The Mystic Rose (14 page)
Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“No.”
“Take it back!”
By way of reply, Thea screwed up her face in a sour expression of defiant disobedience. Before she knew it, Cait's hand snaked out and struck her on the cheek with a resounding slap. Without another word, Thea turned and disappeared into her chamber, slamming the door behind her.
Cait, upset and angry, stood fuming in the companionway, fighting down the urge to go in and throttle her sister. Instead, she returned to the upper deck, and was speaking with Haemur about the voyage ahead when Rognvald approached carrying a long cloth bundle in his hands.
“This is for you, my lady,” the tall Norseman said. Drawing aside the cloth wrapping, he presented her with a short, slender sword. “It was made as a gift for Queen Melisende of Jerusalem, but was taken as loot when the baggage train that carried it was overrun by Saracens. Geldemar only recently acquired it.”
He placed the elegant, keen-edged blade in her grasp. It was half the size of a man's weapon, lighter, shorter, and balanced for a woman's hand. She swept it back and forth smartly. The quick, responsive weight sent an unexpected thrill through her. She had tried swords beforeâmen's bladesâand thought them cumbersome and ungainly.
“It is fine, is it not?” said Rognvald approvingly.
“A very marvel,” she murmured.
With this blade,
she thought,
I will hold de Bracineaux to account.
“When Geldemar saw that I liked it for you, he insisted that you should have it.”
“In recognition of a wonderful new friendship, I should think.”
“No doubt,” agreed the knight.
Cait raised the sword before her face. The way the sun
light slid over its polished surface and danced along the razor-sharp edge brought a smile to her lips. “You must teach me to wield it properly,” she said.
“It will be my very great pleasure,” said Rognvald, inclining his head.
Two days later, after fittings from both tailor and shoemaker, a visit to the barber for shaves and haircuts for the knightsâwho were finally beginning to look almost civilized againâand numerous deliveries by provisioners bringing wine and water by the cask, ground meal by the barrel, hard-baked bread, salted pork, fish and sausage, dried peas and beans and other staples, and delicacies such as honey, almonds, pepper, and ground spicesâHaemur raised anchor and
Persephone
drifted slowly out into the bay. Once clear of the long spiny ridge of the headland, he unfurled the sails and they set out for the Pillars of Hercules and the rocky storm-fraught coasts beyond.
September 2, 1916: Edinburgh, Scotland
“Gentlemen, the time has come to appoint a new leader.”
It was Evans, our Second Principal, speaking in low, solemn tones which filled the Star Chamber with a sepulchral sound. “The war which has already cost so many lives has claimed one more, and we now taste the grief of those who mourn throughout our nation. I tell you, brothers,” he said, looking to Pemberton's empty chair, “it fills my mouth with bitter ashes.”
He turned his sorrowful gaze from Pemberton's place and said, “The rule of our order dictates the terms by which the new leader is to be appointed. But before proceeding any further, we will observe a time of silence in honor of our fallen leader.”
We all bowed our heads and offered up the memory of that fine, noble man to the Allwise Creator in whose presence he now delighted. The silence in the room swelled to become a hymn of deepest admiration and the most profound esteem, a veneration beyond utterance.
I do not know how long it lasted, for time was overwhelmed by eternity and no longer held any meaning to me. I simply became aware that Evans was speaking, and once more returned, reluctantly, to the concerns of this world and the matter before us.
“Unless anyone has cause to object,” Evans was saying, “we shall proceed in accordance with the directives established in the Rules of Order. I shall now
read the pertinent portion from the Articles of Investment: âIf it should happen that the First Principal shall die in office, the Second Principal shall hold in his stead the seal and charter of the Brotherhood of the Temple and the Order of the
Sanctus Clarus
until such time as the surviving members of the elect be met to nominate and appoint one from their number who shall assume the mantle of authority and resume the leadership of the Order, guiding its protection, preservation, advancement, and the furtherance of all its aims.'”
