The Mystic Rose (7 page)

Philippianous screamed, “In the name of God, I beg you. Spare me!”

“I do not think God can hear you,” said the Templar, pressing the hot knife deeper. Blood oozed up from the wound, spitting and sputtering as it touched the hot metal.

“Oh, why not let him go?” said d'Anjou. “I have not had a thing to eat or drink, and the stink you are making turns my stomach.”

“Very well,” replied de Bracineaux. He lifted the knife away and plunged it back into the coals. “Still, it would not do to have our glorious and renowned order ridiculed by the filth of the street. Once people find out the Templars can be lied to with impunity, we will be mocked from Rome to Jerusalem—and we cannot allow that. So, I think an example is in order.”

“No!” shrieked Philippianous. “No! Please, I will not tell a soul. I will not breathe a word to anyone.”

“For once I believe you,” said the commander. His hand snaked out and, snatching the knife from the brazier, he pressed the glowing tip hard against the young man's teeth, forcing his jaws open. The hot blade slid into his mouth, searing his tongue. A puff of smoke rolled up, and the blade hissed. Philippianous gave a strangled scream and passed out; his body slumped.

Only then did de Bracineaux remove the knife. “He has soiled himself,” he observed, wiping the blade on the young man's clothing. “He stinks. Get him out of here, sergeant.” He turned away from the inert body on the gray stone slab. “Come, d'Anjou, I am thirsty. I think I would enjoy some more of the emperor's excellent wine.”

“My thoughts exactly, de Bracineaux.” The baron turned and shuffled from the chamber, followed by the commander.

Gislebert regarded the unconscious Greek. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“Throw him back in the street,” replied the commander over his shoulder. “He will serve as a mute, yet nonetheless persuasive reminder to all who think to defy the Order of the Temple.”

S
HE PRESSED THE
hem of her mantle to her nose and paused, putting a hand to the mildewed wall as her stomach heaved. So the Saracens would not think her weak, she swallowed back the bile, steadied herself and walked on into the suffocating stench of the dungeon. For the first time since leaving Constantinople, Caitríona doubted whether she was doing the right thing.

That first night aboard ship, with the vision of the White Priest still burning in her mind, her course had appeared obvious, the way clear. Ignoring Alethea's pestering and petulance, she had taken the letter to her father's quarters to examine it alone in greater detail. By the gently wavering light of three lamps and four candles, she had read the document three times—most of it was in Latin, save for a small section in an unknown script. She puzzled over the obscure portion trying to make out the curious text; it was not Latin, or Greek, much less Gaelic or Norse—the only languages she knew.

The letter had been written by a Portuguese cleric called Bertrano, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela, and addressed to none other than Pope Adrian IV. After the usual greetings and salutations, the archbishop announced that the “secret of the ages” had been revealed—a marvelous treasure had been discovered in Aragon, a part of eastern Iberia which had been, until recently, a Saracen domain. His reason for
writing, he said, was to seek the aid of the Holy Father in the protection of this treasure, which he called the
Rosa Mystica
. Owing to the increased instability of the region, he greatly feared the Mystic Rose would be captured, or destroyed, and “the greatest treasure in the world would be lost for ever”—a calamity which, he said, would never be forgiven.

The archbishop asked the pope to send faithful and trusted servants guarded by a fearsome company of knights to retrieve the treasure and carry it back to the Holy Land so “that which is beyond all price, the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the Mystic Rose, might be re-established in Jerusalem” where it rightfully belonged.

As she pored over the text, she wondered what this treasure might be, and why the White Priest wanted her to become involved in this affair. The more she thought about it, the more strange and fantastic it all became. In de Bracineaux's chamber, Cait had accepted his appearance as normal and natural as meeting a friend in an unexpected place. But now it seemed anything but natural.
Put away your wrath, and believe,
he had told her, and promised that when she was finished she would receive the desires of her heart.

Well, what she desired most was revenge.
Lord,
she prayed, folding the parchment letter carefully,
make me the instrument of your vengeance.

