The Mystic Rose (46 page)

Some of the sisters took this hard. They raised their voices and stretched out their hands, pleading to know if there was not some other way. The abbess turned a deaf ear to their cries. “Peace, dear sisters,” Annora continued. “Cease your pleading and have faith. All shall be well. I have requested a last communion with the cup, and it has been granted. Each sister will partake of the cup this night. Now, I want all of you to go and wash, and put on your best habits; let us pay a reverent and joyful farewell to the Holy Cup we have protected so long.”

The sisters did as they were told, and were soon gathering in the yard outside the refectory, each with a candle to light the way to the chapel. The gently flickering gleam on the snow mirrored the heavens as the nuns stood waiting. One of the sisters began to sing, and all quickly joined in, their voices ringing in the crisp, cold air. They sounded like a heavenly choir, Cait thought, as the angelic sound swirled up and up into the moon-bright sky.

When all were assembled, the abbess led them to the chapel cut into the rock of the mountain. They processed along the deep-shadowed passages, the song echoing down unseen corridors and walls round about, until they entered the cavernous sanctuary where they silently formed a wide circle around the altar.

After lighting the altar candles, the abbess turned to the nuns and said, “Beloved Sisters in Christ, for generations beyond counting our order has remained faithful to its calling. Tonight, our long vigil of obedience is at an end. Tomorrow we will deliver Our Lord's Sacred Chalice to the
agents of the pope, and a new day of God's grace will dawn.”

These words brought tears to the eyes of many of the older nuns, and a gentle sniffling could be heard around the candlelit ring.

“Though the cup shall no longer form the center point of our life here in the abbey, nevertheless life will go on. What our duty shall be, we cannot yet tell. But I know that whatever is given us, we will strive to serve God with the same humility and faith that have distinguished our order from its beginning to this day.

“My dear sisters, your tears show that you have borne your duty with loving hearts, and this is right and good. But do not give in to sorrow; rather let your hearts be glad. For surely, this is the long-awaited sign that the Day of the Lord is upon us; our redemption is drawing near.”

Here the old abbess turned to face the altar; she knelt briefly, and then approached the great golden cross which occupied the altar top. Placing her hands on either side of the cross, she gently pressed the hidden catch and the door opened in the base. Making the sign of the cross—once, twice, three times, while saying a simple prayer for purity—she then withdrew the holy relic from its hiding place in the base of the cross. Turning to the sisters, she raised the chalice high and said, “This will be the last time we partake of the Blessed Cup together. Let us do so with the love of Our Lord in our hearts, and the prayer on our lips that God's mighty purpose shall achieve its fulfillment in our sight.”

Taking the cup, she bowed her head over it and stood for a long time in silent prayer; then, eyes closed, she raised her face toward Heaven and said, “Father of Lights, in whom there is no darkness at all, nor shadow of turning: we, the humblest of your many servants, greet you with gladness, and glory in the greatness of your holy name even as we remember the countless blessings you have showered upon us throughout these many years. Tonight, according to your will which has been revealed to us through your emissary on earth, we lay down our duty of care and relinquish the charge we have long maintained. Know that we have only
ever sought the pleasure of your service, O Lord, and we ask you to look kindly on the work of your servants, for the sake of your Son, Our Savior.”

Then, beginning with the oldest member of the order, Abbess Annora took the cup to the sisters and gave them to drink, lingering before each one, speaking softly, offering words of comfort and hope. Cait, standing next to Alethea, watched as the Holy Vessel made its slow way around the circle and wondered if she, along with her sister, would be included in the sacred rite.

As the cup came nearer, she heard Alethea praying to herself, and so bent her head as well. But what to say? Her thoughts and feelings were in such a ferment of confusion she did not know how to pray. To honor the abbess, she must go against her call by the White Priest; yet, to obey the White Priest, she must betray the abbess. In the end, she fell back on her first, and most heartfelt desire.
Lord of Hosts, and Ruler of Destinies,
she prayed,
a great injustice has taken place; the blood of my father, your servant, cries out to be avenged. You, whose judgment against the wicked is everlasting, make me the instrument of your vengeance. Lord, hear my prayer.

Voices sounded in the passageway. There was a shout. She looked up and saw men with torches swarming into the sanctuary. In the wildly flickering light, she caught a glimpse of a red cross on a white cloak and knew the Templars had come to take their prize.

T
HE ROCK-CUT
sanctuary was suddenly filled with Templar knights. Swords drawn, they rushed for the altar. The circle of nuns collapsed into a tightly huddled knot around the abbess and the Holy Cup. Within moments they were surrounded by the white-cloaked knights. Some of the frightened sisters cried out in terror, others fell to their knees, hands clasped in desperate prayer, as the naked blades encircled them.

From the center of the close-crowded mass, Cait observed the nearest knights. Faces tight in the lurid light, they stared with oddly hesitant severity at the quaking nuns. Young men for the most part, they were not yet jaded by the constant warring of their order, and unused to attacking women—much less nuns. They glanced guiltily at one another, growing more uncertain of their duty with every passing moment. Someone called a calming order from across the sanctuary; Cait looked out and saw Sergeant Gislebert approach, a torchbearer on either side.

