The Mystic Rose (3 page)

“Listen, Cait. I love you very much.”

“Oh, Papa, I love you, too.”

“Then promise me you will not seek to avenge me,” he said, cold sweat beading on his ashen face. “Let it end here.”

“I do not understand. Who was that man? Why did he do this?”

“Promise me!” he insisted, raising himself up again. The effort brought a spasm of pain which made him cough. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I know you, Cait. Promise you will not avenge me.”

“Very well, I promise.” She dabbed away the blood with the hem of her blue satin mantle. “Now, lie back and rest a little.”

Having received her promise, Duncan slumped against the base of the column. “Good,” he sighed, settling back against the cool stone. “Good.”

Cait put her hand to her father's cheek. “Please, Papa,” she persisted, “I need to understand.”

“Pray for me, Caitríona.” He closed his eyes.

“I will—every day. But I need to understand.”

“Renaud…” He coughed again; more blood came up, staining his teeth and chin. She wiped it away.

At first the name meant nothing. Then the memory surfaced. “Renaud de Bracineaux? The Templar?” She searched her father's face for a clue to the meaning of this mystery. “Why?”

He opened his eyes and tried to smile. “Poor Alethea…I am glad she is not here. She is not as strong as you…” he coughed, and slumped further down, “…take care of her, Cait.”

“Hush.” She put her cheek next to his and held him tight, as if to hold off death through the strength of her embrace. “I will watch over her.”

He raised his hand and cupped his palm to her chin, holding her face so that he could see her. His eyes were hazy, and his voice wavered. “Take my heart…” He gulped air, his voice tight with pain, and forced out the words. “Take it home. Tell Padraig…bury it in the church. He will know what to do.”

Unable to speak, Caitríona simply nodded.

“Sydoni,” he rasped. “Tell Sydoni…my last thought was of her.” His voice had grown suddenly soft and tenuous as spider-silk. “Tell her I…thanking God…”

“I will tell her.” The tears spilled freely down her cheeks and onto her father's hand.

Duncan raised his hand and kissed the tear with bloodstained lips; Caitríona clutched his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Dear heart,” he said, his voice a fading whisper. “I go.”

He slumped back against the column base with a sigh. In that last exhalation, Cait thought she saw a light flicker briefly in his eyes and heard him say her mother's name…“
Ah, Rhona…”
—the most delicate ghost of an utterance, a word spoken from the threshold of another world, and he was gone.

T
HE DULL IRON
glow of a new day was staining the dark waters of the Bosphorus by the time Cait finally returned to the ship. She stood at the rail and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the dirty yellow gleam burning through the gray cloudwrack like a hot poker singeing through sackcloth. After a time, she turned her unblinking gaze to the famed seven hills of Byzantium, all hung in purple mist and smoke, as if in mourning for her murdered father.

She heard a footfall on the deck behind her, but did not turn.

“Good morrow, my lady.” The voice was that of Haemur, their aged Orkneyjar pilot, a loyal and trusted servant, and the one person in the world Duncan would allow to captain
Persephone
to the Holy Land. A skilled but uneducated man, Haemur spoke only Norse, peppered with a smattering of Gaelic. “When you did not return last night, I was worried that—”

She turned and he saw the look on her face. His hands fluttered like distracted birds. “Lady Caitríona,” he gasped, “what has happened?” Then, as if realizing for the first time that she was alone, he said, “But where is my lord Duncan?”

“He is gone, Haemur,” she replied in a voice as brittle and empty as a dry husk.

The seaman gazed uncomprehendingly at the young woman. “He is coming later perhaps?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He is dead, Haemur.”

The elderly sailor rubbed his red face with a rough hand. Tears came to his pale blue eyes. “I see.” He turned away abruptly, and started toward his bench at the stern, dabbing at his eyes. She called him back.

“I am sorry, Haemur.” She moved to him and, taking one of his thick-calloused hands in both her own, explained what had taken place at the cathedral. It was quickly and simply told, and then she said, “The body will be buried later today, and we will attend the rites. Right now, I want you to wake your men and move the ship.”

He regarded her without understanding. “Dead? Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “We must move the ship at once. I have arranged for a berth in the Bucoleon Harbor—the one below the lighthouse.”

“The Greek harbor—where the grain ships call.”

“The same. They will not think to look for us there.”

“Who?” he asked.

But she was already moving away. “I am going to my quarters now to wash and change my clothes.”

She descended the wooden steps into the hold, which was divided into three sections. The first, near the bow, was shared by the two crewmen who helped Haemur; the middle, and largest section, was the hold proper where all the supplies, provisions, and dry goods for the voyage were kept; the third section, in the stern, was divided into two small compartments for the passengers. Cait and Alethea shared one, and the other belonged to Duncan.