Here the compact Welshman looked up. “Hear me, all of you? Signify by saying, âAye.'” This we did, and he continued, “I shall now read from the Articles of Initiation. âIf it should be found that, prior to the election and investment of the First Principal, any of the Seven have not attained to the Master, or Final Degree Initiation, and unless any impediment shall be admitted, that initiation shall be offered without delay.' Hear me, all of you? Signify by saying, âAye.'”
While we all affirmed our understanding, I did so in a slightly bemused state, for until that moment I had neither heard nor suspected there were any higher degrees than the one I now occupied, the Seventh. Despite the slightly archaic and abstruse language, it did not take a legal mind long to realize that Evans was talking about
me
. In other words, if the First Principal is to be elected from among the remaining members of the Inner Circle, then they must all be of equal rank and status. Obviously, I did not enjoy that particular rank.
Indeed, the very next instant he turned and addressed me personally. “Brother Murray,” he said, “I am mindful of your standing. Having attained the Seventh Degree, and having performed loyal and exemplary service since your investment, I declare before this assembly that you are deemed worthy of consideration for initiation into the Final Degree.”
Still slightly awed by the implications of Evans's
to ratify this astonishing declaration, saying, “I stand as second to the initiation of our esteemed brother.”
“We recognize the sanction and affirmation of Brother Zaccaria,” Evans said. “Therefore I must ask you, brothers, is it your will and pleasure that Brother Murray attain to the Final Degree? If so, please signify.”
All around the table the members of the Inner Circle declared their endorsement of the proposal, whereupon I was asked to stand. “Brother Murray,” said the Second Principal, “seeing no impediment to your elevation arising, I now ask you: to the best of your knowledge is there any reason why you may not advance to your initiation?”
“No, brother. I stand ready to accept the mandate of my superiors.” It is the customary answer to questions of this kind within the Brotherhood; the only difference is that now I knew the men around me to have been my superiors and not, as I had mistakenly imagined for so long, merely my peers. While I accept that my initiation was a formality which was being carried out to fulfill the dictates of our Rules of Order, I nevertheless experienced the familiar excitement of the novitiate facing the unknown.
Obviously, I did not know the form this initiation would take. Remembering my induction to the Seventh Degree, however, and the harrowing ordeal it engendered, my enthusiasm was tempered by experience. That is not to say I was afraid: I was not. I trusted the men around me implicitly. Even so, the frailty of the human frame having been much on my mind of late, I was only too aware of the limitations age had introduced. Though I was the youngest member of the Inner Circle, I was neither as energetic nor as agile as in my youth, and any qualms I felt were those which attended men of my age when contemplating even the most ordinary exertions.
Evans took me at my word, however. “So be it,” he said. “Let the initiation commence.”
He closed the book from which he had been reading out the Articles. “The nature of initiation to the Final Degree requires that the candidate should remain in seclusion neither more nor less than three complete diurnal periods, the purpose of which is to allow the candidate to reflect on the commitment he is about to make, and to seek the safeguarding of his soul through making peace with his Allwise Creator.” He looked to me for an answer. “Do you understand?”
“I understand, brother, and I am ready to proceed.”
“So be it.” Turning to the others, he said, “We will adjourn until this hour in three nights' time when we will reconvene to undertake the initiation of our esteemed brother.”
The meeting ended then, and I received the congratulations of the others. They wished me well and departed, disappearing into the night by their various routes. In a little while Evans and I were left alone. “I was sorry to hear of the death of your wife,” he said; our business concluded, we could speak more informally. “It must have been a very great shock to you.”
“Yes,” I replied. Although I had no idea how the other members of the Inner Circle learned of these things, I had long ago accepted that they did. “I am only beginning to realize the extent of my loss.”
“Time will heal,” he told me. “I do not offer that lightly. Though many people profess the same sentiment blithely and without consideration, it is true nonetheless. Given time, the wound will heal. The scar will remain, but you will no longer feel the pain.”
