The Mystic Rose (48 page)

It was only as the combatants closed on one another that Cait realized that something had changed within the Moorish ranks: they now carried lances. While Rognvald was exchanging words with the Templar commander, the Moors had replaced their swords with stout, long-shafted spears, which they now levelled upon the onrushing Templar knights.

The two forces collided with a crash like thunder. The clash shook snow from the nearby rooftops and shuddered the frozen ground. Seven Templars were unhorsed, and two of those did not rise; they lay in the snow with broken lance-shafts protruding from pierced ribs.

The force of the charge carried each side through and beyond the line of the other. As soon as they broke free, both sides turned and readied themselves for another foray. Again came the command, again they spurred their mounts to speed. Again the clash shivered the frigid air. Cait looked away at the last moment, and when she looked back four more Templars lay in the snow. Only nine were left to stand against Hasan's thirty.

De Bracineaux knew he could not risk another attack so this time, as soon as they passed, the Templars reined up, wheeled their horses, and flew at the backs of the retreating Moors. They succeeded in cutting down three of Hasan's troops, but the rest quickly surrounded the nine Templars. Lances were no use in close fighting, so they were abandoned in favor of the sword. This was the fight de Bracineaux wanted, and once again the heavier armor and skill of his men began to tell against the more lightly protected Moors.

One after another, the Moors fell to the Templar blades—three fell at once, followed by three more, and then two more in quick succession. Cait watched with growing apprehension as the Templars slowly cut their way through the Moorish ranks.

“De Bracineaux will have their hearts for supper,” said d'Anjou, almost glowing with exaltation at the splendid spectacle of carnage. “Perhaps I should start the cooking fire now.”

Cait tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip and held her to her place. “You wanted to watch, my lady,” he gloated. “You
will
watch!”

There came a movement from within the Moorish ranks, and Cait saw her knights moving through the press to join battle with the Templars, who had been forced once more into a tight defensive circle. Rognvald, with Yngvar at his left hand, pushed in on one side of the ring, and Dag, Svein, and Rodrigo forced their way in from the other. The Norsemen—larger than their Moorish comrades, and used to fighting with heavy weapons—shouldered the brunt of the offensive, driving in with relentless ferocity.

Rognvald, his arm rising and falling in deadly rhythm, rained devastating blows on the Templars before him. Shields, helmets, and swords were battered and broken before the Norsemen's onslaught. The sound of their terrible hammering blows resounded across the battleground:
Crack!
Now a shield was riven.
Crack!
Now a helm split asunder.
Crack!
A blade shattered. Disarmed, the unlucky Templar left the saddle, diving for the ground rather than face Rognvald's killing stroke. Whirling with dread purpose, the Norse lord singled out another foe.

Slowly the balance of battle swayed once more.

Yngvar and Svein each succeeded in unhorsing an opponent, leaving only six Templars in action. Seeing they were at last beginning to overcome the stubbornly valiant Templars, Hasan's troops redoubled their efforts. A great shout of triumph arose from the Moors as they swarmed in for the final assault.

Cait was watching Prince Hasan as he forced his way to
Rognvald's side and did not see the deadly struggle taking place at the far side of the dwindling band of Templars. But just as another Templar knight fell before the Norsemen's blades, a lone rider broke free from the mass and galloped toward them with Yngvar and Svein in pursuit.

The fleeing Templar reached the church, reining up a few paces from where Cait and d'Anjou were standing; he was out of the saddle before his horse had come to a halt. Throwing off his battered helm, he lurched toward them. It was de Bracineaux. “You!” he said, reaching for Cait. “You are coming with me.”

B
LEEDING FROM A
deep cut to his forehead, his face ashen with fatigue, de Bracineaux snatched Cait from d'Anjou's grasp. Cait screamed and clawed at him, but he grabbed her arm with his free hand and, still clutching his sword, threw his arm around her waist. He lifted her off her feet and dragged her out from among the crowd gathered in front of the church.

“Here!” cried the archbishop, rising from his prayers in the snow. “Let her go! This is not the way, de Bracineaux.”