Cait put her hand to the wooden latch and quietly opened the door. Pale dawnlight showed in the small round window over the boxed pallet where Alethea lay sleeping. Cait sat down on the edge of the bed and regarded the young woman. Fifteen years old—although she looked, and often behaved, as one younger than her years—she had Sydoni's thick, dark lustrous hair, and smooth tawny skin. Nor did the similarity between the young lady and her mother end there. Alethea was slender and lanky, with a high smooth brow and large dark eyes.

Cait was nearly twelve years old when Alethea was born; and though at first she thought a baby sister a fine and wonderful thing, the joy quickly palled. Alethea considered Cait too harsh and strict on her, always nagging and chastising. In Caitríona's forthright opinion, Thea was flighty and inconsiderate, too easily taken with whims and capricious fancies, and all-too-often indulged when she should have been corrected. Indeed, Alethea should not have been aboard the ship in the first place—except that when she found out that Duncan was planning to take Caitríona to the Holy Land to see all the places he and Padraig had visited during his long pilgrimage, the younger girl had moped and whined and sulked until her father relented and agreed to take her, too.

Cait sat listening to Alethea's deep, regular breathing for a moment, and then reached out and rested her hand on the girl's shoulder where the thin coverlet had slipped aside. The skin was warm beneath her palm, and Thea's face appeared so peaceful and content, Cait was loath to disturb her rest.
No,
she thought,
let her enjoy the last serenity she will know for a very long time. The grieving will come soon enough.

She rose, moved silently to the sea chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, withdrew a clean mantle and small-clothes, and then left Alethea to her rest. She crossed the narrow companionway to her father's quarters and went inside. She stood for a long while, just looking at the room, but apart from the sea chest and a pair of boots in one corner, there was nothing of Duncan to be seen.

Cait lifted a large, shallow brass bowl from its peg and placed it on the sea chest, then filled it with water from the jar. She undressed then, and washed herself over the basin, letting the cool water sluice away the previous day's sweat and anguish and tears. The water felt good on her skin and she wished the bowl was big enough for her to submerge her entire body—like the great enamelled basins of the caliph's
hareem
her father had told her about once long ago.

When she finished, she dried herself with the linen cloth from the peg, and then, succumbing to her exhaustion at last, lay down in her father's bed. She molded herself to the de
pression left by his body in the soft pine shavings of the box pallet, and closed her eyes on the grim nightmare of the day that had been.

But there was neither rest nor sleep, nor less yet any respite from the outrageous succession of misfortune that she had suffered in all that followed her father's death. To recall the stinging injustice of her predicament made her blood seethe.

For, presented with a corpse in their cathedral, the ecclesiastical authorities had fetched the
scholae
. When questioned by the leader of the troop, Cait had named the killer, and was immediately brought before a court
magister
, who listened politely to her story, and then conducted her forthwith to the Consul of Constantinople, a blunt, practical man with a short-shaved head of bristly gray hair. He sat in a throne-like chair beside a table prepared for his dinner, and listened while she repeated her charge; she told him everything, just as it happened—only to be informed that it was not remotely possible.

“You must be mistaken, woman,” the consul said frankly; his Greek, like that of the others she had spoken to, although different, could be understood readily enough. “Renaud de Bracineaux is Grand Commander of the Templar Knights of Jerusalem. He is a priest of the church, a protector of pilgrims, upholder of the faith.”

“That may be,” Cait allowed. “But I saw him with my own eyes. And my father named him before he died.”

“So you say. It is a pity your father died without repeating his accusation to anyone else—one of the priests, perhaps.” He glanced at the table, and stretched his hand toward his cup. “I am sorry.”

“You mean that you intend to do nothing.” She felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her and she was plunging into a dark, bottomless pit, helpless to prevent it.

The consul gave her a thin, dismissive smile. “Even if what you allege was in some way possible, I could not take action against this man based solely on what you have told me.”

“Because I am a woman.”

“Because you are
alone
.” The consul frowned, and then sighed with exasperated pity. “Truly, I am sorry. But the law is clear: without the corroboration of at least two witnesses, I can do nothing.”

“The church was full of people,” Caitríona pointed out. “Someone must have seen what happened.”

“Where are these people?” the consul inquired, lifting a hand to the empty chamber. “Where are they to be found?”

“Do not mock me, sir!” snarled Cait, her voice growing cold. “I know what I saw and there was no mistake.” Taking up the skirt of her mantle she spread it before her. “This!” she said, shaking the cloth angrily. “This is my father's blood I am wearing. De Bracineaux stabbed him. If you will not do anything about it, then
I
will.”

