The Mystic Rose (5 page)

Cait smiled; the old seaman seemed to be going out of his way to demonstrate his acceptance of her as the new master of the vessel. For that, she was grateful. She thanked him and sent him on his way, and then she had begun her work of revenge.

The previous day, the consul had told her that de Bracineaux was a friend of King Baldwin and a guest of the emperor. To find the Templar commander all she had to do was discover which of the many imperial residences was being used by the friends, relations, and entourage of the newly wedded couple. With Thea in tow, she had then begun the tedious and tiring inquiry—a delicate investigation which necessitated shrewdness, tact, and a finely honed sense of diplomacy—particular skills which Cait possessed in fair measure, when she cared to use them.

It was late when they left the Magnaura Palace precinct where Cait had at last been able to tease out the information she required. They had stopped to buy a little fruit and bread and cheese at a market they happened by, and then continued on their way to the Blachernae Palace where the members of the royal wedding entourage were staying as guests of Emperor Manuel Comnenus.

Now, as evening descended around them, Cait settled back in the chair, and allowed herself to think about what lay ahead. She closed her eyes and rehearsed the decisive moment in her mind, trying to imagine it down to the smallest detail so that she should not be taken by surprise.

They were closer to the palace than they knew, and soon Philippianous halted the chair and pointed to an enormous square structure in brick and stone rising from behind a stout wall. “The palace, my lady,” he said, as if he were the proud owner.

Caitríona observed the flat, undistinguished façade, with its alternating colors of brickwork, and its high-peaked roof shingled with red tile, and decided that it looked more like the Earl's great house in Orkney than the favorite residence of the Holy Roman Empire's exalted ruler.

“This is the palace?” wondered Alethea aloud. Like Cait, she had imagined something far more grand and imposing.

“Indeed, yes,” Philippianous assured them. “The Palace of Blachernae is renowned. People come from all over the world to see it.”

There were four soldiers standing in the street before a gate wide enough and high enough to allow the royal carriages of kings and princes to pass through with ease. “Be so kind as to announce us,” Cait instructed.

“It would be a pleasure, my lady,” replied their expansive guide.

“Say that Ladies Deborah and Constance de Payens have arrived for their audience with Commander de Bracineaux.”

At this, Alethea, who had been daydreaming about the rich pearl-studded gowns the empress reputedly wore, sat up sharply. Her Greek was not as good as her sister's, but she understood this last without any difficulty. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “Those are not our names.”

“Quiet, Thea,” snapped Cait. “Do as you are told.”

Philippianous' smiling features arranged themselves into a knowing smirk. He opened his mouth, but Cait cut him off before he could comment. “Announce us,” she commanded.

Cait turned on her sister. “Now listen, Thea,” she warned. “Keep your mouth shut, and do what I tell you, or I will leave you here by yourself. Understand?”

“I still cannot see why we have to—”

“I mean it!” Cait raised a threatening finger.

Alethea nodded sourly.

“Good. I will explain everything later.”

Philippianous had made their names known to the porter, a hulking drone who waved the chair and its occupants through the gate—eyeing the nubile younger woman lustfully as the two passed. Inside the palace grounds, they proceeded at once to the courtyard and the palace entrance where they were halted by guards, and where, once again, the doors were opened without further question when the commander's name was given.

“Be so kind as to wait here,” Cait told the bearers. “God willing, we may not be long. If you are ready to depart the moment we return I will double your fee.”

“Most gracious lady,” replied Philippianous grandly, “we will await your appearance with confident expectation.” He led them to the massive copper-gilded iron doors, where they were escorted into the palace without delay.

Once inside, they were met by an aging courtier who demanded to know their business. “We are invited to an audience with Commander de Bracineaux,” Caitríona replied crisply.

The courtier cocked his head to one side and gave the two young women a long, dubious glance. “Even so?”

“The invitation was issued by the Master himself.” Cait leaned forward and placed her hand on the man's arm, putting her mouth close to his ear. “He said to tell anyone who asked that we are—” she paused precisely long enough to leave no doubt in the courtier's mind that it was a lie, and then added, “his
nieces
.”

The elderly courtier pulled away as if burned by her touch. He drew himself up to speak, and Cait thought he might refuse them then and there. Instead, he merely turned on his heel and led them across the entrance hall to a long flight of wooden stairs. Without a word, he indicated that they were to ascend. Cait thanked the servant and, taking the dumbstruck Alethea's hand, proceeded up the stairs without looking back.

