The Mystic Rose (29 page)

“Very well,” agreed Cait, suitably charmed.

“Splendid!” said Prince Hasan. He made a flourish of his hand, as if in elaborate acceptance of her will, and said, “It would vastly improve the austerity of my cow-byre of a dwelling if you would accept my hospitality while you are sojourning in my realm.”

“Since you ask so nicely,” Cait replied, “I do accept—although, perhaps I should warn you that I am not alone. As it happens, I have a company of knights with me. Five of them—all under the authority of Lord Rognvald of Haukeland.”

“Even so?” The prince looked to the right and left and back toward the camp. “Are they Djinn, these warriors of yours? By the hair of my beard, I cannot see them.”

“They are riding to the hunt just now,” she explained, “trying to get a little meat for our supper.”

She thought she saw a shadow of displeasure pass over his face as she spoke, but it vanished in the sudden sunburst of his smile. “Then let us pray they are successful, for fresh meat will be a welcome addition to the banquet which I shall spread before you and your estimable retinue this night.”

He turned and smoothly swung up into the high-cantled saddle. “Gather your things, if you please,” he instructed. “I will send my katib to bring you to my house when you are ready.”

Cait thanked him and watched him ride away. He stopped
at the edge of the wood and whistled for his falcon, then lifted his arm and with a wave of his black-gloved hand wheeled the stallion and galloped across the meadow and was gone. She stood for a time, wondering whether she had done well in accepting the Moor's offer of hospitality. She worried over this for a while, and decided that Prince Hasan was precisely placed to help her find Alethea. Indeed, his appearance had all the fortuitous indications of an answer to her prayer.

The knights returned at midday in a jubilant mood, having killed two young stags—a humor cautiously increased when Cait informed them they would not have to sleep on the cold wet ground that night. “Tonight we are to banquet with a prince,” she said, and went on to explain her encounter with Hasan.

“He is heaven-sent,” she told Rognvald as the others trooped off to begin preparing the deer.

“More likely a trick of the devil,” muttered the tall knight; his face clenched in a scowl of sour disapproval.

“Listen to you,” she scoffed lightly. “You have not even met the man, and already you condemn him. In truth, he is the very likeness of a nobleman.”

“So is the Devil,” Rognvald replied.

“He has offered us hospitality and I will not hear a word against him,” Cait snapped indignantly.

“He is a
Moor
,” Rognvald said tersely. “Need I remind you, it is the Moors who have taken your sister?”

“That was unkind, my lord,” Cait snarled. “Have I not spent every waking moment these past many days searching for my sister? Tell me what more I could have done, and rest assured I will do that, too.”

Rognvald's scowl deepened. He opened his mouth to reply, but Cait cut him off.

“As it is,” she continued, levelling the full brunt of her anger on him, “we are running out of food and the weather is against us. Therefore, I think it no bad thing to accept help when it is offered.” She glared at him defiantly. “And yes, even from the Devil himself.”

The tall knight stared implacably at her; his jaw muscles tightened with unspoken words, but he held his tongue.

“We are going to accept Prince Hasan's hospitality, and at the first opportunity I am going to enlist his aid to help find Alethea. I do not care whether you approve, or not. One way or another, I
will
find my sister.”

She did not allow him the satisfaction of making a reply, but turned on her heel and stormed away. They stayed away from one another as they went about striking camp and preparing to leave. The prince's katib arrived a short time later, and found them ready, if not eager, to quit the cold and damp for the warmth of hearth and hall.

Like his master, the man was gracious and well mannered. He was somewhat older than the prince, his beard was streaked with gray and his skin was weathered and creased like an old leather glove. Though not tall, he carried himself with a posture which would have become a king. Dressed in a rich brown cloak and high riding boots, he rode a tawny brown mare, and carried a long, curved knife with a jewelled handle in his wide cloth belt.

He entered the camp with two attendants, one of whom carried a wheat-colored bundle tied with golden cord; the other led a saddled black horse. As the knights gathered to receive them, he dismounted, and in fine aristocratic Latin presented himself to Cait, saying, “May the light of Allah the Magnificent shine for you, and may his blessing of peace rest upon you.” He bowed low, making an elegant motion of his hand. “I am Al-Fadil Halhuli, katib and overseer to Prince Hasan, from whom I have come with an invitation to join him at his home.”

Cait received his greeting with good grace, while the knights stood looking on from a short distance. Arms folded across their chests and similar expressions of distrust fixed firmly on their faces, they followed Rognvald's lead, adopting a suspicious stance, and made no move to join in the proceedings.

Ignoring their bad manners, the katib snapped his fingers
and the attendant with the bundle dismounted and came to kneel beside his superior.