“I urge you to reconsider.” Angry now, the consul rose from his chair. “Renaud de Bracineaux is a man of great esteem and even greater renown—a friend and favorite of both King Baldwin of Jerusalem and Emperor Manuel. He is a guest of the Basileus, and I would not presume to trouble him on the basis of the scant evidence you provide. Furthermore, I warn you: should you persist in repeating this accusation, you will certainly be dealt with most harshly.”

“Oh, I am through with accusations,” Cait informed the official icily. “I may accept your judgment, but I will not suffer the injustice.”

With that, she turned her back and strode from the room. She wept in the street as she walked back to the cathedral, and then again as she sat with her dear father's body and waited for a hired cart to come and collect his remains, then to be taken to the church where he and Sydoni had been married. Following a short negotiation, an agreement was reached where, for a generous gift to the monastery, the brothers were persuaded to allow Duncan to be buried on holy ground—and according to Caitríona's specific conditions.

She left the body to be prepared for burial, and hired a chair and asked to be taken to Bucoleon Harbor; after waiting a considerable time, she had struck a bargain with the
overbusy harbor master allowing her two days' berthing—again for a tidy fee.

Daylight was fading by that time, and so she returned to the Church of Christ Pantocrator to pray and wait with her father's corpse, which had been washed and wrapped in a clean linen shroud, and placed on a low board before the altar. She stayed through the night, lighting candles and listening to the monks chant the prayers for the dead. When the watch service was over, she left the church, waking the bearers she had paid to wait for her outside. They carried her through the still-dark streets down to the Venetian Quay where she roused a boatman who had ferried her to the waiting ship as day broke in the east.

Now she lay and listened to the sounds of the crewmen clumping around on deck as they set about moving the ship. She remembered the day Duncan had hired the hands—two brothers from Hordaland in West Norway. The elder, called Otti, was a large, hard-working fellow, rendered simple by a fearsome blow on the skull which, although cutting short his apprenticeship as a Viking, no doubt saved his life. The younger, called Olvir, was a dark, quiet, good-natured boy a year or so older than Alethea; since the death of their parents, he had the responsibility of keeping himself and his older sibling fed, clothed, and out of trouble.

After a time, she heard a splash, followed by the clunk of the anchor onto the deck, and soon sensed a change in the slow, rhythmical rocking of the ship. They were moving. For the briefest instant, she was tempted to go back on deck and order Haemur to sail for home…but no, not yet.

Soon, but not yet.

Cait slept for a while, but rose unsettled and unrested. She washed her face again, dressed in a clean undershift and mantle, and wrapped a handsome woven girdle around her waist; into this she tucked her father's purse, filled with silver, and a slender dagger which had once belonged to her great-grandmother, and which her grandfather Murdo had carried with him on the Great Pilgrimage. She then put on a gown of exquisite thin material—dark for mourning—and chose a long scarf which she folded over the crown of her
head and wrapped around her throat so that the ends hung down her back. Then she went up onto the deck to break fast and wait for Alethea to rise and join her. But her sister was already awake. Little more than half-dressed as usual, Cait noticed sourly, she wore neither hat nor shoes, but merely a sleeveless shift which exposed her slender upper arms and shoulders. She was standing at the prow, tapping her palms on the rail in an attitude of agitation.

She whirled on her sister as Caitríona approached. “Where is Papa? What's happened?” she demanded. “Haemur would tell me nothing. Why are they moving the ship?”

“Thea,” said Caitríona, reaching toward her sister, “listen—”

“Haemur said he was not to come with us,” she blurted, her face suddenly blotching with color. “Why would he say that?”

“Come and sit with me.” Cait put her hand to the young woman's arm, and started toward the covered platform before the mast.

Alethea took two steps and then pulled away. “No! Tell me now! Why are you doing this?” Her shout made the crewmen turn from their work to look at the two women.

“Please, Alethea, this is not seemly. Now, come and—”

“Tell me!” she demanded, crossing her arms over her breast.

“Very well,” Cait snapped, losing patience. “Papa is not coming with us because he was attacked when we were leaving the church yesterday.”

“Papa hurt? Where is he? I must go to him.”

“No.” Cait shook her head gently. “Papa was attacked and he was killed.”

“But where is he? If he is hurt, we must go to him.”

“You are not listening, Thea—”

“You should not have left him. You should—”

“Alethea,” she said sharply, “Father is dead. He was attacked and killed. I was with him when he died.”

“You left me behind deliberately!” the young woman shouted, tears starting to her eyes.

Stepping close, Caitríona took hold of her sister's arm and
gripped it above the elbow. “Stop it!” When Alethea did not respond, she shook her hard. “Listen to what you are saying! If you cannot speak sensibly, shut your mouth.”

“This is
your
doing!” Alethea wailed. “And now I will never see him again!”