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 Caithness 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?”
Several voices answered eagerly: “Here!” said two; and “Over here!” said another.
“Stand, please,” commanded Cait. Three men rose eagerly to their feet. Pointing to the nearest of them, she turned to the jailer, who motioned the prisoner to step forward.
Hobbling, his hands and feet shackled and chained, the man edged into the light. Tall and gaunt, his fair hair and beard hanging in dirty tangles, his face gray with despair and lack of light, he regarded the young woman with an expectancy almost painful to behold.
“What is your name?” Cait asked in the northern tongue.
“I am Yngvar,” replied the man, his voice cracking dry. He held himself gingerly, favoring one side, as if to protect an injury.
She looked him up and down. “Are you well enough to fight, Yngvar?”
“I am that,” he replied without hesitation.
“These others,” she said, indicating the knights waiting their turn. “Do you know them?”
He nodded his head once. “They are my swordbrothers.” Pointing with both hands to the thick-shouldered, heavy-browed man behind him, he said, “That is Svein Gristle-Bone.” Nodding to the young, dark-haired man a short distance away, he said, “That is Dag Stone-Breaker.”
She summoned them by name. “Svein, Dag, come here.” As they shuffled painfully forth, she asked, “Where is your lord, Yngvar? Was he killed in battle?”
“By no means,” replied the knight. “He is here with us even now.” He turned and pointed to a man squatting on the floor a few paces away.
Cait moved to him and he looked up at her impassively. His face—what she could see of it beneath the foul mat of his hair and beard—was broad, his chin and cheekbones strong. “This man here says you are his lord.”
“He speaks the truth.”
“Then why do you refuse to stand with the others?”
“You did not say how many would be chosen,” he replied evenly. “If any are to gain freedom today, I want my men to have first chance.”
Cait nodded thoughtfully. “If I pay ransom for your men, will you join them?”
“Of course,” he said. “I am their lord.”
“Tell me, how did you come to be here?”
“There was a battle,” answered the knight. “We lost.”
“Is that all? Nothing more?”
“That was enough.”
“I mean,” said Cait with exaggerated patience, “is there nothing more you care to tell me about how you came to be here?”
“We are warriors, not criminals. There is nothing more to tell.”
“Then let us strike a bargain, you and I,” replied Cait, satisfied at last.
The knight climbed slowly to his feet. Even in chains, his clothes little more than filth-crusted rags, he held himself straight and tall. “I am Rognvald of Haukeland,” he declared. “Tell me your bargain.”
“It is this,” said Cait. Before she could continue, the jailer, who had been talking idly to the katib, suddenly thrust himself between them, shouting and swinging his keys again. Instantly, the knight raised his shackled hands, caught hold of the iron ring, and held it firm so that Cait would not be struck. The jailer roared with frustration.
“Peace! Sala’am!” cried Abu, rushing forward. He beseeched and cajoled, and by degrees calmed the outraged jailer. “He says you must not go among them,” Abu informed Cait, “or you will certainly be hurt.”
“Tell the jailer I thank him for his vigilance and concern,” Cait replied, stepping back to show she understood. To the knight, she said, “Here is my bargain: I require the aid and protection of several men-at-arms for a pilgrimage I intend to make. In exchange for your vow of fealty, I will pay your ransom. Serve me well, and once I have reached my destination and achieved my purpose, you will be paid for your services and released to go your way.”
Lord Rognvald regarded her with the same indifferent expression with which he had greeted her.
“What say you?” she asked. “Do you wish to discuss the matter with your men?”
When he still did not reply, she demanded, “Well? What is your answer?”
“I am thinking.”
The other prisoners began shouting just then, imploring to be recognized, giving Cait to understand that if these Norwegians were reluctant, many another would happily take their place. Putting out her hand to the clamoring captives, Cait said, “You see? There are plenty of others ready and willing to volunteer.”
“This is what I am thinking,” replied the knight, stroking his beard with a grimy hand.
It was at that moment that Cait knew she had made the right choice. “Lord Rognvald, I chose you because while I know nothing about fighting men, I do know something about Norsemen. And I know that if a Norseman accepts my bargain I can trust him to keep it, and I will sleep secure in my bed at night.”
“That is true,” replied the knight. “How do you know so much about Norsemen?”
“My great-grandfather was born in Norway, and my grandfather came from Orkneyjar—he served King Magnus on the Great Pilgrimage.”
Lord Rognvald’s men stood looking on, their faces pinched with desperate hope.
“Come, let us agree,” said Caitríona. “I think you will find service in my employ far less onerous than your present occupation.”
A ghost of a smile touched his dry lips. “My lady, I accept.”
Cait turned at once to the katib. “These four men,” she said. “How much is the ransom?”
Abu translated her words, and the wazir’s secretary cast his eyes over the standing men. He made a mental calculation, and announced the price.
“Ten thousand dirhams,” Abu said, relaying the katib’s words. “Each.”
“Very well,” said Cait. “Tell him I agree.”
“With all respect, sharifah, that I will not do,” Abu replied. “It is impious to accept the first price—it shows disrespect for the bounty Allah has given you. Also it is an insult to the intelligence and an affront to the spirit of commerce.�
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“I see. Then tell him it is too much,” said Cait. “I will give five thousand.”
Abu and the katib held a short, spirited discussion, whereupon Abu turned to Cait and announced, “Katib says you are not to offend his master the prince with such a ridiculous offer. These are Christian knights, not camels. Ten thousand is the price for which noble fighting men are redeemed. He will not accept less than eight thousand dirhams.”
“While I intend no disrespect to Prince Mujir ed-Din,” Cait replied smoothly, “I must point out that one of these men is injured, and all of them suffer from lice, starvation, dysentery, and God knows what else. I doubt whether his highness the prince would buy camels in a similar condition. Six thousand, tell him.”
“Seven thousand and five hundred dirhams for each man,” countered the katib when Abu had translated her words.
“I think it is still too much,” Abu confided in a low voice. “These men have been here a long time. Stay at six.”
“Six thousand and not one dirham more,” said Cait through her dutiful translator. Looking around the prison, she added, “I do not see anyone offering a better price. Therefore,” she smiled, “I advise you to accept mine.”
“Twenty-five thousand for all four,” countered the katib serenely.
“Very well,” said Cait. “Twenty-five thousand for these four,” she held up a finger, “and freedom for one more of my choosing.” She paused, and added with a smile, “Twenty-five thousand silver dirhams, katib, or nothing. I leave the choice to you. Personally, I think twenty-five thousand dirhams would be very useful in helping repair the earthquake damage to his majesty the prince’s reception hall.”
When her words were relayed to him, the katib rolled his eyes. “Yu’allah!” he sighed. “Very well, which is it to be?”
Addressing Rognvald, she said, “Is there any man here with a young family waiting for him at home?”
The knight thought for a moment. “There are two that I know of,” he said, and pointed out two knights, who eagerly rose and stood expectantly.
The Mystic Rose Page 7