“Stay back, priest,” said d'Anjou, shoving him down once more. “This is none of your concern.”

“In God's name,” Bertrano cried, “I beg you: let her go. End the bloodshed.” Struggling to his feet, he started after the Templar commander. “De Bracineaux!” he called. “Stop!”

“Keep him away!” shouted the Templar over his shoulder.

Baron d'Anjou moved to head off the interfering cleric. “I told you to stay back, priest.” He grabbed the archbishop by the arm and pulled him around. “Bother God with your prayers, and leave the rest to us.”

“Release me, sir!” Bertrano shrugged off d'Anjou's hold. “You will not presume to tell me what to do.” He turned and started after the commander and his captive once more, calling for Caitríona's release, and an end to the fighting.

The baron grabbed Bertrano's arm and tried to pull him back, but the big man shook off his assailant, and bulled ahead. He reached de Bracineaux and put his hands on the
Templar. “Put down your sword, commander,” the archbishop called. “Sue for peace. I will speak to them.” He took hold of the Templar's sword hand and tried to break his grip. “Let the woman go.”

“Get back!” snarled de Bracineaux, elbowing the cleric aside. “D'Anjou! Keep him away from me!”

D'Anjou seized the archbishop by the belt of his robe and pulled him back a few paces. The churchman made a wild swing with his arm, knocking the baron aside; he turned and started once more for the Templar. D'Anjou lunged after him. “Stay back,” he growled.

Bertrano shook him off and turned. D'Anjou darted after him, appeared to make a grab, but missed. The archbishop took another step, then stumbled and went down.

He writhed in the snow, pressing a hand to his side. Several of the nuns hurried to his aid. One of them screamed when she took hold of Bertrano's hand. Her own hand came away wet and red; there was blood in the snow, spilling from a gash in his side. “I warned you,” Baron d'Anjou said, wiping the blade of his dagger with a handful of snow. “You should have listened.”

Kicking and scratching, Cait succeeded in squirming free, but de Bracineaux got his fingers in her hair and dragged her with him. “You have cost me dearly,” he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Now you are going to repay me in full.”

Cait lashed out at him with her fists, swinging hard, the blows muted by the mail and padding. Wrapping his hand securely in her hair, he hauled her to her knees and pressed the ragged edge of his sword to her throat. She felt the cold steel bite into the soft flesh of her neck, and stopped struggling. From the corner of her eye she saw two Norse knights approaching.

“That is close enough!” de Bracineaux shouted as Svein and Yngvar came running up. “Any closer and the lady will lose her head.” As if to demonstrate the veracity of this threat, he tightened his grip in her hair and jerked her head
up, pressing the sharp blade harder against the base of her throat. She felt something digging into her shoulder and realized it was the golden pommel of de Bracineaux's dagger which was hanging from his belt. If she could get her hands on it, she might have a chance to defend herself.

“Let her go, Templar,” said Yngvar. “We mean to treat you fairly.”

“Do you think I would trust any of your promises?” replied the commander. “No, I have a better idea. Throw down your weapons and she may yet live.”

Cait edged sideways slightly, freeing the dagger from behind her shoulder. De Bracineaux punished her for the movement by jerking her head higher and pressing the blade harder still. She heard a horse galloping swiftly nearer. “Release her, de Bracineaux,” called the rider. She heard the voice and took hope: it was Rognvald. “Let her go, and we will settle terms of peace.”

“I will give you my terms!” roared the commander. “This woman dies unless you give me the cup.” When no one moved to respond, de Bracineaux forced Cait's head down and started to draw the blade across her throat; she felt the skin break and blood begin to ooze.

Rognvald made to dismount, but the Templar commander shouted, “Stay back!” He pulled Cait's head up and back, stretching her throat to show the cut he'd made. “Bring me the cup!” he screamed. “Now!”

Turning to those standing outside the door of the church, Rognvald called for the cup to be brought out. “You should think about your men,” Rognvald told him. “There are nine Templars still drawing breath. Their lives, and yours, are forfeit if you harm this woman.”