“My master the prince has sent me with a gift which he hopes you will do him the very great honor of accepting.” He motioned to the kneeling servant, who extended the bundle in his hands. “Please, my lady,” Halhuli said, indicating that she should receive the bundle.

Cait took it in both hands, whereupon he untied the golden cord and unfolded a handsome hooded cloak of the finest wool she had ever seen; it was the color of wheat and brushed to a soft, almost fur-like finish. The hood, cuffs, and hem were embroidered with blue silk in a series of tiny swirling, filigree loops. Instantly enchanted with the gift, Cait took the cloak, shook out its folds and held it up before her.

“Oh, it is wonderful!” she said, forgetting her composure in her enthusiasm. “It is easily the finest I have ever seen—by far.” The cloak was indeed exquisite—yet, it was more the completely unexpected nature of the gift that so amazed and delighted her. However, if she had seen that Rognvald's scowl had reappeared in force, she might have reined in her excitement somewhat; and if she had seen the disapproving, furtive glances the knights exchanged with one another, she might have recovered the greater portion of her natural dignity and bearing.

While the katib held it up for her, she put her arms through the sleeves and turned, drawing the splendid garment around her, luxuriating in its richness and warmth. “It is true what my master has said,” he told her, “you have eyes like the very houri of paradise.”

To Cait's embarrassment, she colored under this blandishment, and it brought her to herself once more. “I thank you, my lord—” she began.

“If you please, my lady,” he interrupted smoothly, “I am simply Halhuli. I deem it the utmost pleasure to serve you.” He turned and spread his hands in a gesture of deference, and said, “Now, if you are ready, my lords, we can proceed. My master is waiting to welcome you, and I assure you he is most eager to make your acquaintance.”

With a flick of his hand, Halhuli sent his bearer hurrying to bring his horse, though it was but a few paces behind him. At the same time, the other servant dismounted and came on the run, leading the black horse. Taking Cait's hand, the katib helped her into the saddle, and then resumed his own mount. Without another word or backward glance, the prince's overseer turned and rode from the camp with Cait at his side. The knights gathered the pack animals and hurried after.

T
HE SHORT DAY
faded. With high clouds coming in from the north on a bitter wind, the mountain tops were soon lost to view, and the sky grew dark and heavy long before they came in sight of their destination. Although she tried, Cait found it difficult to maintain her sense of direction. One desolate, tree-filled valley was very like another; and one twisting, trackless bare rock ridge the same as all the rest. After they had traveled a fair distance into the mountains, they paused. “It is not far now,” Halhuli told her.

Turning in his saddle, he lifted his hand and said, “Behold! Al-Jelál, the palace of Prince Hasan Salah Al-Nizar.”

Cait looked up to see, high on the towering ridgewall before her, a low, box-like structure squatting on the edge of an almost vertical curtain of rock rising from the valley floor. The lofty dwelling, built of the same drab stone as the surrounding mountains, was so uniformly colorless and dull that if the katib had not stopped to show her, she might never have noticed it.

The party continued on and soon reached the end of the
valley and began the ascent of the ridge by way of a paved trail. Once atop the ridge, they saw that the palace—or, as Halhuli said, the
al-qazr
—occupied a natural hollow in the upper part of the slope, and had been built in the manner of a series of graceful steps rising to the top, each one slightly higher than the last. The whole was surrounded by a stone wall, the gates of which closed upon the ridge trail, sealing off the only path leading to, or from, Al-Jelál.

As a stronghold, it possessed little in the way of fortification—the wall was the only defensive structure, and it had no towers. As an example of the builder's art, it lacked any redeeming aspect. Indeed, the dismal mud-colored stone with which it was constructed appeared unspeakably dreary and cheerless beneath the low gray skies.

“The prison in Damascus had more to charm the eye than this foul nest,” grumbled Yngvar under his breath. Svein and Dag grunted in agreement. Cait heard, and though she turned to glare at them for their discourtesy, she knew they were right. She looked up at the high, lonely house, and her heart sank at the thought that she had exchanged the freedom of the wind and stars for a forlorn and comfortless rock of a fortress.

The gates opened as they drew near, and they passed through and into a wide, sloping yard. A row of iron stanchions had been set up, with a torch fluttering from the top of each one; beneath each flame fluttered a golden banner with the prince's crest: a falcon soaring above a curved Moorish sword.

Beyond the row of banners stood the first of the palace buildings, the prince's reception hall. The massive cedar doors were open and white-robed servants stood with torches at either side of the entrance. As the visitors were dismounting, the prince appeared in the doorway, and came hurrying swiftly down the steps to join them. He walked directly to Rognvald and stretched out his empty hand in greeting. “My lord Rognvald,” he said, “I am pleased to welcome you and your men to my home.”

