The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The night passed, but gave her no rest, and she rose to begin another day on the trail ill-at-ease and irritated. They broke camp and started off; it was not long before she found herself riding beside Rognvald once more.

  “We will get you some weapons when we reach Tyre,” she said when the uncomfortable silence grew too great to bear. “The markets are good there. We should be able to buy whatever you want.”

  Rognvald thanked her, but made no further reply.

  “I would have preferred to get weapons in Damascus,” she continued, “but the merchants are forbidden to sell arms to Christians.” She paused, glancing sideways at the tall Norseman. His proud silence was beginning to irk her.

  “I suppose,” she said, trying to draw him out, “Abu might have bought something for us somewhere.”

  Again, he waited before he answered. “No,” he said at last. “It is better this way.”

  “Better?” she challenged, her vexation flaring into anger. “In what way better? Knights without weapons are not much use.” He looked at her calmly, and that irritated her the more. “Well?” she demanded.

  “If any of Prince Mujir ed-Din’s soldiers had caught us with so much as a pruning knife between us while we were still in the city, we would have been thrown into prison again—or worse,” he told her. “I think it is better this way.”

  For some reason this reply annoyed her, too.

  “Well, then,” she said tartly, “if we are attacked on the road, I will just leave it to you to explain to the cut-throats just how much better it is this way.”

  She snapped the reins and made to ride away, intending to leave him behind with the sting of her retort. But the knight reached out and took hold of her mount’s bridle, jerked back on the reins and brought both horses to a halt.

  Surprised, and instantly furious, Cait glared dangerously at him and was about to lash out at his impertinence, when he looked her in the eye and said in a low, deliberate voice, “So long as I have breath in my body, no harm will come to you.”

  He paused to make certain she understood, then added, “That is my solemn vow, and I do not make it lightly.” He looked at her again, and she felt herself unsettled by the intensity of his gaze.

  “My lady,” he said, releasing his hold on her mount’s bridle. He snapped the reins and rode on alone.

  ELEVEN

  DUSTY, SADDLE-SORE, hungry, and with a throbbing thirst clawing at their throats, Cait and her small company arrived at the port of Tyre. It was late in the day and, after the stifling, airless heat of the dry plain, the wind off the sea was cool silk on her skin. As they rode through the wide main street of the city which led down to the harbor Cait saw the white glimmer of sun on water just ahead, and heard the cry of gulls, and was instantly transported to the coldwater bay below Banvar in Caithness.

  The elation she felt at this sudden memory faded with the realization that her father would never see his home again, never again sail into that generous bay, never again sweep his darling Sydoni off her feet and fold her in his strong arms. Poor Sydoni, Cait thought, she does not even know Duncan is dead. She is waiting for him to come home and he never will.

  She felt the sadness rising up in her like a spring, but like the girl in Abbot Emlyn’s tale of the overflowing well, she dropped the heavy stone lid back into place and the upsurge of grief subsided. There would be time one day to lament her father’s death and mourn him properly. But that day would have to wait. Grief was an extravagance she could not afford—there was too much to do, too many responsibilities, too much ground to cover. Later she would grieve, she told herself, when her work was finished. You will be avenged, Papa, she vowed once more.

  As they drew near the harbor, she sent Haemur and Otti to buy food and drink for their supper, while she and the others proceeded to the wharf. Upon dismounting, she dismissed the hostler, paying him a little over the agreed amount for the use of his horses, thanked him and sent him on his way. She also gave the last-chosen knight a handful of silver coins and sent him on his way, saying, “Should you be tempted to desert your family again, remember your vow and know that God will hold you to account.” The knight bowed and, thanking her lavishly, hurried away along the wharf in search of a fast ship to take him home.

  She then climbed aboard the waiting Persephone to be welcomed by Olvir, who had been left behind to watch over the vessel in her absence.

  “Are you certain they are knights?” wondered the seaman, observing the Norsemen as they clambered onto the deck. “They look more like pig thieves.”

