The Mystic Rose (36 page)
Authors: Stephen R. Lawhead
“Is there anything to eat?” wondered Svein, eyeing the empty tables.
“Or drink? It is thirsty work being a hostage,” said Yngvar.
“Be seated, all of you,” said Danji, rising. “I will order food and drink to be brought.”
“It would be a kindness,” Cait told her. “Perhaps I should go with you.”
“There is no need,” replied the young woman. “My husband's shame is sufficient; he will not increase it with another attack.”
Danji walked with slightly pained dignity from the room, and the knights took places at the empty table to wait for the food to appear.
“I did not know she could speak Latin,” said Rognvald when she had gone.
“Nothing here is quite as it seems,” Cait replied. “Lady Danji is not Hasan's sister; she is his wife. And, if he had won his way,
I
would have been his wife as well.”
This brought a smile from Rognvald.
“What?” demanded Cait accusingly. “And is that so unlikely that you should mock?”
“It is not mockery you see, but pleasure. I confess, I much prefer the Lady CaitrÃona before me to the swooning, cow-eyed maid we have been seeing of late.”
“Cow-eyed indeed,” replied Cait with an indignant huff. “Perhaps I should have left you locked in the tower.”
“That would have been a shame,” replied Rognvald lightly, “for then we would never learn where Alethea has been taken.”
“Hasan? You mean he knows where she is?”
“That I do believe.” The tall knight nodded firmly. “In any event, I sent Dag, Rodrigo, and Paulo to fetch the prince, so we will soon discover the truth of this treacherous affair.”
September 7, 1916: Edinburgh, Scotland
I read through most of the night, and all the next day. My reckoning may be faulty, for it is difficult to gauge the passage of time below ground. Without the sun to aid orientation, one loses all sense of regularity and proportion; the body quickly succumbs to its own peculiar rhythm. Hence, I ate and slept as it seemed right to me, performing any small tasks as need or whim dictatedâwashing, grooming, tending the fireâand the rest of the time, I read from William St. Clair's old book.
When I grew tired of sitting in bed, I sat on the stool; when the stool grew uncomfortable, I took a fleece from the bed and laid it before the hearth and read by the flickering light of the fire. Eager to finish CaitrÃona's tale before Evans returned for me, I read the hours awayâdiscovering in the process that without the ordinary distractions of daily life with all its clamor and clutter, without the tyranny of petty demands and humdrum obligations, the mind soon ceases its continual fretting and gnawing over the events of the day. The spirit calms and peace descends like a balm over the soul.
Feeling very much like a monk who has devoted his life to prayer and study in quiet solitude, I read the book and the bare confines of my cell ceased to exist. I was transported across the centuries to that far-off time at the embryonic beginning of our long-lived order. In short, as my understanding grew toward completion, I envisioned the form my final
initiation would take and began to prepare myself accordingly.
My time of contemplation passed so peacefully that I was actually startled when I heard the door open at the end of the passage and footsteps descend the stone steps. I was ready when Evans reappeared at the entrance to my cell. And again I started a little, for he was not wearing the scarlet of the Inner Circle, nor the ordinary gray of brotherhood; he was wearing a long white robe without emblem or insignia, but belted with a wide woven band of cloth of gold.
He carried another white robe which he held up for me, saying, “Peace and grace to you, brother.” By this I knew the formal ceremony had already begun. I returned his greeting, and he said, “The Council of Brothers has gathered, and we await your presence.” He glanced at the book on the table. “I trust your time here has been of profit to you.”
“It has been inspirational,” I replied, slipping into the offered robe, “and I am grateful for it.”
“Good.” He held out to me a woven belt like his own. I passed it around my waist, and he tied it for me, arranging the knot at the side. He stepped back, regarding me with a critical eye, then nodded his approval. “If you are ready, we will proceed.”
I replied that I was, and taking up the candle, he led me from the cell. We did not return to the Star Chamber, as I might have expected, but continued down the passage leading deeper into the underground interior. I followed and we walked without speaking until reaching a low door at the end. Evans knocked on the door. There came the long metallic scrape of a bolt being drawn, and the door was opened from inside. Evans held the candle above the lintel and indicated that I should enter. I stooped, bent my head low, and stepped inside to see Genotti standing beside the doorway, candle in hand.
My first impressionâthat the room appeared to have been carved out of the living stone which formed the church's foundationâturned out to be correct. This was swiftly followed by the recognition that I had been in this room before: years ago, when I was elevated to the Seventh Degree. Then, I had been blindfolded; but there could be no mistake: this was the cavernous chamber into which I was lowered on that night, when, a blind man searching in the darkness, I had found the beginning of the path which had led me to this final revelation.
