They rode through forests of beech and oak, damp from the rain and heavy with the smell of ferns. As the day progressed, the clouds parted and the sun grew warm. They began to pass bedraggled travelers on foot, some cloaked in brown and stumping along with long wooden staffs, wearing wide-brimmed cockle hats. Most of those they passed had scallop shells sewn on their hats and on their cloaks. No doubt, she reckoned, these were some of the pilgrims Abu had mentioned; but what the crude symbol might signify, she could not imagine. They also overtook farmers carrying braces of chickens, trudging along beside their wives lugging baskets of eggs, or bunches of onions, or carrots, or bushels of beans, and once an oxcart piled high with turnips, and another with yellow squash as big and round as heads.
They made good time and reached the walls of Compostela before sunset. The city gates were still open and upon passing through, they immediately entered a wide stone-paved street leading to a great square, in the center of which stood an enormous basilica. On this pleasant summer’s eve, pilgrims without number thronged the square; those who were not waiting their turn to go into the church were either encamped on the bare earth of the square, or crowding around one of the scores of booths and stalls which had been set up to sell food, clothing, or trinkets—such as painted scallop shells, brass badges, drinking gourds, or sandals—to the restless pilgrim population that ebbed and flowed through the city like a brown, beggarly tide.
“He must be a miracle man, this saint of theirs,” observed Rognvald in amazement at the hordes. “I have not seen anything of this kind since Jerusalem, and even there it was not like this.”
Besides the holy wanderers, there were traders, moneychangers, merchants, vendors of food and drink and the produce of the surrounding fields, and laborers of every kind. For the precinct of Sancti Iacobi was rapidly becoming a town in its own right; with a dozen or more grand buildings in various stages of construction, the square seemed more like a building site than an ecclesiastical precinct.
In the streets surrounding the square numerous inns had been built to serve travelers of better means. Cait decided on a small establishment with a red rose painted on a placard above the door. “This is the one for us,” she said, and Rognvald went in to inquire about rooms for the night.
“They will have us,” he reported, “for two silver denari a night—each. There are others who will take less.”
“I am content,” she replied. Lord Rognvald signaled a young man who came at a run to take their horses; as he led them away, Cait and Rognvald went in to make the acquaintance of the innkeeper, a small bald man with a large mustache and a swollen jaw from an abscessed tooth. He was wearing a poultice of herbs soaked in vinegar and wrapped in a cloth tied to the top of his head. “Peace and comfort, my friends,” he said thickly, trying to smile through his pain. “I am Miguel. Welcome to my house. Please, come in and sit while I make your rooms ready. There is bread on the table and wine in the jar. I also have ale, if you prefer. Supper will be served at sundown.”
He beetled off, pressing a hand to the side of his cheek, and Cait and Rognvald found places at one of the two large tables in the center of the hall-like room, one side of which was taken up by a great hearth on which half a pig was sizzling away over a bed of glowing coals. Owing to the cost of the rooms the inn was not crowded, and the guests were of a higher rank than the mendicants who swarmed to the monastery porches and hospices. Their fellow-lodgers were merchants and wealthier pilgrims for whom a visit to the shrine of the blessed saint was not a particular hardship.
Still, after the fresh air of the open sea, Cait found the smoky confines of the inn almost suffocating and was heartily glad when, after a supper of roast pork, bean soup, mashed turnips, and boiled greens, she could at last leave Rognvald and the traveling tradesmen to their stoups of ale and news of the world and retire to her room. Not much larger than her quarters aboard ship, it was swept clean, and the box which made the bed was filled with fresh straw and the coverings were washed linen.
She undressed, hanging her mantle and shift on a peg on the door, and happily sank into the bed—only to spend an all-but-sleepless night scheming how best to get Archbishop Bertrano to reveal the secret of the Mystic Rose. She had had plenty of time to ponder this since leaving Constantinople. But as many plans as she had made, that many had been discarded along the way. Now it was time to decide, and she was still far from certain what to do.
The following morning, as they walked across the busy square, an anxious Cait schooled a thoughtful Rognvald in the necessity of gaining the cleric’s confidence before broaching the true subject of their visit. “He must not suspect we are anything but genuine pilgrims,” she said. “We will get the measure of him first, and then decide how to proceed. Understand?”
“Aye,” replied Rognvald, absently, “I understand.”
