The Mystic Rose (24 page)

Upon arriving at the place where the rivers joined, they turned north to follow the Río Aragon up into the foothills of the Sierra de Guara, pausing briefly at the hilltown of Milagro, where, in order to conserve her dwindling supply of gold and silver coins, Cait made the knights work for the townspeople. In exchange for the necessary provisions, the men mended walls, fixed leaking roofs, and chopped firewood for the coming winter. After a week they had accumulated enough supplies, and the company moved on.

The weather in the high hill country was growing damp and windy. Matthias' staunch refusal to tell them precisely where they were going began to rankle Cait more and more. The priest was adamant that the location must remain a secret to the very end, but intimated that their final destination was still a good many days beyond Carcastillo. So, at their next stop they took the opportunity to trade labor for goods—this time in order to obtain heavy cloaks made from the dense wool of the region's sheep. Both Cait and Alethea thought the cloaks smelly beyond belief—an unappealing mixture of rancid fat and burnt dung—but the cloaks were warm even when wet, and kept the sharpening wind at bay. As the party ascended ever upward into the cooler heights, the women slowly became accustomed to wearing the noisome garments through the day and, more often than not, sleeping under them at night as well.

The weather became steadily cooler as autumn advanced; the skies grew dark and moody, and often there was rain—sometimes in fierce pelting bursts, and sometimes in dismal misty drizzle which set in early and lingered, making everyone and everything miserable, wet, and cold. Alone among the members of the company, Brother Matthias seemed not to mind the discomfort. In fact, he reveled in it, regarding the mild distress as a chastening discipline. The worse the storm, the louder he sang his psalms and chants, sometimes
delivering whole sermons to the sodden, empty trail and drifting clouds. The Spanish knights apparently derived great satisfaction from this curious demonstration, a thing which Cait could not understand.

“How far?” Cait demanded of the priest one evening. They had stopped at a clearing beside the muddy rivulet which was their trail, and the knights were making camp after a dreary day's ride. Abu was trying to light a fire, and most of the Spanish knights were searching the nearby forest for dry wood. The low gray sky threatened yet more rain and the ground was soggy underfoot. The looming peaks rising in the near distance were wreathed in fog, and the wind among the rocks and canyons soughed with a desolate whine.

“Not far now,” he replied with an exuberance that set her teeth on edge. “A few more days.”

“How many days?” she said stubbornly. “I want to know. You are leading us there anyway, so you may as well end this absurd secrecy and tell me how much longer we must endure this incessant rain and chill.”

Matthias regarded her with soulful, compassionate eyes. “Peace, you are disturbed over nothing. We will arrive in God's good time, never fear.”

“Oh, I am not disturbed,” Cait insisted, her voice threatening and low. “My feet are wet, my clothes are muddy, I am cold and tired, and I do not think it too much to ask how far we have yet to travel. Is it two days? Ten? Twenty?”

“Sister,” the monk said, “calm yourself. There is no—”

“I am
not
your sister. I am your patron, and I want an answer.”

Alethea came rushing up just then. “Cait, what is wrong? Why are you shouting at Brother Matthias?”

“All is well,” the priest told her. “It is a misunderstanding, nothing more.” He laid a soothing hand on Cait's arm. “Forgive me, my lady. By my estimation, we are perhaps six days from our destination. No more than ten.”

“Six or ten days,” Cait repeated dully, removing his hand from her arm.

“Fifteen at the most.”

“Which is it, priest?” demanded Cait. “Ten? Fifteen? Five hundred?”

“It is difficult to say, my lady. So much depends on the weather. The mountain trails can be treacherous this time of year.”

“Aghh!” Cait cried in frustration, and fled the conversation.

Rognvald caught up with her as she stormed from the camp. “Is something wrong, my lady?”

“No,” she snapped, charging through the underbrush into the woods. “Nothing what so ever.” She spat each word as if it were a pellet of venom. “All is happening in God's good time,” she said, adopting the mincing tone of a dissembling cleric. “Apparently!” She shoved aside a low-hanging pine bough and let it fly.