I saw, in the flickering glow of candles in tall sconces around the room, the other members of the Inner CircleâDe Cardou, Zaccaria, and Kutchâwaiting before a stone altar; they were, like Evans and Genotti, robed in white. Behind them, to one side, was the vestibule wherein I had found the Iron Lance. The sacred relic was there; I could see its slightly bowed and crooked length resting in the shelved niche carved for it in the solid rock wall, and the sight produced a feeling of intense elation which flooded through me like a warm wave of triumph.
Opposite this vestibule, there was another. Evans, who had joined Genotti, saw my glance and knew I was curious to explore and so gave his assent with a silent nod. The others stood by and watched as I moved to the semi-chamber, ascended the single step and went in to find another carved niche. My heart quickened as I saw the dark scarred length of ancient timber and knew that I beheld the Black Rood.
The heavy-grained wood was grooved and sinuous with age, its deeply patined surface smoothed by saintly veneration to a satiny luster that shimmered dully in the gently flickering light. The truncated and much abused relic had been ornamented with simple gold bands which covered the rough-sawn ends. Humbled by its presence, I held my breath and ran my fingertips along the length of ancient wood in a caress of profound gratitude, reverence, and, yes, love.
My thoughts returned to the sunny island of Cyprus where I had encountered the tale of the relic in a copy of Duncan's handwritten manuscript in the monastery of Ayios Moni amid the pine-forested peaks of the Troodos mountains. Had it really been fifteen years since Caitlin and I had passed the winter on that sleepy island in the midst of the sun-bright sea? We had always meant to return and relive that happy timeâ¦now we never would.
I left the vestibule and returned to where the others were waiting for me. “There is but one more secret to be revealed,” Genotti said. “Tonight there are no blindfolds; there will be no stumbling and fumbling in the darkness. Tonight we stand and move in the glory and radiance of the Sanctus Clarus.”
“Are you ready, brother?” asked Evans.
“I am,” I replied, little knowing how unprepared I truly was for what was about to happen.
B
Y THE TIME
they came in sight of the ridge the wind had turned raw, whipping at the horses' tails and manes, and stinging the faces of the riders. What had begun as a crisp, sun-bright day slowly sank into a dull, freezing mist, and Cait was glad of the handsome wool cloak Hasan had given her. She had offered to return it, along with the other gifts, but he would not hear of it.
“I would brave the everlasting fires of Jahennem itself,” Hasan had declared boldly, “for the merest hope of your forgiveness, Ketmia. Leading your beloved sister to freedom will be but a token of my sincerity and contrition.”
Cait readily accepted his pledge, but Lord Rognvald was of a less forgiving mind. Despite the apparent change in Hasan, and the prince's oft-repeated pledges of fidelity, benevolence, and selfless resolve, the wary Norwegian maintained a sceptical attitude; having been burned once, he was not inclined to wholly trust the fire again. Even so, inasmuch as Prince Hasan professed to know where the outlaw Ali Waqqar could be found, he had no choice but to swallow his misgivings and allow the contrite Moor to lead them to the bandit's refuge.
During the night the horses, supplies, and weapons had been made ready, and the company departed at dawnâled by Hasan; Rognvald, Cait, and the knights came next, followed by Halhuli and three more servants leading a train of seven pack horses. They reached the first valley, crossed it, and continued on into the ragged northern hills beyondâa
rough, desolate land of tumbled rock and deeply eroded ravines inhabited only by herds of tough little mountain goats and flocks of wild sheep.
Shortly after midday the prince halted the party; while Halhuli and his men set about preparing a meal, he led Cait, Rognvald, and the knights a little further along the trail. “Observe that ridge which rises before you like a wall,” he said, lifting his hand to a massive bulwark of mottled brown rock in the distance. “That is
Arsh Iblees
âor, as you would say, the Devil's Throne. Beyond it is a narrow valley, and that is where we will find Ali Waqqar.”
“It will be dark before we reach the ridge,” observed Rognvald.
“I think so,” agreed Hasan. “I suggest making camp here and beginning again at first light.”
“But the day is not so far gone,” Cait pointed out a little anxiously. “We could ride a fair way yet.”
“We might, it is true,” allowed the prince. “We will be more comfortable here, however, and there is less chance of alerting the bandits to our presence. I would prefer to arrive unannounced.”
Thus Cait was forced to endure yet another restless night on the trail. She lay sleepless in a little round tent, the front of which was open to a campfire that blazed throughout the night, and rose early and set about saddling her horse once more.
Waiting had made her sullen and surly. She begrudged the slowness of the others, and wished to high Heaven she had never embarked upon this disastrous course. She was cold and tired and aching with the knowledge of her own failure, folly, and conceit. With what arrogance had she conceived this reckless enterprise, with what sublime ignorance, what consummate vanity.