As the knights gathered around their lord and leader, the prince said, “I am Hasan Salah Ibn Al-Nizar, prince of the
House of Tashfin. Your presence will make a most entertaining diversion during this bleak season.” Indicating the dressed deer carcasses slung across the backs of two pack mules, he said, “I compliment you on your success. As it happens, my lands boast the best hunting in all of Aragon; I look forward to riding with you one day soon, my lords.”

“For a certainty,” replied Rognvald with but slight hesitation, “we would like nothing better.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed the prince. “With your permission I will instruct the kitchen to prepare the stags to be served with our banquet tonight. Now then,” he said, motioning to the waiting katib, “if you please, Halhuli will lead you into the hall.”

The knights moved off, and the prince turned to Cait. “Lady Ketmia, you must forgive me for leaving you unattended, but I wished to escort you personally.” Stepping before her, he caught up her hand and brushed it with his lips. “The cloak is to your liking?”

“It is beautiful,” she said. “And I thank you, my lord. It is a very thoughtful gift, and much appreciated on a day like this.”

“My pleasure entirely.” Taking her hand, he turned and led her up the steps and in through the open doors. “The winter wind can be devilish in these mountains. The wool comes from a kind of goat that roams the peaks around here. It is very soft, but also extremely warm. I am glad you like it.”

They passed through the open doors into a large vestibule. The walls were made of rough stone which had been whitewashed; and the floor was polished pine. It was simple, clean and spare, if a trifle plain; but at least it was not as dire as Cait had feared, and it was warm.

There were two doors at either end of the vestibule, and through one of them Cait could see the last of the knights disappearing down a long corridor. Prince Hasan conducted her to the opposite door where two young women were waiting. Both had long black hair which was worn in a single braid, and both were dressed in the same white, loose-fitting robe the male servants wore.

At the prince's approach, the maids bowed low and remained in that posture until their lord had acknowledged them. “This is Mahdi and Pila'i,” he told Cait. “They will be your maidservants during your sojourn here. I have instructed them to take very good care of you, so please allow them to fulfill the charge they have been given.”

The sight of the two young women cheered Cait, and improved her spirits immediately. She had allowed herself to imagine the prince the sole tenant of his bleak, windswept haven, surrounded by the kind of rank squalor men descend to when there are no women around to maintain decency and order. The fact that she was provided with not just one, but two, maidservants, all to herself, suggested otherwise. “Are there many women here?” she asked.

“A fair number,” replied the prince affably. “Yet I feel there is always room for at least one more—especially when that one brings such great cheer to the bleakness of the dark season.”

It was blatant flattery, but lightly spoken, and Cait decided it would be churlish to object to it. She decided to ignore it, and instead asked, “What of your family, Prince Hasan? Is it large, or small?”

“Very large, Ketmia. Like all good Moors, our family is both numerous and industrious. Some of them live here with me, some on the lower estates in the valley, and some in Al-Maghrib.”

The corridor turned and they came to another pair of polished wood doors and, as the maidservants opened one for Cait to pass through, the prince halted. “Here I must leave you,” he said. “This passage leads to the women's house. It is not permitted for men to enter beyond this door.”

“Why ever not?” wondered Cait.

“In a Muslim palace,” the prince explained, “men and women do not share the same apartments—a practice which creates some small inconveniences, as you might imagine. Yet we find the virtues far exceed any difficulties, and the separation promotes an ease of life which is commendable in many ways. I trust you will find the women's house to your liking.”

Addressing the two maids, he spoke in rapid Arabic; they bowed in response, and he said, “They will bring you to the banqueting hall when all is ready. I leave you in their capable hands.”

He turned and walked away, and Cait stepped through the doorway and into a dream.

Beyond the threshold, the corridor opened onto a great oval-shaped inner courtyard with a double-tiered gallery running around the perimeter; in the center of the courtyard, an alabaster fountain splashed into a round pool. Lanterns glowed from the gallery posts, and lamps burning with fragrant oils lined pathways on which patterned carpets in red, blue, and green were laid over smooth stone. There were small palm trees and broad leafy plants in huge painted jars and, here and there, low tables and cushions where the inhabitants of the women's house might meet to recline and talk.

Cait's maidservants picked up lamps and started along the right-hand pathway beneath the overhanging gallery. Cait followed, passing a series of small doors before coming to a flight of stairs leading to the level above. The maids indicated that they were to climb the stairs; one went before Cait, and one after, to light her way. There were but four doors opening off the upper gallery; they passed two of these and, stopping at the third, the foremost maidservant motioned for Cait to open the door.