As he drew near, the abbess pressed the Holy Cup into Cait's hands, saying, “I will speak to him.”

Taking the chalice, she felt a mild burning sensation in the marks of her stigmata, as if the sympathetic wounds in her hands and feet and side were aroused by the nearness of the Holy Vessel. The abbess turned and pushed through the protective cluster of distraught sisters to address the sergeant. “What is this?” she demanded angrily. Before he could reply, she said, “You invade sanctified ground like brigands
and violate the custom of our order to interrupt a sacred and holy sacrament by force of arms.” She stepped before him, pushing the point of his sword aside with a bare hand. “By what authority do you perpetrate this sacrilege?”

Abbess Annora stood defiant before him, holding her frail body erect, her whole being ablaze with holy anger. The sergeant was taken aback by the force of her outrage. He looked around as if seeking the aid of his absent superior.

“I demand an answer!” said the abbess, her voice sharp as a slap. Some of the Templars shifted uneasily in their places.

“By the authority of the Master of Jerusalem,” replied Gislebert unhappily, “and under his command, we have come for the Sacred Cup.”

“I agreed with your commander that we would bring it in the morning,” said the abbess. “We are not finished with our observance.”

“He wants it now,” muttered the sergeant dully. “Where is it?”

“The Blessed Cup is in my keeping until I place it in the hands of the archbishop,” Annora said. “And
I
say when that will be. Until then, you shall not touch it.”

Gislebert, out of his depth with this spirited woman, seemed at a loss to know how to proceed in this confrontation. He looked across at the trembling nuns and came to a decision at last. “You can take up the matter with the Master.” Turning away, he called a command to his knights. “Bring them,” he shouted. “Bring them all!”

The entire order, with the abbess at its head, was driven out into the frigid night and made to toil down the steep mountain pathways by the fitful light of the Templar torches. The knights, embarrassed to be riding while the nuns were made to walk, offered their mounts to the oldest captives, and the rest dismounted at intervals and took up places along the way in the more perilous steeps where, due to ice, or loose rock, the path had become unsound. Thus, they lit the way for the order as, silent but full of reproachful glances, the Gray Marys made their slow way down to the village.

Night was far gone when they reached the valley.
Sergeant Gislebert marched his straggling charges through the silent village to the church. By the light of low-burning candles on the altar, Cait could see that the people were still there—most of them asleep in heaps on the floor. Grand Commander de Bracineaux dozed in his chair, and Archbishop Bertrano was stretched out on the low platform beneath the altar. Baron D'Anjou came awake as the door opened; he stood and nudged the Templar commander, saying, “Wake up, de Bracineaux. The sergeant has returned with your lady friend.”

“At last,” said the commander, sitting up as the nuns entered, limping and staggering from their enforced ordeal in the dead of night. He took one look at the line of exhausted women, and cried, “What have you done, Gislebert? I send you for the relic and you bring the entire convent.”

“Just so,” mused d'Anjou, a perverse smile playing on his lips. “This affair ripens most deliciously.”

The entrance of the sisters wakened the sleeping archbishop and townsfolk. They roused themselves and stood. Some of the villagers, seeing the distress of the sisters, all of whom they knew and loved, ran to their aid; they sat the women down, wrapped them in cloaks and mantles and chafed their hands to warm them. Cait and Alethea found places at the back of the assembly near the door.
Where are they?
Cait wondered, quickly surveying the dim interior for any sign of her knights.
What has happened to them?

Despite her fatigue, the abbess strode to where de Bracineaux sat, and said, “We agreed that I would deliver the cup tomorrow in my own good time. Why have you violated our agreement?”

The archbishop, alarmed by this unexpected development, rushed to intercede. “What has happened? Dear sister abbess, come, sit you down.” To de Bracineaux, he said, “What is this, commander? What have you done to these poor women?”

“He ordered his soldiers to storm the convent,” the abbess declared loudly, “and bear the Blessed Cup away by force.”

“Is this true?” demanded the archbishop, aghast at the accusation.

“Be quiet,” snapped de Bracineaux irritably.

Undeterred, the abbess said, “You would take by force that which was to be freely given? What manner of man are you, Commander de Bracineaux?”

“An impatient man.” He glared at the abbess. “I might have granted you the condition we agreed upon if you had not dealt falsely with me.”

“Preposterous!” said the abbess.

“Oh?” sneered the commander. “Do you deny that you shelter a known enemy beneath the cloak of your order?” He thrust an accusing finger at Cait. “That one—bring her here.”

As a nearby Templar worked his way toward them, Cait removed the cup from inside her robe, where she had carried it lest she stumble and drop it while on the trail. “Keep this out of sight,” she whispered, passing the Sacred Vessel to Alethea. She stepped out from among the sisters at the rear of the church and took her place beside the abbess. “So, you thought I would not recognize you a second time,” de Bracineaux said. “Most unwise, lady. Most unwise.”

