceivable.

Raising her hand, she held her wrist before her face, and was again awed by the deep red mark emblazoned on her
flesh. There, for all the world to see, was the indisputable sign of her calling.

The vision still burned in her mind with all the heat and force of a bonfire. There was no denying what she had seen—any more than she could deny the visible signs it had left in her flesh. But neither could she deny who she was—a proud, sometimes arrogant, often stubborn woman—yes, and vengeful—used to thinking her own thoughts, speaking her own mind, and having her own way. Her tolerance for fools, incompetents, and miscreants could be measured in the speed with which she dismembered them with a cutting remark or slashing reply. Anyone who knew her at all, knew the sharp edge of Cait's tongue was a cruel and ready weapon.

How, then, in the name of God's Sweet Son, could she endure the endless cycle of confession and forgiveness of weak-willed, selfish, and unthinking offenders? The notion of shepherding a flock of nattering women, and officiating over the mundane concerns and petty grievances of an all-female fellowship left her cold as the snow-topped mountain peaks towering aloof and frozen in the distance.

And yet, she reasoned, perhaps this was precisely what it meant to be chosen. Perhaps God was calling her to a life of sacrifice: never to know the love of a man, never to hold a child of her own in her arms, never to see her dear ones again, to surrender her considerable will and live in continual, everlasting submission to the One Great Will, and never allow herself to
be
herself ever again.

Thus, she had come to an impasse. She stood gazing at the trail as it passed between the towering shoulders of the mountains, and it was as if the steep and rocky descent signified her dilemma. To answer the call was to go down into the valley of despair, from which there was no return.

God in Heaven,
she thought miserably,
it is a fate worse than death. What should I do?

The soughing of the wind in the high rocks made a dis
tant whispery sound, as if their ancient voices would speak to her.

And they did speak. For, as she listened, she heard the sound of storm-roused waves on the rough shingle of the bay below Banvar
. She heard the rustle of bracken on the low sun-splashed hills; she heard the driven rain rippling through the dry stubble of the grain fields. As a child she had roamed the green wilderness of Caithness; in the long years of her father's absence, she had come to love the land and the people who lived in it.