Instead of a latch handle, Cait saw only a silken cord with a tassel on the end. Encouraged by the maid, she took the tassel and pulled—the door swung open and she stepped into a room unlike any she had ever seen. There were lamps and candles by the dozen—hundreds of them, large and small—filling the room with gleaming, shimmering light. The walls were covered with glazed tiles in gem-like colors, the floors were polished wood, and the ceiling! The ceiling was wood, too, but carved into a fantastic, dizzying pattern of intersecting lines; each place a line crossed another was inlaid with a mother-of-pearl boss in the shape of a star. In the flickering candlelight the ceiling seemed to glitter with a thousand slivers of light.

The room was spacious and open, divided only by a few pierced wooden screens. As in the courtyard below, there were low tables surrounded by cushions, and these were placed on thick wool carpets displaying impossibly intricate designs. There was a woven rug hanging on the wall, too, and a row of small round windows covered with glass. Behind one rank of screens was a low cushioned platform covered in glistening blue silk. This, Cait guessed, was her bed.

She stood for a long moment, taking in the bewilderingly beautiful sight, and then gasped, “It is magnificent!” Her maidservants appeared to enjoy her amazement, and smiled behind their hands. “It is the most wonderful room I have ever seen!” They laughed at this, and Cait asked if all the rooms were as sumptuous as the one she had been given. It was then she realized her servants neither spoke nor understood Latin.

At the end of the room opposite the bed stood another screen, and behind it a carved panel set in a niche. While one maid busied herself with a wooden chest beside the bed, the other led Cait to this panel. Taking the silken cord in her hand, she pulled, and the panel slid effortlessly aside. A rush of warm, moist air flooded over Cait as she stepped into the doorway to see a smaller room—the interior of which was almost entirely taken up by a pool of water. Curling tendrils of steam rose from the surface of the pool and one look sent a melting feeling through Cait.

The next thing she knew the maidservant was removing her cloak and boots; her swordbelt, girdle, and mantle followed, and Cait found she could not shed her clothes fast enough. She moved to the edge of the pool, and shrugging off the last of her clothing, stepped down into the delicious hot water. The blessed warmth made her weak in the knees and she gave herself to it, sliding in, submerging herself slowly.

The pool had a stepped ledge at the bottom on which she sat, feeling the heat seep into her cold and weary bones. With a splash, her maid Mahdi entered the pool; in one hand she held a small brass jar, and in the other, a lumpen, loaf-shaped object. These she placed at the side of the pool and,
with a stirring gesture, indicated that Cait was to sit with her back to her.

She did so, and Mahdi began laving water over her head using the pale lumpy object—Cait's first encounter with a sponge. Mahdi then poured some liquid from the jar into her mistress's wet hair and began to wash it for her. More intimate ministrations followed wherein Cait's body was lathered and washed and dried and her flesh perfumed with fragrant oils rubbed into her skin. Although sorry to leave the warmth of the bathing room, she allowed herself to be wrapped in a great fluffy cloth and led back into the bedchamber where Pila'i had chosen clothes for her from the chest beside the cushion bed.

The garments were, so far as Cait could tell, most exquisitely made and of the finest fabrics in shades of scarlet and deepest crimson—some woven with gold thread to form glittering stripes—and all of them, somehow, to be worn. Lifting one gossamer length of cloth after another, she admired each in turn, but, try as she might, she could not discern how they should be assembled.

Her maidservants soon took her in hand, however, and dressed her in the manner of an Eastern princess. Layer upon layer, the loose-fitting garments were wrapped and draped and secured here and there by way of ties and laces. Cait relished the smooth, liquid sheen of the cloth and its delicate texture against her skin as each new piece was added to the others. The maids worked together with quiet efficiency, clearly enjoying their labors, and Cait began to feel as if she were a young bride, dressing for her wedding.

Just as they were finishing, there came a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a tiny old woman bearing a lamp. At her appearance, both serving maids bowed, giving Cait to know that she was their superior—the overseer of the women's quarters, most likely. The old woman moved forward with small, quick steps, and came to stand before Cait and, by the soft glow of her lamp, proceeded to make a lengthy inspection of the newcomer, examining Cait's hands, feet, and face. She untied the cloth belt around Cait's
waist, smoothed it between her fingers, then carefully rewound and retied it.

Satisfied, she spoke a word of command to the two maids, pointing to Cait's bare feet. Pila'i scurried to the chest and brought out a pair of thin black sandals, the soles of which were soft leather, and the tops black silk with tiny pierced pearls sewn in spirals over each instep. Cait waited as the sandals were slipped onto her feet, whereupon the old woman stepped back and cast a sharp, critical eye over their efforts. Then, with a sharp nod of her head, she turned and led them from the room.

Through a series of interconnecting corridors, vestibules, reception rooms, and antechambers—so many that Cait lost all sense of direction—they came at last to a hall-like room fronted by a pair of tall, narrow doors bound in gilded leather ornamented by a pair of falcons, one on each panel, their images traced in black nails hammered through the gleaming hide.