Levelling his malignant gaze at Cait, he said, “See here, archbishop, this is the woman who stole your letter. You know her, I think.”

“I have seen her before, yes,” the archbishop confessed. To Cait, he said, “Lady, is it true? Did you steal the letter?”

“Why ask
her
?” demanded de Bracineaux angrily. “You know the truth of it—how else could she have cozened you with lies about my death?”

“Let her speak,” said Bertrano. “I would hear it from her own lips.” Turning once more to Caitríona, he said, “Is it true, lady? Did you steal the letter from Commander de Bracineaux?”

“I did,” answered Cait simply. “And I would do it again.”

“Why?”

“What difference does it make?” charged de Bracineaux, rounding on her again. “She has admitted the theft, and stands condemned out of her own mouth. She must be punished for her crime—and all who aided her in this deception
shall be punished as well.” He glared around the church as if he meant to begin seizing villagers then and there.

Brother Timotheus pushed his way forward. “Heaven forbid!” he cried. “We know nothing of any crime. This lady has shown us only kindness and respect. She is a true noblewoman in every way.”

“No doubt she can appear so when it suits her,” said de Bracineaux smugly. “The archbishop and I know otherwise.”

Archbishop Bertrano turned sorrowful eyes on Cait and asked again, “Why did you take the letter? Was it to steal the Holy Cup for yourself?”

“I did take the letter,” she replied. “I went to the commander's room that night to avenge the murder of my father, Lord Duncan of Caithness. Renaud de Bracineaux killed him in Constantinople,” she said evenly, pointing to the commander. “I wanted to find a way to hurt him, and I allowed myself to imagine the Blessed Cup would help me to do that.” She paused and looked to Abbess Annora. “I was wrong.”

“Yes, of course,” said de Bracineaux as the last details of the explanation fell into place, “you were with him in the church that day.” His face twisted in a paroxysm of hate and gloating triumph. “So, Duncan had a daughter. I imagined he was alone, otherwise I would have finished you, too.”

The archbishop turned astonished eyes on the Grand Commander of Jerusalem. “Is this true? You murdered her father?”

“I settled an old debt, yes,” replied de Bracineaux carelessly. “As Defender of Jerusalem, it is my right to vanquish the enemies of the Holy Land—wherever I encounter them.”

“Very messy, my friend,” said d'Anjou, shaking his head slowly. He regarded Cait with an expression of delight that made her skin crawl. “It seems you've made an extremely resourceful enemy. You want to be more careful.”

“Archbishop Bertrano,” said the abbess, “I refuse to deliver the Sacred Chalice of Our Savior into the hands of a self-confessed murderer. If we are to surrender the holy
relic, I demand that it be given to Pope Adrian himself, and no one else.”

“From your hands to his, abbess,” answered Bertrano. “In view of all that has come to light, I agree that would be best.”

“No!” roared de Bracineaux. “That we will
not
do. It has been entrusted to me, and I will fulfill my duty.” He stepped nearer so that he towered over the abbess. “I want the cup. Now. Give it over.”

“I will not.”

De Bracineaux's hand whipped out and caught the old woman on the cheek. The force of the blow snapped her head sideways and she staggered backward. Cait caught her as she fell and bore her up.

“I will not ask you again, old woman.” De Bracineaux stood over the half-kneeling abbess. “Bring me the cup.”

Brother Timotheus rushed to interpose himself between the Templar and the abbess. He raised his hands before the commander's face, crying “Peace! Peace!”

“Fool, get out of my way.” De Bracineaux shoved the priest violently aside. The cleric fell, striking his head on the stone-flagged floor. He groaned and lay still.

All at once the villagers rose up with a shout. They had watched the conversations in bewildered silence, but an attack on their beloved priest was something they understood. They rushed forward in a mass, swarming over the commander, lashing at him with fists and feet.

“Sergeant!” roared de Bracineaux as he fell.

D'Anjou and Gislebert, swords in hand, leaped to defend the fallen commander. Two of the Templars near the door sprang forth, wading into the clot of people. Cait, still holding the abbess, moved back through the surging crowd, pulling the elderly woman back from the fray.

It was over in a moment. When the shouting and chaos subsided, three lay unconscious and four more were wounded. Gislebert, d'Anjou, and the two Templars stood over the commander with bloody swords, defying anyone else to come near. De Bracineaux climbed to his feet; he was bleeding from a split lip, and sputtering with rage. “Get
these people out of here!” he shouted, swinging his arm wildly in the direction of the cowering congregation. “This outrage will be avenged. Get them out!”

The Templars started forward, but before they could lay hands on any of the offending villagers the church door burst open. “Master!” shouted the Templar soldier who entered. “You are needed at once.”

From outside someone shouted, “Moors!”

De Bracineaux whirled toward the open door. “What?”

“Hurry, my lord. We are attacked.”