They strolled through the gathering crowds to the huge oak doors of the archbishop’s palace hard by the great basilica which, according to the pilgrims at the inn, contained the holy remains of the blessed Iacobus Magnus, Saint James the Great, disciple and companion of Christ. It was the apostle’s venerable bones that drew the penitent pilgrims in ever-increasing numbers. At the palace, they presented themselves to the much-put-upon porter, who eyed them with weary indifference. “God be good to you. I am Brother Thaddeus,” he said in clipped, precise Latin. “How may I help you?”
“Greetings in the name of Our Lord and Savior,” said Rognvald, stepping toward him. “We are looking for Archbishop Bertrano. It is a matter of some importance.”
Thaddeus regarded his visitors blankly, and said, “He is not difficult to find, but you must take your chances like everyone else.”
“We would be happy to make an appointment to see him when it is more convenient,” suggested Cait.
The priest smiled pityingly. “You misunderstand. The archbishop is overseeing the construction of the new monastery. He is seldom to be found in residence.” The monk lifted a hand toward the tower of timber scaffolding in a corner of the square and then closed the door.
They walked to the place and were soon standing on the edge of a cleared mound where, amidst vast heaps of gray stone and a veritable forest of timber, the stately curtain walls of a sizable chapel and bell tower were slowly rising, block by heavy granite block. The place was seething with workers: an army of masons, stone-cutters, and sculptors, scores of rough laborers, and dozens of haulers with their mules and teams of yoked oxen—all of them moving in concert to the loud exhortations of a large, fat-bellied man dressed in the simple black robes of a rural cleric. His jowls were freshly shaved, and his round face glowed with the heat of his exertion.
“Leave it to me,” Rognvald told her as they approached. “I have a bold idea.”
“What are you—wait!” Cait began, but it was too late. Rognvald was already hailing the priest, who turned to regard his visitors with a scowl that would have curdled milk in a bucket.
FOURTEEN
“PAX VOBISCUM!” CALLED Rognvald, cupping a hand to his mouth. With the creaking of windlass and wagon, the groaning of the ropes, the lowing of oxen, braying of mules, and the dull continuous clatter of hammer and chisel on stone, the Norseman had to shout to make himself heard above the din. “We are looking for Bertrano, Lord of this Holy See.”
“God be good to you, my friend. You have found him.” Turning from his visitors, he cried, “Not there! Not there!” Bertrano waved his hands at a group of workmen shoveling white powdered lime into a pile beside the half-raised bell tower. Despite his rank, the archbishop appeared perfectly at ease amidst the clamor and dust of the building site. Indeed, the only thing that set him apart from one of his many laborers was the wooden cross swinging by a beaded loop from his wide leather belt. “On the other side! It goes there—” Bertrano pointed to a heap of sand, “there—on the other side, you see?”
“I commend you, archbishop,” offered Cait politely when they had succeeded in gaining his attention once more and fin
ished introducing themselves. “Your monastery will be a marvel of the builder’s art.”
“A very marvel, indeed, good lady,” agreed the archbishop sourly, “if, by some miracle, it is ever finished.” Red-faced, puffing, and sweating—for all the sun had only just risen—the fat man wiped his forehead with a damp sleeve and shouted a terse order to a mule driver who was just trundling past, dragging a length of timber with a chain.
“Why should it not be finished?” she asked.
“Ask the king!” cried Archbishop Bertrano. “It is his interminable campaigns that keep us limping along like lame lepers when we should be racing like champions to achieve God’s glory.”
“If not for the king,” suggested Rognvald, “the Muhammedans would still rule this part of the world, no?”
The harried archbishop threw him a withering glance. “What do you know about it?” He cast a disdainful eye on the tall knight’s sword. “There is more to life than brawling, battling, and wenching.”
Before the knight could beg his pardon, the archbishop softened. “Forgive me, son, I have allowed my temper to get the better of me. God’s truth, I am a tyrant until I’ve broken fast; afterward, I am mild as a lamb.”
“We would not think of keeping you,” Cait began. “Perhaps we might return later when—”
“Nonsense,” replied the archbishop, striding away. “Come, we will break bread together and you can tell me the news of—where did you say you have been?”
“The Holy Land,” said Rognvald confidently.
“Ah, yes, the Holy Land.” Bertrano led them to a small wattle and thatch hut across the way, in the center of what would one day become the monastery’s cloisters; there three monks had prepared a table for the archbishop. At his approach, the monks hastened to fetch the archbishop’s throne-like ecclesiastical chair from inside the hut; this they placed at the head of the table. The chair was high-backed and bore the image of an eagle on each armrest; a fine cross was carved into the massive top rail; gilded and surrounded by hemispheres of cut and polished jet, the golden cross looked as if it were encircled by a string of shiny black pearls.