I thanked him for his expression of sympathy, and said, “As it happens, I was prepared to relate a most curious incident concerning Pemberton's death. I wanted to hear what the other members made of it.”
“Oh, indeed? Well, would you mind telling me?”
“Not at all,” I answered, and went on to explain about Pemberton's ghostly appearance at the country house, and my subsequent interview with Miss Gillespie. I reported the queer message the young woman had passed on to me. “He spoke to the young lady; he
said: âThe pain is swallowed in peace, and grief in glory.' That's what she thought him to say, but it makes little sense to me.”
Evans rubbed his smooth chin and his eyes became keen. He loved a good puzzle, and I was happy to share it with him and let him mull it over for as long as he liked. “Now that
is
a poser,” he allowed. “Providing, of course, that is what Pemberton said.”
“Granted,” I replied. “What one says and what one is heard to say are not necessarily the same thing.”
“Quite.” He smiled, his round, friendly face lighting with simple good pleasure. “I shall have a good think. Now then, let me show you to your cell.”
I had learned over the years that the little church where we met contained several underground passages leading to a number of chambers, sub-chambers, and catacombs. Thus I was not surprised to learn that the cell he mentioned was of the old-fashioned variety: a simple bare room with a straw pallet piled with fleeces for sleeping; a small table with a large old Bible bound in brittle leather, and a single, fat candle in an iron holder; a low, three-legged stool; in the corner a tiny round hearth with narrow stone chimney above; and, next to it, a supply of wood and kindling. Beside the hearth was a covered wooden stoup filled with water; a wooden ladle hung by its handle from a leather strap. Atop the stoup lay a cloth bundle. The rock walls were white-washed, and a simple wooden cross adorned the wall above the bedplace.
In all it was a clean little room, reached after a short candlelit walk along a passage which joined a flight of steps leading from the Star Chamber, which was itself below the chancel of the church. “All the comforts of home,” Evans said, tipping his candle to the one on the table, “but none of the distractions.”
“I've always wondered what it would be like to be a monk. Now I will find out.”
“You will enjoy your stay, Gordon.” He stepped to the doorway. “There is food in the bundle, and you will find a latrine in the next cell along.” He bade me
farewell then and left me to begin my time of preparation. I listened to his footfall recede down the passageway, and heard the door shut a moment later, and I was alone.
I occupied myself with setting a tidy little fire on the hearth. This I did as much for the light and the cheery company of the flames as the warmth provided. I unwrapped the bundle and saw that it contained three large round loaves of bread, a lump of hard cheese, a half-dozen apples, and three dried fish. Not only would I sleep like a monk, I would eat like one, too.
I tried the bed, stretching myself out on the fleeces; it was simple, but comfortableâthe straw was fresh, and there was a rough woven coverlet, should I need it. I was not particularly tired, so I got up, took the candle, and had a look at the latrineâagain, a simple but serviceable affair which would meet my basic requirements. Returning to the cell, I placed the candle on the table once more and took up the Bible. I perched on the edge of the bed, adjusted the candle so that I could see the pages and opened the coverâonly to discover that what I had taken for a Bible was in fact a large, heavy, antique volume entitled,
The Mark of the Rose
.
Curiosity pricked, I turned the pages and examined the text. I am no expert in these things, but I had plowed through enough musty, dusty old books in various legal libraries to recognize a hand-printed tome when I saw one. There was neither colophon, trademark, nor printer's stamp that I could see. Judging from the antique typeface and the way the heavy pages were bound, I guessed it had been printed anywhere from the mid to late 1700s. Considering its age, the pages were in remarkably good conditionâindicating, I assumed, a prolonged and conscientious effort at preservation.
I returned to the title page and found printed beneath the title the words:
prepared from the manuscript of William St. Clair, Earl of Orkney.
The choice of words was interesting. It did not say that William had written the manuscript, but merely implied ownership. From this, I deduced that the manuscript in question was an older document from which the book I now held had been produced.
