The Mystic Rose (13 page)

“There are,” confessed Cait. “One, at least, but probably many more by now. They are the reason for this…this…” she searched for a word and did not find one.

“
Pilgrimage?
” suggested Rognvald, supplying the term she had used before.

“It is no pilgrimage,” Cait admitted.

“No?”

She looked across the deck to where the knights were now lolling around the brazier, their voices loud with raucous talk. Rognvald was right; she had entrusted her life to
these knights, she might as well trust him with the rest. She stood. “Come with me. It will be easier if I show you.”

She led him below deck to her father's quarters where she opened the wooden sea chest containing his clothes and belongings. Reaching down into the chest, she felt along the side of the box and brought out a flat parcel wrapped in one of her mantles. While a bemused Rognvald watched, she untied the knotted fabric and withdrew a flat parchment tied with a red silk band.

“This,” she said, placing the document in his hands, “is why we are going to Galicia.” She indicated that he should open it.

He untied the silk band and opened the stiff parchment. “A letter,” he said, scanning the salutation, “to the Patriarch of Rome.”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “and it leads to a prodigious treasure.”

“T
HAT WHICH IS
beyond all price,” intoned Rognvald, following his finger along the heavy parchment, “the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the…what?
Rosa Mystica
. .” His voice trailed off and he looked to Cait for an explanation.

“I do not know what it is, either,” she confessed. “He calls it the greatest treasure in the world. I mean to have it.”

“And the Templars? What of them?”

“The letter was in the possession of a Templar commander,” Cait explained. “I got it from him.”

“You stole it,” guessed Rognvald.

“Yes.”

The Norseman nodded slowly. “This priest, Bertrano—do you know him?”

“All I know about him is there.” She pointed to the elaborate signature in red ink: Bertrano de Almira, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela. “First we find the man who wrote this letter and induce him to tell us where the treasure can be found. Then we go and get it.”

Rognvald frowned and looked at the letter again. “Simple plans are often the best,” he mused.

Cait caught a note of censure in his tone. “You disapprove?”

“Of the treasure? No.” Tapping the signature with his finger, he said, “But have you considered that Archbishop
Bertrano may not feel like telling you what you want to know?”

“You asked me what I planned to do, and I have told you.” Cait stood and, hands on hips, glared down at the disagreeable knight. “I do not require your approval, my lord, but I will insist on your obedience. And I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

 

They came in sight of Cyprus the second day after leaving Tyre, and that evening
Persephone
sailed into the harbor at Famagusta. The rumored pirates had not appeared, and the crossing proved wholly uneventful—which Cait counted a victory for her decision. The next morning, as soon as the markets opened, she sent Rognvald and the knights into the city to search out the best armorer. “Take Abu with you, and when you have found the one,” she instructed, “send Abu to fetch me. He will find me in the street of tailors.”

The knights departed in high spirits, and Cait and Alethea disembarked a short while later, with Otti as an escort, and proceeded to a narrow dog-leg of a street where the city's tailors plied their trade. They passed along, examining the goods on display carefully, and asking the prices.

“Oh, look, Cait,” said Alethea, holding up a white linen mantle with tiny blue flowers embroidered around the neck. “It is beautiful, is it not?”

A young Greek fellow squatting in the doorway leaped up just then, crying, “No! No! No! This is not for you. God forbid, my fine lady, you should ever wear anything so coarse and unflattering.” He seized the mantle and tossed it back onto the pile of folded garments. “This!” he said, producing a mantle in butter-colored satin. “This is for my lady.”

Alethea was delighted. “Oh, Cait, look!” She clasped the delicate mantle to her and gazed down at its shimmering length. “It is wonderful.”

Sensing a potential sale in the offing, two tailors from across the street hurried over. “You like this, lady? We have more,” said one. “And better than this,” added the other. “Much better. Here, come, we will show you.”

The young Greek stepped between his customers and the
other merchants. “Get back, Theodoros. Away with you.” He pushed them back. “I saw them first. Go. Leave us in peace.”

“If he cannot help you,” called Theodoros, “come to us. We have better goods.”

“If I cannot help them, I will personally bring them to you. Now, go.”

Having sent away his rivals, he turned to his customers, and made a polite bow. “I am Didimus. What can I show you? A new cloak perhaps? I have several I think would appeal.”