  “They have been in prison,” Cait informed him. “How do you think you would look if you had been left to rot in chains for three years?”

  “Who is that dark one? Is he also one of ours?”

  “That is Abu,” Cait replied. To prevent further discussion, she added: “He is a physician and interpreter, and will prove very useful in dealing with the Arabs.”

  Olvir counted the extra mouths that would need feeding every day. “Maybe I can teach him to cook, too.”

  Cait glanced at the sun, and then at the ships crowding the harbor; one of them caught her eye. Hanging from the top of its mast was a white flag bearing a crimson cross: a Templar ship. The sudden recognition brought her up short. She told herself that it was unlikely de Bracineaux was aboard that ship; even so, it served as an unwelcome reminder that the murderous commander had allies everywhere, and he would not be idle. Because of the knights’ inability to travel at speed, it had taken far longer to reach the ship than she had anticipated and, seeing the Templar ship, she was loath to waste another moment.

  “Show the men where they can stay, get them some water to drink, and fetch some soap so they can wash,” she told Olvir, making up her mind at once. “Then make ready to sail.”

  “This late? My lady, the day is soon over,” protested Olvir. “We have few provisions and little fresh water on board. Let us leave tomorrow when all is in order.”

  “Will no one obey a simple command without crossing swords?” Cait scowled at the obstinate sailor. “I want to depart as soon as Haemur and Otti return from the marketplace. Now go and do as I say.”

  A grumbling Olvir hurried off, and Cait went to her quarters to wash and change her clothes. It was cool and dark below deck, which she found soothing after days in the relentless sun. She undressed and laved the water over herself. There was a little soap left, and a clean cloth, and she luxuriated in scrubbing her face and washing her hair. Most of the water in the basin ended up on the floor before she was finished, and when Alethea came in she complained of the puddles. But if she had made ten times the mess and used up a week’s supply of water, Cait would not have cared: it was well worth the delicious thrill of being clean again.

  She dressed in fresh linen and, feeling civilized once more, left Alethea to bathe, and returned to the upper deck. The Norsemen had assembled and were stamping their feet on the planking, pounding the rail and mast with their fists, and remarking on the admirable qualities of the ship.

  Presently, Haemur and Otti appeared with armfuls of provisions for the evening meal. They had bought bread and wine and olives in the market, and a sack full of sardines from a fisherman just returning with the day’s catch. Cait commanded the knights to clean the fish, and the seamen to help Olvir cast off.

  Rognvald heard the order and came to her. “I thought we were to buy clothes and weapons in Tyre.”

  “I have changed my mind.”

  “I think you should reconsider. This is a good place; the city is secure and the markets are renowned. We can get everything we need here.”

  “We can get what we need in Cyprus, too. We will stop there.”

  “And what if we should be overtaken by Arab pirates before we reach Cyprus?” he inquired.

  She had not thought of that, but was determined not to let Rognvald have the last word. “As we are sailing by night, the pirates will never see us.”

  “It is a foolish risk,” he told her. “
If it was my ship, I would not put her, or her passengers, in such needless danger.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving Cait furious with him for the second time in as many days. While Svein and Dag gutted the sardines, the others helped Olvir, Otti, and Haemur make the ship ready to sail. In a little while, sleek Persephone slipped her moorings and moved out of the harbor. Despite what Rognvald said, Cait was glad to be aboard ship and under sail again.

  Once they had entered deep water, Olvir began preparing the charcoal brazier to cook their meal. Soon the deck was awash in the sweet scent of oily smoke and charcoal, and the sardines were sizzling on spits. One by one, the Norsemen were drawn away from the rail and their last lingering looks at the pale Syrian hills, now glowing red in the light of a crimson sunset. They gathered around the brazier, watching the fish hungrily. Olvir opened the wine jugs, and soon the wooden cups were making the rounds. While his men sampled the raw Syrian wine, Rognvald strolled around the ship, examining the fittings and ropes.