“The Devil take them,” de Bracineaux replied. “Devil take you all.” He turned his head toward the church. “D'Anjou! Where is that cup?”

Alethea appeared at the door of the church just then. “It is here,” she said.

“Bring it to me!” shouted de Bracineaux. “Bring it here to me!”

Holding the Sacred Vessel in both hands, Alethea stepped
forward. A way parted through the crowd as she moved, walking slowly, and with grave deliberation as if in a holy procession. She held the cup high for all to see, and the morning light glinted off the gilded rim, creating a glowing halo of gold which hovered above her hands.

The commander saw the precious relic and his face twisted in an ugly gloating grin. Still he held his hostage firmly, the swordblade hard against her throat. Cait could feel the warm blood trickling down her neck and soaking into her clothing. She heard Rognvald say something; he was trying to dissuade the Templar from carrying his scheme any further. Some of the nuns and villagers huddled outside the church began to weep and cry out in their anguish. Cait heard it all, but the sounds meant nothing to her; she could only watch with mounting dread as Alethea drew step-by-slow-deliberate-step closer with the Sacred Chalice in her hands.

When Alethea had come within three paces she stopped. “Here, girl!” de Bracineaux snarled. “Give it to me!”

Alethea looked steadily at him, her features expressionless, and slowly knelt in the snow.

“Here!” said de Bracineaux angrily. “Here to me!”

She made no move to come nearer. Instead, Alethea stretched out her hands and raised the Holy Cup above her head as if in offering.

The Templar commander shouted again for her to deliver the cup into his hands, but Alethea, kneeling meekly in the snow, remained unmoved, holding the cup just out of his reach.

De Bracineaux gave a grunt of impatience. Releasing his grip on Cait's hair, but still holding the sword to her neck, he reached out for the cup with his free hand. Leaning far forward, he took a half-step toward the cup. Arm extended, fingers stretching, he grasped the golden rim and plucked the Holy Chalice from between Alethea's hands. As he reached out, the dagger at his belt swung free.

Alethea rose with catlike quickness. Her long fingers closed on the weapon as she came up. With a single, smooth stroke she drew the knife from the sheath and drove the point of the blade up under de Bracineaux's chin.

With a startled cry, he dropped the cup and the sword. Cait fell forward onto her hands, then collapsed face down in the snow.

De Bracineaux seized Alethea's wrist and tried to pull the dagger away. Wrapping her other hand around the Templar's, Alethea stepped nearer and, with all her strength, drove the knife blade to the hilt. The two stood for a moment in a weird and deadly embrace; and then, with a muffled cry of rage and pain, de Bracineaux pulled his hand free. He made a sweep with his arm and knocked the girl aside.

Alethea fell back in the snow. De Bracineaux pulled the blade from his neck and turned on her. He lurched forward, slashing wildly with the dagger as blood coursed freely from the hole in his throat.

Rognvald rushed in, sword ready.

Alethea lay where she had fallen, gazing up at him—neither trembling, nor cowering in fear, but with calm defiance. Commander de Bracineaux took one step and then another. Blood cascaded from his wound, staining his beard and soaking into his tunic. He reached for her, the knife gleaming red in the sun. But as he made to strike, de Bracineaux's legs buckled beneath him. He fell on his side, blood spewing a bright crimson arc in the snow.

Rognvald, crouching behind his sword, put himself between Alethea and the Templar. De Bracineaux hauled himself onto his knees, regarding Alethea dully, as if trying to understand how a nun could have done such a contemptible thing to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in a dark, bloody bubbling which gushed over his teeth and chin, and splashed down his white surcoat, blotting out the red Templar cross on his chest.

Alethea rose to her feet, pushed past Rognvald and stood over de Bracineaux, gazing down with pitiless indifference at her stricken enemy. Unable to speak, he lifted uncomprehending eyes to her impassive face; his jaw worked, forming a single word:
why?

“Because,” she said, as the wounded Templar slumped lower in the snow, “Lord Duncan had
two
daughters.”