She wrapped the letter in a piece of cloth and hid it under her father's clothing and belongings at the bottom of his sea chest, then lifted out her most precious possession. It was a book—
her
book, written by her father during his sojourn in the caliph's palace in Cairo. Removing it from the heavy cloth bag, she ran her fingers over the tough leather binding with its fine, tight rawhide stitching—the work of the Célé Dé monks of Caithness. She carefully untied the braided leather cord, opened the cover, and began turning the heavy, close-written parchment pages.

The original, faithfully rendered by the Cypriot monks, remained in the abbey church at Banvar
. The ever-thoughtful Padraig had ordered the good brothers of Caith
ness to produce a copy of the Lord Duncan's manuscript which he had then bound on one side and presented to Duncan to give as a gift to the daughter for whom it had been written.

Her father had read it aloud to her when she was a little girl. But as she grew older and her command of Latin increased, Cait had been able to read more and more of it for herself. She could not count the winter nights she had spent before the hearth, wrapped in her mother's old shawl, tracing the fine-scripted lines with a fingertip. While her body was confined to a draughty, wind-battered house in snowy Scotland, in her mind she wandered lost in the labyrinths of the caliph's palace, or followed the Amir's caravan across burning deserts with the severed head of proud Prince Bohemond on her back.

Over the years she often found herself going to the book as to an old friend. Indeed, she could recite much of it from memory. But this night, as she opened the heavy leather cover and felt once more the solace of the familiar, there was a fresh urgency to the words she knew so well. For though it comforted her to hear again her father's changeless voice, speaking to her across the distance of oceans and years, she realized for the first time that these well-known words could instruct and guide her. In these self-same pages she had first learned of the White Priest, and tonight, this very night, she had met him for herself, and renewed her family's long-held vow.

She gazed with increasing excitement on the heavy volume in her lap and understood that it had suddenly become more than the tale of her father's youth. It was a signpost directing her along the paths of her family's destiny. She could feel that destiny thickening around her like the tide on the turn, when, just before it begins to flow, the water swells and stills with concentrated force.

Yes, and once the tide has begun to run,
she thought,
no power on earth can hold it back.

She closed her eyes and turned the pages, letting the book fall open where it would. Opening her eyes once more they lit upon the word
Damascus
.

If she was to undertake the pursuit of the Mystic Rose, she would need help. And Damascus was where she would find it.

Cait had spent the night in a fever of excitement as the plan took shape in her mind. Just before dawn she had emerged from her quarters to wake Haemur and his crew and tell them to prepare the ship to sail at first light. “Are we going home, my lady?” asked Haemur; Olvir and Otti looked on hopefully.

“No,” she replied. “I have business to conclude first. We are going to Damascus.”

That was twelve days ago, and with the help of favorable winds and several nights of moonlight sailing they had reached the well-protected port of Tyre with its imposing fortress built on a spit of rock extending out into the bay. There, leaving the ship in Olvir's capable hands, Cait arranged to join a group of Venetian traders on their way to Damascus to buy cloth and spices. For a fee, she and her small entourage consisting of Alethea, Haemur, and Otti were allowed to travel under the protection of the traders. The journey through the arid hills passed uneventfully and they had, after seven days in the sweltering heat, at last reached the gates of the city where her father had languished for a time, awaiting a ransom that never came. Once inside the walls, Cait held off the myriad distractions of the vendors, street hawkers, and moneychangers, and immediately set about finding a place to stay and hiring the services of an interpreter who could help her conduct negotiations.

Her search quickly produced a young Syrian physician by the name of Abu Sharma, who had spent many years studying in Cairo and Baghdad. Abu spoke several Arabic languages, as well as Latin, and helpfully agreed to take leave of his practice for a few days and place himself at her service.

“My patients are demanding, of course,” he told her. “But perhaps I can steal a day or two from the sick and dying to help you. It would be a pleasure. To tell you the truth, it would be a blessing. I am run off my feet from first light to
last—every day it is the same. I would welcome the change.”

Cait noticed that despite the pressure of his demanding patients, he still found time to sleep in a quiet corner of the bazaar during the day. After paying him a token retainer, Cait had instructed him to meet her at the palace the following morning. He was waiting outside the palace gates when she and the two seamen arrived. “Allah be good to you, noble lady,” he said. “Abu Sharma is at your service. Please tell me now, how am I to help you?”