They emerged on the next floor and stepped into a large, wood-panelled vestibule connecting three long corridors lined with doors. Two yawning servants leaning against a gilded column regarded the newcomers lazily, but made no
move to help them. Cait presented herself and asked in which of the apartments the Templar de Bracineaux might be found. The chamberlain raised a hand, indicated the central corridor, and said, “Sixth door.”

Thea close behind, Cait proceeded down the corridor, drawing a deep breath to calm herself. It was going better than she had hoped, but an instant's carelessness would ruin everything. They passed several doors, and heard coarse singing emanating from behind one of them; from behind another came a loud crash followed by raucous laughter and stamping feet.

So, the local gossip is true,
she thought.
The Franks sleep when they should work, eat when they should sleep, and roister when they should pray. They rarely wash, talk too loud, blow their noses on their clothing, and rut like pigs.

As they approached the sixth door, Alethea squeezed Cait's hand. “Someone is coming!” she whispered.

Caitríona looked quickly down to the far end of the corridor where a figure had just appeared in the passageway. As the figure approached she saw the tray of cups in her hand. “It is just a serving girl.”

She waited until the girl drew near and paused at the sixth door, whereupon Cait approached her quickly and asked whether the cups and jar were bound for the commander's chamber. “Indeed, my lady,” replied the girl.

“Leave it with me,” said Cait, taking the tray from her. “We were just about to join him. You may go.”

The girl looked at the two women, and then surrendered to their unarguably superior rank. She delivered the tray with a tight bow, and retreated quickly the way she had come. As soon as the girl was gone, Cait laid the tray on the floor; she quickly shrugged off her costly mantle and handed it to her sister; next, she removed the dagger from its sheath at her side and tucked it into her girdle at the back so that it would be out of sight, yet ready to hand.

“What are you doing?” asked Alethea, eyeing the dagger.

“I told you. I have to talk to someone.” Cait picked up the tray. “Stay here and keep watch. Knock on the door if anyone should come.”

Alethea made to protest, but Cait's raised eyebrow persuaded her to hold her tongue. Glancing nervously both ways along the corridor, she said, “Hurry, then.”

Balancing the tray with one hand, Cait reached for the latch and, taking a deep steadying breath to calm her pounding heart, pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside.

T
HE ROOM WAS
large and dark, and opened onto a smaller inner chamber which in turned opened onto a balcony overlooking a garden court. The double doors separating the rooms were thrown wide, and two men were sitting at a small round table on the balcony, enjoying the soft evening air. Even by fitful torchlight, she recognized the broad shoulders and untidy mane of white hair belonging to Renaud de Bracineaux. With a glance at Alethea, who made a last anxious plea to hurry, Cait closed the door behind her and stepped inside.

At the sound of the door closing, Commander de Bracineaux called, “Here, girl.”

Steadying the tray, she moved through the darkened room toward the balcony. De Bracineaux's back was to her, and the other man—a younger fellow with a large, beak-like nose, fair, straight hair and a fine, silky wisp of a beard—was leaning on the table with his arms crossed. Neither man was armed, and both were deep in conversation. A quick strike from behind, and she would be gone again before the Templar knew what had happened.

“Think what it is worth,” de Bracineaux was saying.

“More than I can imagine,” the fair-haired one replied. “I should think the pope will give you anything you want. The reward will be yours to name.”

“Ha!” de Bracineaux sneered. “If you think that conniv
ing old lecher is going to get his poxy hands on it, then you, my friend, are an even bigger ass than his high holiness.”

One step, and another, and she would be in position. Before she could reach the table, however, the second man looked up. “I have not seen you before,” he said, rising abruptly.

Cait halted.

“Let me help you with that heavy thing.” He grinned and stepped toward her, but the Templar grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his chair. “Sit down, d'Anjou,” he growled. “Plenty of time for
that
later.”

The younger man lowered himself to his seat again, and Cait proceeded to the table, remaining behind de Bracineaux and out of his sight. She placed the tray on the table, and made to step away, her right hand reaching for the hilt of the slender dagger at her back.

As her fingers tightened on the braided grip, the Templar cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. She saw his lowered brow and the set of his jaw, and feared the worst.

Silently, she slipped the dagger from its sheath, ready to strike. But the light of recognition failed to illumine his eyes. “Well?” he demanded. “Get to your work, now. Light the lamps and leave us.”

Cait hesitated, waiting for him to settle back in his chair. When she did not move, the Templar turned on her. “Do as I say, girl, and be quick about it!”

Startled, Cait stepped back a pace, almost losing her grip on the weapon.