R
OGNVALD RUSHED TO
Cait's side and knelt beside her in the snow. Alethea took a quick step and kicked the dagger from de Bracineaux's slack grasp. She stooped and retrieved the Blessed Cup, backing away as the Templar made a last scrabbling grab for it.

“My lady,” said Rognvald, “you are hurt.”

“No,” replied Cait as she tried to get up. “I—” The pain made her gasp.

Rognvald eased her down once more. “Rest a moment. Let me look at the wound.” Dropping his sword, he shook the glove from his hand and pressed his fingertips to the side of Cait's neck just below the jaw where blood was oozing in a thin crimson sheet down her throat. “It is a nasty cut,” he observed, “but not deep, I think.”

“Help me to my feet.”

He was just gathering her into his arms to lift her, when there came a sudden rush from behind. Rognvald glanced back to see Baron d'Anjou bearing down on them—a savage leer on his face and a knife in his hand. He ran with surprising quickness, closing the distance in an instant. Rognvald spun around; knowing, even as he reached for his blade, that he would be too late, he placed himself between d'Anjou and Caitríona, shielding her with his body.

Yngvar darted in from the side, flailing with his sword as d'Anjou passed. The blade slashed, went wide. D'Anjou dodged the blow easily. Closing on them, he prepared to strike. Cait saw the baron's arm draw back, and then halt, its
forward progress abruptly halted. The baron spun around and into Svein's fierce, bone-bending embrace. D'Anjou gave a little cry of surprise and Cait saw his spine stiffen as the Norseman's blade slid in beneath his ribs. The baron roared in anger and pushed himself away, slashing wildly with the knife. Rognvald snatched up his sword, stepped in behind, and with the action of a man putting a mad dog out of its misery, made a quick chop at the base of the baron's neck. D'Anjou staggered, the dagger spinning from his hand. As his knees gave way beneath him, he looked up at Cait with an expression of mild reproach. “Damn it all,” he sighed, then pitched forward onto the ground beside the dying Templar.

Then everything became confused for Cait. It seemed as if a dense cloud descended over her, muffling sight and sound. She felt Rognvald's strong arms beneath her, sensed movement, and guessed that he carried her to the church. Alethea was there, holding the Holy Chalice, and several nuns flew around her, fussing and clucking while they cleaned and bandaged the wound at her neck.

Prince Hasan was there, too, and some others, including Brother Timotheus. There were voices, movement, and then she felt fresh air on her face once more, and saw the mountains gleaming in the sun…dead bodies in the trampled bloody snow…wounded men holding their seeping wounds…nuns with white hands binding brown Moorish limbs…horses, long winter coats lathered and wet, heads down, noses to the ground in exhaustion, their flanks steaming in the cold sunlight…And then it grew dark and when she awoke she was no longer in the church; she had somehow been transported to Dominico's house, and there were people talking somewhere nearby but she could not see them.

She raised a hand to her injured throat and felt the cloth of her bandage. She made to rise and the movement started a fierce pain throbbing in her neck. She lay back down and waited for the pain to subside, and listened to the voices in the next room—somber, subdued, earnest.

After a time, the throbbing eased to a raw ache; she tried again to rise, more carefully this time, and succeeded in
holding her head in a way that did not aggravate the wound again. She was light-headed, and slightly wobbly on her feet, but she steadied herself by the bed and then walked slowly to the next room. Rognvald was there, together with Prince Hasan and Brother Timotheus, while Dominico and his family flitted around them preparing a meal. Yngvar and Svein sat on a bench against the far wall, their long legs stretched out in front of them. Dag and Rodrigo sat on stools nearby, jars in hand, drinking in great thirsty drafts until the ale ran down their beards.

To a man, all were so preoccupied that no one saw her standing in the doorway. She took a step forward, and Elantra, Dominico's wife, glanced up and ran to her side. The others noticed the sudden movement and looked around to see Cait walking gingerly, aided by the diminutive woman. “My lady,” said Rognvald; he was on his feet and beside her in an instant. “Come, sit down.” He took her elbow and led her to the table as Elantra scurried back to the hearth. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough,” replied Cait, scarcely recognizing her own voice. She sounded as if she had been swallowing chips of flint, and it hurt to speak; but, aside from the ache in her throat and a brace of bruises on her arm, she felt tolerably hale and whole. “It seems you shall not be rid of me just yet.”