“Where did you learn your craft?” asked Cait, examining the stitching on the mantle Alethea still clutched tightly in her hands.

“My family lived in Jerusalem—six generations, all tailors,” the young man said. “When the city fell to the Franks, we were among those fortunate enough to survive. We fled to Jaffa, and then here. Now, I am the only one left.” His long, sad face brightened. “But I have a son. God willing, he will learn all I have to teach and he will become the best tailor in Famagusta, like his father.”

“It is good work. But we are not looking for ourselves,” she said, and went on to explain that she required clothes for four men. “Everything,” she said, “from cloaks to belts.”

“Small-clothes as well?” he asked politely.

“Small-clothes as well. Everything.”

“It will be a pleasure, my lady,” he said, bowing low. He ran to the door and called to someone inside, then returned with a stool for Cait. “Please, be seated. I will bring you some things to examine, and we will begin.”

He hurried away again, and returned with an armload of cloth which had been half-sewn into cloaks. While he was showing Cait his wares, a young dark-haired woman emerged with a tray containing a jar of sweetened lemon water, and small honey cakes which had been baked until they were dry and crisp. She placed the tray on the ground beside Cait and knelt down to pour the drinks and offer the cakes, before retreating hastily inside.

While Cait sipped her drink and made her selections,
Alethea munched honey cakes, and chose beribboned shifts and flowered mantles for herself. In the end, Cait decided on five cloaks: one red, two green, two blue with thin rust-colored stripes; five short mantles, all white; five pairs of long breeches cut from a stout, tightly woven wool which had been dyed a deep brown. “Now the belts,” she told Didimus. “They must be leather, and they must be stout.”

“Alas, I do not have belts such as you require, but my wife's brother works in leather. If it please you, my lady, I could take you to his shop and you can tell him what you want. Also, if you need shoes for these men of yours, he would be happy to oblige.”

So, that is what they did. Cait paid for her selections, arranged for the knights to come along later to be fitted for their clothes. At the shoemaker's workshop she chose the leather for the belts, and was discussing the cost of new boots when Abu appeared to say that Rognvald had found an armorer with whom he was pleased to deal. “They are waiting for you now.”

It was not an armorer who greeted Cait, but a merchant named Geldemar who traded with smiths and weapons-makers from many places, including Cairo, Constantinople, Tripoli, and Damascus; the continual warring in the Holy Land brought a steady commerce to his door that made him wealthy, discriminating, and fat. He conducted his lucrative business from a large house at the end of a street of metalworkers. The house, protected by a high wall and three imposing servants with dogs, boasted two floors; the lower rooms were crammed with weapons and armor of all kinds. “Your men have been kind enough to express an interest in my wares,” Geldemar told her, lifting a jewelled hand to a hall bristling with lances, pikes, halberds, and swords. “As you see, I have assembled a fine collection.” He smiled, regarding Alethea with a keenly appreciative eye. “My ladies, you are welcome to examine my goods. I trade with only the finest craftsmen. Please, satisfy yourself that this is so.”

Alethea, uninterested in weaponry, yawned as Cait moved to a nearby rack which contained a dozen or more Frankish broadswords; other racks contained both smaller and larger
swords of Arab and Byzantine design. She picked up one and hefted it in her hand; the weight was good, and the wooden pommel tightly bound with rawhide. Thoroughly bored now that there was nothing for her, Alethea wandered into the next room where Yngvar and Dag were selecting shields from among the many different varieties on offer—from small, round Byzantine
dorkas
, and long oval
targs
which covered half the body, to the enormous curved square wooden
scutum
of ancient Roman design.

“My compliments to you, Geldemar,” said Cait, replacing the sword. “You have amassed a distinguished armory.”

Rognvald appeared just then, holding a slender, thin-bladed lance. Caitríona joined him. “We will find everything we need here,” he said. “With your permission, my lady, I would like to deal with this fellow.”

“Very well,” replied Cait. “I will leave it to you, my lord. If you like, Abu can stay and help with the bargaining.”

“No need,” answered Rognvald. “Geldemar and I understand one another.”

She turned and addressed the merchant. “I will leave the choice of arms to the discernment of my knights,” Cait told him.

Geldemar smiled, pressing his hands together. “Very wise, my lady.”