When at last they set off again, she turned tired eyes to the featureless sky above, and the bleak beginning of another dismal day in the saddle. So empty. So hopeless. And, like the revenge she sought, so endlessly, abysmally pointless.
Out on the winter trail with a fretful wind swirling about her shivering shoulders, grief enwrapped her in its cold
clutch and squeezed her hard. Where before she had been able to ease her sorrow and remorse with the assurance that the reward was worth the cost, in the pale light of yet another dreary dawn that assurance foundered. Like a pack horse forced to carry a crushing burden far too long, her confidence collapsed, never to rise again.
It was all she could do to stifle the scream of desperation she felt rising up in her throat. She lashed her horse to a plodding trot and rode out ahead of the others so that they could not see the tears of frustration sliding down her frozen cheeks.
They spent the morning fighting a wet and gusty wind which threatened to sweep them off the trail. By the time they gained the top of the ridge and began their descent, Cait had determined to abandon the search for the Holy Cup. Her ill-advised pursuit of the relic had so far brought nothing but death and misery. It was timeâand long past timeâto renounce her ambition.
While sojourning in Hasan's palace, she had been able to hold off the decision she had known all along was coming. Now, as she sat freezing in the saddle, all she wanted was to win her sister's freedom, and return to Bilbao and her waiting ship while she, and those with her, still had life and breath to do so.
De Bracineaux would win; he had killed her father, and he would gain the Mystic Rose, too. There was nothing she could do about that. She would walk away empty-handed, but at least, she told herself, she would still be alive. That would have to be enough.
In a little while, they came to a wide place halfway along the downward trail. Here, sheltered by the ridge wall behind them, they stopped to rest and warm themselves. The riders dismounted and the prince summoned Cait and Rognvald to join him.
“I do not see any settlements,” Cait informed him glumly, gazing down into the pinched ravine of a valleyâlittle more than a deep, crinkled gash with a rock-filled stream at the bottom.
“No,” Hasan said, “there are neither settlements nor holdings in this wilderness. The land is not good for farming.”
“Then where will we find the bandits?”
“The hillsides below are seamed with a great many caves,” Prince Hasan told them. “This is where Ali Waqqar hides. As to that, I think it would be best if you and your men were to wait here and allow me to go on ahead alone.”
Rognvald frowned, and Cait shook her head.
“Please, Ketmia, what I propose is wisdom itself. Ali and I have had dealings in the past, you see. If I go to him alone, he will allow me to come near and speak to him. Surprise him with an army, however, and he could easily disappear into his labyrinth of caves where we could never find him.”
Cait resisted the idea. Alethea and Abu were somewhere down there and she meant to get them out.
“Truly, it is for the best,” insisted Hasan.
“Oh, very well!” She nearly screamed with exasperation. “Go on then!”
“Yngvar, Svein, and the others will wait here with you,” Rognvald told her. “But I will go with the prince.” He turned to regard Hasan with quietly stubborn defiance.
Seeing the knight was adamant, the prince reluctantly agreed and commanded Halhuli to find a turban for Rognvald and exchange cloaks with him. As soon as Rognvald was suitably disguised, they remounted and Hasan cautioned the tall knight to sit low in the saddle and avoid drawing attention to himself. “Pray that Ali Waqqar is of a mood to receive visitors today,” he said, then raised his hand in farewell.
Cait watched the riders disappearing down the side of the hill and changed her mind. Crossing quickly to her mount, she climbed into the saddle, and was off before anyone could stop her. Dag and Rodrigo ran a few steps and called for her to come back, but she ignored them and rode on. The riders heard the commotion, turned, saw Cait, and halted on the trail.
“Say what you like, I will not go back,” she told them in a tone suggesting that Heaven and earth could pass away long before she would be persuaded. “I have not come this far to stand aside and wait.”
“
Yu'allah
,” sighed Hasan; he glanced at Rognvald, who made no move to intervene, then relented. “So be it.”
“Whatever happens, stay close to me, my lady,” Rognvald instructed. “Keep your blade ready to hand.”
“See you keep your head covered with the hood of your cloak,” added Hasan. “It may be they will think you are Danji, and take no notice.”
Having won her way, Cait became compliant; she did as she was told and fell in behind Lord Rognvald. They moved on, reaching the floor of the valley a short time later, where Cait saw that it was as Hasan had said; as she gazed at the broken, boulder-strewn slopes all around she could see the entrances of small caves as dark holes in the sides of the hills.
Leaving the ridge trail, they rode out into the narrow valley, passing among fallen rocks the size of houses. Hasan found his way to the stream and they followed the path beside it. Owing to the high, protecting walls on every side, the air was calm and silent on the valley floor; the only sound to be heard was the rippling splash of the water as it coursed along its stony bed. In a little while, it became clear that the prince knew exactly where he was going.