  After their unpleasant exchange, Cait hesitated to join him, but then considered it would make shipboard life too awkward to be avoiding one another every time they disagreed. So, she followed him to the prow where he had stopped and was gazing out to sea. “My father loved this ship,” Cait remarked, joining him at the rail. “So much, in fact, that he had two more built just like it. Still, he preferred the original.”

  “I can see why,” the Norwegian lord replied amiably. “She is a handsome craft—suitable for most any water, I should think.”

  Otti appeared with his jug of wine and wooden cups. “It is not so bad, this,” he said, pouring wine into the cups.

  “To your good health,” said Cait, raising her cup.

  “And freedom,” added Rognvald.

  “Health and freedom.” Cait took a mouthful of the wine and almost spat it back into her cup. She swallowed hard and gasped.

  Rognvald smiled placidly. “It is somewhat rough, I think.”

  “It is ghastly!”

  “Perhaps it would be better mixed with a little honey and water,” he said. “Permit me.” Taking her cup, the Norseman walked to where the others were dosing their drinks to taste. She observed him among his men: genial and unassuming, his authority genuine, and therefore unpretentious and unaffected.

  Perhaps I have not made such a poor bargain after all, she thought to herself as she watched him returning.

  “Try this,” he said, offering her the cup. “I think you will find it more palatable.”

  She took a tentative sip; he watched her reaction. “Oh, that is much better. Very much better.” She thanked him, and they both sipped from their cups. “If Galician wine is half so good, we should not go thirsty.”

  “Is that where we are going?” he asked. “Galicia?”

  Realizing she had said more than she intended, Cait looked at him over the rim of her cup. Well, it was no use denying it now. “Yes,” she told him. “After Cyprus we sail for Galicia. Do you know it?”

  “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “We saw the coast from a distance, but the king was eager to reach Jerusalem, and so we did not stop.”

  “I have never been there, either,” said Cait. “My father was there once, on his way home from the Holy Land. He said it was a fine place—all steep hills, deep valleys, and rocks, a great many rocks. But the people, he said, were friendly to a fault.”

  At that moment, Olvir called out, saying the supper was ready. Glad for a chance to break off a conversation which she did not care to pursue, Cait turned and walked to the platform before the mast where Olvir was handing around the wooden skewers. Accepting a fresh-roasted sardine, she retired with her cup and a piece of bread to the pilot’s bench where she sat down to eat. The others remained clustered around the brazier, watching hungrily as Olvir set more skewers of fish on the coals. The knights, growing garrulous as the wine loosened their tongues, joked and laughed as they plied Olvir and Otti with questions about their homeland.

  On the platform, Alethea sat with Abu and both appeared so deeply absorbed in their discussion that neither one was eating; the skewers were untouched in their hands. Cait was just thinking that she would have to have a word with Thea about encouraging an unseemly familiarity with the servants, when Rognvald approached and asked to join her.

  “If you like,” she said indifferently. The Norseman regarded her with pursed lips, but said nothing. “What?”

  “It is a large enough ship. I can easily find another place to sit.”

  “Please,” Cait relented. “I insist.”

  His smile was ready and affable. “Since you insist, I accept.” He sat down happily beside her, put his cup on the deck and began pulling steaming bits of fish from the skewer. He chewed quietly for a while, and when Cait thought he might let their former discussion pass without comment, he said, “If Galicia is so full of friendly people, why do you need a bodyguard of fierce and terrible Norwegians?”

  Cait could feel his eyes on her, but she stared straight ahead and deliberately stripped off a piece of fish and put it in her mouth and chewed slowly to give herself time to think how to answer. Rognvald sipped from his cup and waited.

  “We are going…” she began at last, then paused. It was no good trying to concoct a plausible explanation on the spot. “The truth?”