“Nor, I hope, for a very long time to come,” he said, his voice low so that the others did not hear. She glanced up and saw in his eyes a warmth of regard she had not seen before.

“I am sorry, Ketmia,” said Prince Hasan, rising from his place as they arrived at the table. “We came as soon as Lord Rognvald reached us with news of the Templars' arrival, but if we had been here sooner…”

Cait did not let him finish. “It is
I
who should thank
you
, my lord.” Taking his hands in hers, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “That is small thanks, but it carries all my heart. My debt to you is great, and grows ever greater.”

Turning to Rognvald, she said, “I owe you more than I can say. Thank you, good friend. One day, perhaps, I will
find a way to repay you.” She kissed him, too, and then sat down in the offered seat. “Where is Alethea?”

“She is helping the sisters who are caring for Archbishop Bertrano,” replied Brother Timotheus, his tone grave. He paused to swallow down his emotion. “They are doing all they can, but…” His voice faltered and he left the rest unsaid.

“It is not good, Ketmia,” Hasan told her. “Halhuli is with them. Whatever can be done for the priest, will be done. Yet I fear there is little anyone can do but pray.”

“We were just discussing it when you joined us,” Rognvald said. “His death will—”

“Heaven forbid it!” Timotheus put in. “We must not give up hope.”

“Should the archbishop fail to recover,” Rognvald said, amending his words, “his death would place both Hasan and the village in peril.”

“Blame would inevitably fall upon the Moors,” the prince explained. “There would be reprisals. The Spanish kings would insist.”

Cait nodded. “I see.”

“And then there is the question of what to do with the surviving Templars,” said Rognvald. “There are nine altogether—de Bracineaux's sergeant among them.”

“They cannot have been privy to their commander's wicked schemes,” Brother Timotheus pointed out. “We must show clemency.”

“But we cannot allow them to simply ride away as if nothing happened,” said Hasan.

“Would you imprison them?” said the priest.

Seeing a tedious discussion stretching ahead of them, Cait stood. “Please, excuse me. I want to see Bertrano. Where is he?”

“He is in the church,” Timotheus said. “We thought it best not to move him just yet.”

“Allow me to attend you,” Rognvald said; rising, he took her arm. Cait covered his hand with hers and let the touch linger for a moment. Then, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she removed it, saying, “I am well enough, my lord. Stay
and finish your talk. I will return when I have seen how the good bishop fares.”

She moved to the entrance where Elantra opened the door for her, then walked with her out into a fresh, crisp day. The sun was high; it had passed midday and the sky was clear and bright and blue. The dead had been removed from the battleground, and were now placed in orderly rows beside the church where Prince Hasan's men and most of the villagers were working over them, removing armor, weapons, clothing, and boots—anything that could be of use to the living.

As she drew near the church, she saw that someone had tried to dig a grave; a long, narrow rectangle had been scraped in the snow, and the green turf beneath was cut. But the ground was too hard, so the work had been abandoned. Down by the lake, she saw men working to erect a wooden pyre; the corpses would be burned.

Upon entering the church, she stood for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Then she saw, against the south wall, a heap of wadded cloaks; around it huddled three or four nuns, and Halhuli, sitting on his heels, his hands resting idly in his lap. They turned to look as Cait entered, then returned to their vigil as Alethea rose to greet her sister. The two met and embraced without speaking; they simply stood and held one another. After a time, Cait whispered, “Thank you, Thea.”

They held one another for a little longer, and then Alethea said, “They were going to burn the village and the abbey. Once they got hold of the Blessed Cup, they were going to destroy everything.”

“How do you know?”

“The Templars confessed it. Dag and Svein and the others were securing the prisoners, and they told them de Bracineaux had ordered them to destroy everything and kill everyone because he did not want anyone left alive to tell what had happened.”