The knight walked along beside her a few paces. “We could remain in camp tomorrow if you like,” he suggested, “and move on when the weather improves.”

“Why must you always take his side?”

“His side? God's side?”

“No—
him
!” She jerked her head in the direction of the monk who was now talking blithely to a warmly receptive Alethea. “The idiot priest!”

“I take no one's side without due cause and consideration,” the Norseman told her firmly.

She glared at him, and surged on ahead. Rognvald started after her again. “Leave me alone!” she said, turning on him. “A woman needs a little privacy now and then—have you ever considered that?”

Rognvald begged her pardon and retreated. She went on until she came to a thick bank of elder bushes. Loosening her girdle and swordbelt, she removed her small-clothes, then hitched up her cloak, mantle, and shift, and was preparing to squat when she heard the shriek. At first she thought it the cry of a hunting eagle, for the sound seemed to have fallen from the low sky overhead. She listened, holding her breath. In a moment, it came again.

“Thea!”

Hurrying, she rearranged her clothes once more, and ran
back along the track. She had wandered further than she knew. It took longer than she expected to reach the camp and as she drew nearer she heard men shouting and the clash of arms—the unmistakable sounds of battle. The camp was under attack.

C
AIT FLEW BACK
through the woods. As she neared the fighting, she crouched low, and hid behind a tree. The half-finished camp was swarming with dark men in dark brown cloaks.
Moors
, she thought, counting them quickly. There were eight—and all were mounted. Two or three of the bandits held spears; the rest wielded swords and they were swooping among the knights who were struggling to fend off the marauders.

Occupied with setting up camp for the night, none of the defenders had been wearing armor when the attack began. As a result, they were only lightly armed. Most had, she saw, been able to lay hand to a sword, but none had shields, and only Rognvald had a horse.

The clash of weapons was fierce, and the shouts of the men to one another, and to their assailants, deafening; the commotion filled the clearing with a dreadful, disorienting clamor.

Above the tumult, there came another ear-shattering shriek and Cait looked to the partially erected tent. Alethea was kneeling at the tent opening, hands to her face, terrified. Dag stood before her, tent pole in hand, defending her from two swarthy assailants. Yngvar and Svein were running to join him. Just as they reached the tent, however, two
mounted bandits caught them and they were forced to break off their assault to defend themselves.

The horses were picketed nearby. None had saddles, but Cait had ridden bareback from childhood. Darting to the line, she untied the nearest mount, swung herself up on to its back, drew her sword, and raced for the tent. Her attack was cut short, however, when a black-bearded Moor suddenly appeared before her and, with one swipe of his sword, knocked her weapon from her hand.

The slender blade went spinning to the ground, and the bandit, seeing that she was unarmed, reached for the bridle of her horse. Cait slashed the reins across his face, catching him on the side of the head as he leaned forward. He drew back with a curse between his teeth, and jabbed at her with the sword. She dodged aside easily, and the bandit lunged forward, snagging the bridle strap of her mount. She pulled back hard on the reins, attempting to make her horse rear, but the bandit clung on, keeping the animal's head down.

The wild-eyed brute swung around beside her, thrusting the sword at her and shouting in Arabic as he made to lead her horse away, taking her with him. Throwing aside the reins, she slid lightly off the back of the horse, landed on her feet, and started for the tent once more.

She had run but a half-dozen steps when she felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, the same instant a jarring thud between her shoulderblades lifted her off the ground. She squirmed in the air as the bandit tried to haul her onto his horse. Swinging wildly, she struck out at her attacker with her fists, striking him in the ribs. She swung again and her knuckles grazed something sharp. Twisting in her assailant's grasp, she reached for the place once more and her fingers closed on the hilt of a dagger.

The knife was out of the sheath before the Moor knew what had happened. Squeezing the hilt, she raised her arm and plunged the blade down into the meaty part of the bandit's thigh. With an astonished cry of pain and rage, her would-be captor hurled her to the ground and the knife went spinning from her grasp. She landed hard on her side, forcing the breath from her lungs.