They came to a place where the stream pooled as it passed around the base of an enormous, mound-like boulder, providing a good fording place. They paused to allow the horses to drink, then crossed the stream and turned toward the towering eastern slope. A few hundred paces from the ford a great stone slab lay like a toppled pillar on its side; the trail passed between two of the shattered sections. They rode through a gap wide enough for horses to go two abreast and continued on toward the slope, picking their way among the chunks of stone fallen from the heights which lay scattered over the rising ground, and in a little while arrived at the entrance to a cave.
Potsherds and the droppings of sheep and horses covered the flat area at the base of the slope which served the cave as a yard. Aside from that, and a faint whiff of smoke adrift in the still air, there was no sign that anyone had ever been near the place. Rognvald halted a little way off, and Cait be
hind him; Hasan rode to the cave entrance and shouted, “Ali Waqqar!”
He waited a moment and shouted again, adding a few words in Arabic. The call had scarcely died in the air when a figure emerged out of the darkness of the cave mouth. The man was a dark-skinned Moor, shabbily dressed, his clothes stiff with grease and dirt, his beard matted and long, his hair unkempt. His fat belly hung over his drooping belt, and the sleeves of his cloak flapped in rags about his hands as he stared warily out at the three visitors.
He spat into the dirt at his feet before making bold to answer. Prince Hasan addressed the man sharply, and to Cait's surprise the burly fellow straightened and made a curt bow. Hasan spoke again, whereupon the man disappeared.
“He is one of Ali's men,” Hasan explained. “He is meant to be on watch, butâ” he lifted a hand equivocally, “you can see how it is.”
“Is Thea here? Did you ask ifâ” Cait began, but the prince cut her off.
“Hush, Ketmia,” he warned quietly. “All in good time.”
They waited in silence for the guard to return. When he did, it was with three other men, one of whom, taller than the others, appeared slightly better dressed and reasonably more alert. He bowed and addressed the prince politely, moving out from the mouth of the cave for a closer look at the visitors. Prince Hasan spoke to him the while, raising his voice in demand when the guard appeared to take an interest in the two accompanying the prince. A few paces from Cait, he swung around sharply and moved to Hasan's side, offered another bow and hurried into the cave once more, leaving the others behind to stare dully at the visitors until their leader returned; appearing at the cavern entrance, he motioned the newcomers to follow him.
“The danger is past,” said Hasan, visibly relieved. “It appears Ali Waqqar will be pleased to receive us in his lair. Do you wish to accompany me, or would you rather wait here?”
“We will attend,” said Rognvald.
“Very well.” Prince Hasan swung down from the saddle. “Follow me. But see you keep your wits about you.”
Cait dismounted and followed the men into the cave, regretting her decision at once. The entrance opened onto a high-ceilinged chamber, the walls of which were streaked gray with bat dung; a fair few of the grotesque creatures hung in wriggling clusters from the rocks overhead. On one side of the chamber, a winding passage led deeper into the heart of the mountain. The lower walls of the passage were damp and reeked with the sour stench of stale urine. Nor was that all. As they moved further into the cave, she encountered other odors tooâthe acrid tang of horse sweat, the earthy ripeness of manure and human dung, and the putrid stink of rotting meatâall of them so rank and malignant as to make her eyes water. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she hunched her shoulders and hurried on. Ahead of her she heard Rognvald mutter something under his breath as they passed by one particularly malodorous heap of refuse.
The passage ended in another doorway carved in the rock. Bending almost double, they stooped beneath the grimy lintel and stepped into a large dome-like room which was lit by the blaze of a log fire barely contained within a crude hearth in the center of the cavern. Haunches of meat were sizzling on wooden spits placed around the perimeter of the hearth, filling the air with oily smoke. Water trickled down one wall to fill a small pool made of rocks and mud. Beside the pool were a half-dozen enormous earthenware jars; several large grass baskets were stacked here and there along the wall, with a few well-made wooden caskets among themâcontaining plunder, no doubt, from raids or other nefarious doings.
At first glance the room appeared to be deserted, but as Cait looked around she began to see human forms in the quivering shadows along the arching walls and upper ledges; what she had first taken for lumps of stone were in fact men, wrapped in cloaks and turbans and sound asleep. There were others sitting quietly slumped in attitudes of drunken stupor, oblivious to events around them.
In all, she estimated there were perhaps twenty or so, and the sight of them infuriated her: to think that these indolent sots were the brigands who had killed five good men and
carried off her sister. Now that she saw them again at last, she fairly squirmed with the urge to draw her sword and separate their odious bodies from their worthless souls. It took all her strength of will to keep her hand from the blade at her side and walk on by with averted eyes. For Alethea's sake, she did just that.