Cait shook her head in bewilderment and started the pain clawing at her throat again.

Alethea saw her wince, and raised a hand to Cait's neck, touching the bandage gently. “I think it will leave a scar.”

“I will recover; they say Bertrano may not.”

Alethea nodded. “His wound is very bad, but it does not seem to pain him overmuch.”

They walked together to the makeshift bed where the archbishop lay. Halhuli rose and said, “I have made him comfortable. Now we can but wait, and pray the Great Healer to perform a wonder.” Cait thanked him, whereupon he inclined his head in a bow and departed.

The nuns made room for Cait and Alethea as they took their places beside the bishop. Bertrano lay quietly, hands folded over his stomach as if in peaceful meditation. Cait thought he was asleep, but when she had, with Alethea's help, knelt down beside him, Bertrano opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “You still have your head, my dear,” he said. “That is good.”

“And we still have the Holy Chalice,” she replied, returning his smile. “I must ask your forgiveness, archbishop. None of this would have happened if not for me. I am sorry.”

“If not for you and your dauntless sister, dear lady, de Bracineaux would be halfway to Jerusalem with the cup by now. Even so, I do forgive you. Lying to an archbishop is a sin—only a very minor sin, mind, for everyone does it. Still, I would not recommend making a practice of it.” He raised his hand and traced the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I absolve you.”

Cait leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, my lord archbishop.”

“And you, dear girl,” he said to Alethea, “are a very brave and intrepid adversary. I absolve you, too. Any ill the commander suffered, he brought upon himself. He alone was the author of his demise.”

“My only thought was for my sister,” Alethea replied, “and for the Blessed Cup.”

“He would have kept it, you know,” Bertrano told them. “Once de Bracineaux had it, he would never have given it up.”

“Well, it is safe now,” said Alethea.

“No,” the archbishop shook his head weakly. “The Holy Cup will never be safe here again. Sooner or later, others will come and it will be taken.”

Abbess Annora appeared just then, holding a steaming bowl on a tray; Sister Besa was with her, carrying a pile of clean, folded cloths. She acknowledged Cait's presence with a kindly nod, and placed the tray beside the bed. “We must change the bandage,” she said as, with Alethea's ready help, she knelt down beside Cait.

“In a moment,” said the archbishop. To Cait he said, “Annora has been telling me that you have been chosen to become the next Guardian of the Sacred Chalice.”

“So it would seem,” Cait answered.

“Show him,” whispered Alethea.

Cait stretched out her hands, palms up, and drew back the sleeves of her robe so that the churchman could see the marks of the stigmata on her wrists.

Archbishop Bertrano placed a finger lightly on the livid mark. “The foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of men. It is a heavy charge that is laid upon you, daughter. Still, your only freedom lies there—if you will accept it. That I do believe.”

“So do I,” replied Cait, realizing as she spoke the affirmation that she had decided to answer the call.

“Good.” He smiled, and a spasm of pain passed over his face. He closed his eyes and held his breath. When it was over, he opened his eyes again; they were a little duller this time, his gaze slightly less intense.

“Perhaps you should rest now,” suggested Thea.

“Soon I shall have all the rest I need,” Archbishop Bertrano replied.

“Let us change your bandage now,” said Annora. “You will feel better.”

“A moment longer, and then you can have me,” he replied. “I told Caitríona that the Blessed Cup will not be safe here any longer. Because of my infernal meddling, too many people know about it now. If it remains here, it will only bring trouble to the village; they would never know a moment's peace again.” He reached out and took Cait's
hand. “But it has pleased God to choose you. Therefore, I bid you take it. Take it far from here, and hide it well. One day the time will come when it can be revealed once more. Keep it safe until then.”

Cait lifted his hand and brought it to her lips. “By the strength and wisdom of God, I will, my lord archbishop.”

“There now. That is settled.” Bertrano smiled again. “Now, if I might make one last request of you, dear abbess.”

“Certainly,” Annora replied. “Anything.”