“Peace, Renaud,” said his companion. Reaching out, he took the Templar's sleeve and tugged him around. “Come, I have poured the wine.” He raised his cup and took a long, deep draft.

De Bracineaux swung back to the table, picked up his cup and, tilting his head back, let the wine run down his gullet.
Now!
thought Cait, rising onto the balls of her feet.
Do it now!

Her hand freed the knife and she moved forward. At that instant, without warning, the door burst open and a thick-set, bull-necked Templar strode into the room behind her. Cait whipped the dagger out of sight, and backed away.

“Ah, here is Gislebert now!” said d'Anjou loudly.

The Templar paused as he passed, regarding Cait with dull suspicion. She ducked her head humbly, and quickly retreated into the darkened room.

“Come, sergeant,” called the fair-haired man, “raise a cup and give us the good news. Are we away to Jerusalem at last?”

“My lord, baron,” said Gislebert, turning his attention to the others. “Good to see you, sir. You had a pleasant journey, I trust.”

As the men began talking once more, Cait was forgotten—her chance ruined. She might cut one or even two men before they could react, but never three. And the sergeant was armed.

Still, she was close. The opportunity might never come again.

Reluctant to give up, she busied herself in the adjoining room, steeling herself for another attempt. Fetching some straw from the corner of the hearth, she stooped and lit it from the pile of embers. There was a lamp on the table, two candles in a double sconce on the wall by the bed, and a candletree in the corner. She lit the candles first, taking her time, hoping that Gislebert would leave.

She moved to the table and, as she touched the last of the straw to the lamp wick, became aware that someone was watching her from the doorway. Fearing she had been discovered at last, she took a deep breath, steadied herself and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

She did not see him at first. Her eyes went to the men who were still at the table on the balcony, cups in hand, their voices a murmur of intimate conversation. They were no longer heeding her. But, as she bent once more to the task at hand, she caught a movement in a darkened corner of the room and turned just as a man stepped from the shadows.

She stifled a gasp.

Dressed in the long white robe of a priest, he held up his hand, palm outward in an attitude of blessing—or to hold her in her place. Perhaps both, she thought. A man of youthful appearance, his hair and beard were black without a trace
of gray and the curls clipped like the shorn pelt of a sheep. His eyes, though set deep beneath a dark and heavy brow, were bright and his glance was keen. He stepped forward into the doorway, placing himself between Cait and the men.

When he moved she felt a shudder in the air, as if a gust of wind had swept in through the open door; but the candles did not so much as quiver. At the same time, she smelled the fresh, clean scent of the heathered hills after a storm has passed.

“Do not be afraid,” said the man, his voice calm and low. “I merely wish to speak to you.”

Cait glanced nervously beyond him to where the Templar and his companions sat at their wine.

“Blind guides,” he said, indicating the men. “They have neither eyes to see, nor ears to hear.”

“Who are you?” As she asked the question, she glanced again at de Bracineaux and his companions; now laughing heartily, they appeared oblivious to both her and the stranger.

“Call me Brother Andrew,” he said.

At the name, Cait felt her throat tighten. She gulped down a breath of air. “I know about you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “My father told me.”

“Your family has been in my service for a long time. That is why I have come—to ask if you will renew the vow of your father and grandfather.”

“What vow is that?”

“I asked young Murdo to build me a kingdom where my sheep could safely graze…”

“Build it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving,” Cait said, repeating the words she had learned as a child on her grandfather's knee. “Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.”

He smiled. “There, you see? You do know it.”

“He did that. He built you a kingdom,” she said bluntly, “and died an old man—waiting for you to come as you promised.”

“Truly, his faith has been rewarded a thousandfold,” the White Priest told her. “But now it is your turn. In each generation the vow must be renewed. I ask you, sister, will you serve me?”

At the question, Cait felt a hardness rise up in her, like a rock in her chest. She hesitated and looked away, not daring to meet the White Priest's commanding gaze.

“Caitríona,” chided Brother Andrew gently, “I know what is in your heart.”

When she did not answer, the monk shook his head sadly and moved a step closer. “Thus says the Lord of Hosts: ‘As surely as I live forever, when I sharpen my fiery sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my enemies and repay those who hate me.'”

She set her jaw and clung to her silence.

“I ask you, sister, do you believe that the Great King is able to perform justice for his servants?”

Her answer was quick and biting. “If his justice is as ready as his protection, his servants had better sleep with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.”

“His ways are not our ways. Whatever misfortune befalls one of his own, the Allwise Creator is able to bend it to his will. He will not suffer evil to prevail,” he replied.