Cait had taken him aside and explained what she wanted him to do, and how they were to proceed. “Simplicity itself,” remarked Abu when she finished. “You may rest your trust in me completely. Abu Sharma will help you obtain the best possible price.”

“Do that,” Cait told him, “and you shall receive double your fee.”

“Watch and be amazed!” He made a low bow, and they joined the long parade of dignitaries, merchants, and suppliers of various goods and commodities making their way into the palace—a grand if slightly formidable edifice of stone covered in mortar which had been tinted green so that it gleamed in the sun like a massive block of jade. They passed through a double set of arched timber gates, and into a palm-lined courtyard filled with scribes at tables.

“It is because of the earthquake last month,” Abu said, and explained that owing to the damaged reception hall, all court affairs were taking place in the outer yard where scribes toiled away at their tables, busily recording the representations of each visitor wishing to do business of one sort or another with his exalted highness, Prince Mujir ed-Din.

The party presented itself to one of the prince's many functionaries who, upon hearing the reason for their visit, conducted them forthwith to his superior Wazir Muqharik. The red-turbanned official listened to their request, stroked his beard thoughtfully, then gave his consent, promptly sending them off to the prison in the company of his katib, or secretary.

Once inside the prison, they were conducted along a row of cells where local malefactors awaited judgment for their crimes, and then down a flight of stone steps to the lower prison where the captives of war were kept in perpetual stink and gloom.

Now, Cait stood retching in the dim half-light of the dungeon, feeling the cold sweat on her clammy skin as wave after wave of doubt assailed her. Eyes watering, stomach churning, she looked down the narrow corridor; at the end of the passage was a barred and locked timber door. Once across that threshold, there would be no turning back.

This is madness,
she thought
. I do not have to go through with it. I can let it end here, return to the ship and sail for home, and no one would blame me.

But Cait was not made that way. The dauntless spirit of her clan was her spirit; it was their blood that pulsed through her veins; her heart beat with the same strong rhythms; its destiny was her destiny, too. She had accepted the charge of the White Priest, and she would do whatever that service required—so long as it brought about the destruction of the Templar commander. Failing that, she would appeal to the ancient code of justice which demanded an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a life. One way or another, she would have her revenge.

Sweeping all doubts aside as if they were straws before the cold gale of her retribution, she steadied herself, removed the bunched-up hem of her mantle from her nose and mouth, and nodded to the jailer, who placed the great iron key in the lock. The prince's secretary turned to address Cait through her interpreter. “As you will see,” said Abu, translating the katib's words, “there are many prisoners from which to choose. If you wish to speak to one, you have but to point him out, and the jailer will have the man brought to you.”

Cait nodded to show that she understood, whereupon the jailer pushed open the door and stepped through into the cavernous chamber. Cait followed, with Abu Sharma close behind. Haemur and Otti came next—in attendance not because they were any real use in this matter, but for propriety's sake: Cait had quickly learned that the Saracens
respected only those women who appeared to possess the support and protection of men.

The lower prison was little more than a dark noisome hole; the only illumination came from the grates of the open sluice drains in the floor above. Despite the stink, the cell was cool and dry—an acceptable trade, Cait thought, for if one could not have the light, at least one did not have to endure the heat. In the surrounding gloom, the captives lay: eighteen or twenty men, all knights, all of whom had been captured in one battle or another.

As Cait moved into the high-vaulted room, the captives stared up with hopeful faces, and began clamoring for attention. The jailer waded in, roaring at the prisoners and clouting them with his ring of keys until rough order was restored. He then stepped back, and beckoned Cait forward to examine the goods on offer and make her choice.

Cait had already had plenty of time to decide what she wanted. She stepped forward, and raising her voice to the hopeful men addressed them in slow, distinct Latin. “Believe me when I tell you that I am sorry for your plight,” she said. “My own father sat in this same cell awaiting ransom and release. It came for him eventually, and I pray that it will come soon for each and every one of you.”

She paused to allow her words to be relayed by Abu to the jailer. “Today, however, liberation has come to a fortunate few,” she told the prisoners. Then changing smoothly to a simple, but serviceable Norse, she asked, “Are there any Norsemen among you?”