Producing a small purse, Cait handed it to the merchant. “As a gesture of good faith here are ten gold
solidi
. Let this be a partial payment for the items they select. The rest will be paid when the goods are delivered to the harbor.” Indicating the tall knight looking on, she said, “Lord Rognvald will make the arrangements.”

“I am your servant, my lady,” replied the merchant, accepting the money. To Rognvald he said, “Now, perhaps if you would tell me what you require, I will consider how best to help you.”

Cait left the men to their business and, summoning Alethea and Abu, resumed her procurement of provisions. They visited a butcher, miller, baker, sellers of spices, honey, oil, and green goods, and suppliers of smoked and salted meat and fish. They arrived back at the ship only a
few moments before the knights returned. Each carried a new sword and dagger—which the merchant Geldemar had trusted them to take away—and their spirits were higher than she had yet seen them. They vied with one another in proclaiming the virtues of their weapons.

“This blade shines like a flame,” announced Svein, brandishing the weapon in the slanting sunlight. “I shall call it
Loga
.”

Yngvar said that his sword would be called
Fylkir
because, as he boasted, “It will always be first into the fray.”

Dag said his was to be called
Hollrvarda
, because of the three, his blade was the only true defender. This provoked an argument over what sort of names were best for weapons, and what the other items in the armory were to be called. The discussion was still going on when Rognvald and Geldemar arrived in a horse-drawn wagon carrying the remaining arms and armor: helms and shields for all, swordbelts with heavy bronze buckles and hangers for their daggers, battle axes for Svein and Yngvar, a mace for Dag, and ten good stout lances. There were hauberks in heavy ringed mail, with hoods, and mail greaves to cover their legs.

Cait went down to the wharf to meet the wagon and pay the balance due for the weapons. “We have done well, my lady,” Rognvald informed her. “He put up a good fight, but we vanquished him in the end.”

“It was four against one,” Geldemar said happily, “what could I do?” She noticed the rosy blush on his nose and cheeks, and guessed he had been standing very near a wine jar recently.

“How much is owing?” asked Cait.

“One hundred and fifty-five gold solidi, my bounteous lady,” said the merchant grandly. “And a rare bargain it is, if I say so myself.”

“Indeed?” Cait looked to Rognvald for confirmation.

“Our friend here was rendered helpless by a fit of generosity of a magnitude unseen in Cyprus for more than a hundred years,” declared the knight, patting Geldemar on the shoulder amiably. “I do believe he is trying to become a saint among merchants.”

Geldemar laughed loudly at this, and as the knights unloaded the wagon Cait opened her purse and began counting out the gold coins into his hand. Then he thanked Cait for her custom, bowed low and kissed her hand, and with Rognvald's help climbed into the wagon. Off he drove, with much waving and wishing of good fortune, disappearing along the quay. Cait and Rognvald watched him go; as soon as he was out of sight, Cait said, “I know little about the cost of weapons, but a hundred and fifty-five seems a good price to me—a
very
good price indeed. I thought it might be two or three times as much.”

“To be sure,” replied Rognvald easily. “But sometimes, after a few friendly jars, a fellow begins to understand that there is more to life than gainful trade.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, Geldemar has more than enough gold, but very few friends.”

“At least not many who will drink with him in the middle of the day, I suppose.”

They returned to the ship to find the knights rolling up the mats and clearing the foredeck; that accomplished, they immediately set themselves to honing skills dulled by long captivity.

Cait decided to withdraw to her quarters below deck where it was cooler. “Come, Thea,” she said, “let us leave the men to practice their swordplay.”

When Thea made no reply, she looked to see her sister gazing raptly at the knights, who had stripped to the waist in the heat. “He is handsome, is he not?” she said.

Cait saw where her sister was looking. Dag, his spare, muscular torso glistening with sweat, was lunging back and forth across the deck in a vigorous display of stab and thrust—as much for Alethea's benefit, Cait surmised, as for the drubbing of his invisible opponent.

“Thea, come away,” snapped Cait. Abashed at her sister's barefaced stare, she took the younger woman by the arm and pulled her down the steps. “Have you no shame?” she demanded as soon as they were below deck. “He is hired to do my bidding, and I will not have you making cow eyes at him.”

“I was never making cow eyes!” replied Thea, rigid with indignation. “Not that
you
would know anything about it. You will die a dried-up old hag and have no one to blame but yourself.”

The remark was calculated to cut deep and it did. “Take that back.”