She could feel his eyes on her, but she was determined not to be swayed by anything he said. “And yet it
does
prevail.”

“Look at me, Caitríona,” the monk commanded. She raised her eyes slowly. He was watching her with an intensity which burned across the distance between them. “I ask but once more: will you serve me?”

Both her father and her grandfather had stood before the White Priest, and both had answered his call. How could she do less?

“I will,” she replied at last.

“Then put aside your wrath, and believe. For it is written: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, says the Lord. In due time their foot will slip; the day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.' Behold,” he said, pointing to the table behind her, “this is the work I am giving you. When it is finished, you shall receive the desires of your heart.”

She turned to look where he was pointing and saw a parchment document—a formal-looking communication in Latin. The image on the broken seal looked regal, and the signature at the bottom of the document was in red ink—as were the words
Rosa Mystica
.

Cait picked up the letter and turned to ask what it was the White Priest wanted her to do. But he was gone, and she was alone once more. She looked at the letter in her hand, but before she could read any of it, de Bracineaux shouted from the other room. “Here! You! Get away from there!”

“For the love of God, de Bracineaux, leave the wench be,” said d'Anjou.

“I will see her off,” said Gislebert. He rose from the table and lumbered in from the balcony.

Taking up the tray once more, Cait whipped the folded parchment out of sight beneath it. She turned and made a slight bow toward the men, then bolted from the room. Gislebert watched her go, and then moved to the door, closing it firmly after her.

She stepped out into the corridor once more. Alethea was hovering in the passageway, wringing her hands and looking as if she had swallowed a mouse. “Are you all right?” she asked as Cait emerged from the chamber.

“No thanks to you,” snapped Cait. “You were supposed to warn me.”

“He surprised me.”

“Yes, he surprised me too.”

“Now you are angry,” pouted Alethea. “He came up behind me and caught me lingering by the door and told me to get about my business. What could I do?”

They moved quickly off along the corridor. Returning to the vestibule, Cait laid the tray aside and, while Thea kept watch, drew on her mantle once more and tucked the parchment away; then the two women descended the stairs and retraced their steps outside where, as arranged, the chair and bearers were still waiting. They climbed into the chair, and Cait instructed Philippianous to take them to the Bucoleon Harbor.

“Well?” demanded Alethea, as they passed through the
gate and back into the street once more. “What happened? Did you see him?”

“I saw him,” muttered Cait.

“Well, what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“You were in there a long time. He must have said something,” insisted Alethea.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cait caught Philippianous leaning toward them so as to overhear their discussion. “Not now,” Cait told her sister. “Later.”

“I want to hear it now.”

“Shut up, you stupid girl,” Cait blurted, changing to Gaelic. “They are listening to us.”

“All very well for you,” squeaked Alethea indignantly, “Lady Caitríona gets to do whatever she likes, while
I
have to be her dutiful slave.”

Cait turned away from her sister and watched the activity in the streets instead. Fires bright in iron braziers and countless oil lamps illumined the night with a garish glow. In some of the broader avenues, musicians played—pipe and lute, tambor and lyre—and people danced, hands upraised, stepping lightly as they spun and turned. Occasionally, an enterprising merchant would approach the passing chair and offer his wares: bangles and necklaces of colored glass beads, pots of perfumed unguent, satin ribbons, and tiny bunches of dried flowers for the ladies' hair.

The variety and charm of the baubles distracted Alethea from her sister's stinging rebuke, and she would have stopped and bought trinkets from them all, but Cait instructed Philippianous and his bearers to move on. As they neared the seafront, the streets became quieter and darker—the houses meaner, the people more furtive, sinister. Arriving at the harbor, however, the seamen and sailors drinking wine and playing dice on the wharf gave the quayside a less threatening atmosphere.

More than one lonely seafarer licked his lips hopefully as the two women stepped from the chair. One or two of the younger men called to them, offering wine and an evening's entertainment. “As agreed,” said Cait, dropping a stack of
small silver coins into Philippianous' outstretched hand. “And, as promised, a little extra for your trouble.” She dropped a few more coins into his hand.

“This,” she said, taking out a single gold
solidus,
“is for forgetting you ever saw us. Do you think you can do that?”

“Most certainly, gracious lady.” He reached for the coin eagerly.

She snatched it back. “I beg your pardon?”

A sly smile appeared on his face. “Is someone speaking? I see no one here.”

She let the coin slip through her fingers. “Excuse me, I think you must have dropped something.”

“How clumsy of me,” replied Philippianous, bending to retrieve the coin. When he straightened, the two women were already hurrying away.