  “Well, why not?” said Rognvald. “It saves so much time and trouble in the end. Yes, let us begin with the truth.”

  She looked at him sideways. “The truth is, I do not know.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, considering this odd revelation. “Then,” he said after a moment’s reflection, “if you do not mind my asking, why are you going?”

  The way he said it—neither opposing, nor disapproving—made Cait smile. She could hear Duncan adopting the same tone, and she liked it. “As to that,” she said, “I am not altogether certain.”

  “That would follow.” He slapped his knee with his palm. “Well now, it is good to have that settled.” He thanked her for telling him and rose abruptly, saying that if she should ever receive any further leading in the matter he would much appreciate a word.

  “Are you always so headstrong and haughty?” she called as he stumped away. When he did not stop or look around, she relented. “Oh, very well. I will tell you.”

  He turned around and retraced his steps. “Everything,” he said, standing over her.

  “Yes,” she conceded, “everything. Just sit down so I do not have to shout up at you.”

  Rognvald sat, leaned back against the tiller rail, clasping his cup in both hands. “Proceed.”

  “First,” Cait said, “I must know if you hold any regard for the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon.”

  “The Templars?” He glanced at her curiously, and saw that she was in earnest. “No, my lady,” the nobleman answered, shaking his head slowly. “I have known but two or three of them—they were in prison with us, but were quickly ransomed by their order. They were Franks, it is true, but seemed like honorable men nonetheless.” He shrugged. “They are said to be formidable warriors, but I cannot say one way or the other. Are there Templars in your explanation?”

  “There are,” confessed Cait. “One, at least, but probably many more by now. They are the reason for this…this…” she searched for a word and did not find one.

  “Pilgrimage?” suggested Rognvald, supplying the term she had used before.

  “It is no pilgrimage,” Cait admitted.

  “No?”

  She looked across the deck to where the knights were now lolling around the brazier, their voices loud with raucous talk. Rognvald was right; she had entrusted her life to these knights, she might as well trust him with the rest. She stood. “Come with me. It will be easier if I show you.”

  She led him below deck to her father’s quarters where she opened the wooden sea chest containing his clothes and belongings. Reaching down into the chest, she felt along the side of the box and brought out a flat parcel wrapped in on
e of her mantles. While a bemused Rognvald watched, she untied the knotted fabric and withdrew a flat parchment tied with a red silk band.

  “This,” she said, placing the document in his hands, “is why we are going to Galicia.” She indicated that he should open it.

  He untied the silk band and opened the stiff parchment. “A letter,” he said, scanning the salutation, “to the Patriarch of Rome.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, “and it leads to a prodigious treasure.”

  TWELVE

  “THAT WHICH IS beyond all price,” intoned Rognvald, following his finger along the heavy parchment, “the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the…what? Rosa Mystica . .” His voice trailed off and he looked to Cait for an explanation.

  “I do not know what it is, either,” she confessed. “He calls it the greatest treasure in the world. I mean to have it.”

  “And the Templars? What of them?”

  “The letter was in the possession of a Templar commander,” Cait explained. “I got it from him.”

  “You stole it,” guessed Rognvald.

  “Yes.”

  The Norseman nodded slowly. “This priest, Bertrano—do you know him?”

  “All I know about him is there.” She pointed to the elaborate signature in red ink: Bertrano de Almira, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela. “First we find the man who wrote this letter and induce him to tell us where the treasure can be found. Then we go and get it.”

  Rognvald frowned and looked at the letter again. “Simple plans are often the best,” he mused.

  Cait caught a note of censure in his tone. “You disapprove?”

  “Of the treasure? No.” Tapping the signature with his finger, he said, “But have you considered that Archbishop Bertrano may not feel like telling you what you want to know?”

  “You asked me what I planned to do, and I have told you.” Cait stood and, hands on hips, glared down at the disagreeable knight. “I do not require your approval, my lord, but I will insist on your obedience. And I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”