Gasping, her chest aching, unable to breathe, she drew up her knees and cradled her head in her arms to prevent the horse's hooves from dashing out her brains. A loud whirring filled her ears, and she felt herself slipping away—as if sucked down into a dark, spinning maelstrom beneath violent waves. The whirring sound ended in a sudden crash and she felt something heavy fall upon her.

Cait could not move; the upper half of her body was trapped beneath a dense weight and when she turned her head to look, she saw the bearded Moor's sweaty face leering back at her. She felt a rush of warmth flood across her chest and stomach and looked down to see the bandit's body lying across her own, blood and bile spilling from a gash that split his torso from side to side below the ribs.

She struggled to push free of the dead weight, but it held her to the ground. A veil of darkness descended across her vision and the clash of battle grew fainter—as if the fight was swiftly receding with the onrush of night. And then the crushing burden suddenly lifted from her and she was free. Air rushed into her lungs and her vision cleared, revealing Rognvald's worried face hovering above her.

Gathering her in his arms, he raised her up. “I can walk,” she gasped, gulping in air. “I am not hurt.”

“This way,” he said, placing her back on her feet. Holding tight to her hand, he pulled her quickly to the edge of the clearing. “Get down,” he said, indicating a hollow place formed by a tree growing between two big rocks. Crouching low, she leaned back into the hollow, and with a quick chop of his sword Rognvald lopped a branch from the tree and put it over her, shielding her from view. “Stay here,” he said, dashing away again.

As soon as he had gone, Cait bent back the branches so she could see. Across the clearing, the attack appeared to be intensifying. Where before she had counted eight, there were now at least twelve, possibly more—with all of them constantly circling and swirling they were difficult to reckon. Never attacking straight on, they struck glancing blows, darting in and disappearing—only to reappear again a moment later, attacking from a different quarter.

The knights were making a valiant attempt to form a defensive circle, but their numbers were too few and the need to counter the raiders' incessant darting sorties kept them off balance and unable to close the gaps in their ranks.

Rognvald swiftly crossed the clearing, dodging two bandits as he ran to join his men. Under their lord's command, they soon succeeded in closing the circle and, but a few moments later, two of the Spanish knights had gained their horses. Svein and Yngvar soon joined their comrades in the saddle, and the next whirling attack was met by four knights on chargers. They cut down two raiders, and unhorsed a third before the Moors broke off to reform the assault.

When the next onslaught came, there were five mounted knights to repel it, which they did with quick and decisive prowess, driving into the center of the bandit attack, unhorsing the foremost Moor and scattering the rest. The unseated raider fell backward over the rump of his horse and landed awkwardly, his arm bent back under his body. He lay squirming on the ground, clutching his shoulder and howling. Svein dispatched him with a short, sharp chop to the base of the skull and he lay still.

The bandits were no match for mounted knights, and knew it. From her stony nook, Cait watched as four or five spear-wielding Moors made one last half-hearted feint, allowing their fellows to gather up the plunder they had succeeded in liberating from the wagon, and then suddenly all of them were fleeing back into the surrounding forest.

As soon as the last of them disappeared, Cait sprang from her protecting hollow and ran to rejoin the others. The two Spanish knights were for giving chase, but Rognvald called them back and ordered them to stand guard lest the bandits return. Upon reaching the center of the clearing, Cait stopped and made a quick assessment of the damage. Three of the Moorish raiders had been killed, but none of the knights involved in the affray seemed to have been wounded or injured.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she looked around. The
bandits had made off with some of the provisions—a bag or two of meal, a side of smoked pork, and a few smaller items—but nothing of any real consequence that she could see. Rognvald wheeled his horse and rode to where she was standing. “Lady Caitríona,” he said, sliding from the saddle. “Are you hurt?”

“My ribs ache, but I am well otherwise.” She turned from the plundered wagon, and looked toward the tent, suddenly remembering what she had been about when the bandit diverted her attention. “God help us, no!” she shouted, running for the tent. “Where is Alethea?”