“I had the workmen put up this hut so I might oversee the work,” Archbishop Bertrano said, indicating the sturdy little house. He gathered his robes and settled his bulk in the chair; the monks drew the table up to his stomach, and then darted back inside to begin serving the food. “You simply would not believe the morass of problems that require my attention.” He waved his guests to places on stools either side of the table, rinsed his hands in a bowl of water offered by one of the monks, and then wiped them on his robe. “Eternal vigilance, my friends, is all that separates us from everlasting chaos.”
“I imagine it can be very taxing,” replied Cait sympathetically.
“Just you try building a bell tower,” growled Bertrano, “and then come and teach me about taxing.”
Cait, stung by the remark, felt her face growing red. The archbishop gulped and smacked his forehead with his hand.
“God help me, I have done it again! I beg your kind indulgence, my lady. Please, let us sit in contemplative silence, I pray you, until we’ve got something in us to dull hunger’s sharp edge.”
The three sat quietly, and presently the monks brought bread and boiled eggs, sweetened wine, and a porridge made from dried peas, onions, carrots, and bits of salt cod. Oblivious to his visitors, the archbishop fell to, sopping up the peas porridge with chunks of bread, which he sucked dry and then gobbled down, pausing every now and then to peel an egg, break off a bit of bread, or take a gulp of wine, before plunging in again.
Cait and Rognvald ate sparingly, watching the archbishop for any sign that he deigned to notice them once more. When, after a third bowl of porridge and second cup of wine, he appeared to be slowing his onslaught, Cait ventured a compliment on the food; Archbishop Bertrano held up his hand for silence, raised the bowl to his lips and drained it in a long, greedy draft. He wiped his mouth on the tablecloth, sighed, sat back in the great chair, and beamed beatifically at his guests while flicking crumbs from his robe. “Ah, now, you were saying?”
“The meal was delicious,” said Cait. “The eggs were boiled to perfection.”
“We get a lot of eggs,” observed the archbishop. “The people bring them to the monastery. God knows what they think we want with them. But there you are.” Turning to Rognvald, he said, “Now then, you say you have come from the Holy Land, I think.”
“I have,” replied the knight, pushing aside his bowl, “and I would the tidings were better. There is much fighting, as always, and the Crusaders win as often as they lose, it is true, but they lose all the wrong battles.”
“Any battle lost,” opined the archbishop, “was a wrong battle, I should have thought.”
“True enough,” agreed Rognvald affably. “Still, the winnings do not cover the losses, if you see what I mean. Everywhere, territory falls to the Muhammedans, and the Christians are once more subjugated and enslaved.”
Bertrano appeared disheartened by the news. “Is Jerusalem still safe?”
“It is—for the time being. But soon it will be merely a solitary rock in an ocean of Islam. It cannot last.”
The Norseman spoke with a sincerity that surprised Cait. She watched with growing admiration for his intelligence and subtlety as he drew the archbishop into their trap.
“Perditio, perditio,” sighed the archbishop, wagging his head sadly. “But, tell me, can nothing good be said?”
“The cities of the coast—Tripoli, Tyre, Acre, Jaffa, Ascalon—all remain safe. The Arabs are masters of horse and desert, but they are indifferent sailors. Thanks to the Genoan and Venetian fleets, the Saracens can make no advancement there. So, for as long as the ships can pass unhindered, the coastal cities will remain in Christian hands.”
“Ah, well, that is something at least,” answered the archbishop contentedly. He, like Cait, regarded Rognvald with a new admiration. “You speak like a commander. Perhaps you should be leading the Armies of Christ against the infernal hosts of the infidel.”
The knight smiled, but shook his head. “No, I have seen enough of battle; I want nothing more to do with it—with any of it. For my troubles, I spent nearly three years in a Saracen prison, and indeed, I would still be there now if not for the love of my good lady wife.” He reached across the table to take Cait’s hand. “She traveled all the way from our home in Caithness to Damascus and ransomed me from Prince Mujir’s dungeon, and for that I shall be eternally grateful to her.”
He squeezed her hand, and Cait pretended a smile of wifely love, which surprised her with its naturalness and ease.
“No, I shall not go back there again,” Rognvald said. “But others were not so fortunate. I saw many good men die in that stinking prison—too many. One of them—and it grieves me full well to say it—was none other than the Grand Commander of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
“Impossible!” cried Archbishop Bertrano. “It cannot be.”
Rognvald regarded the cleric with unflinching conviction. “Alas, it is all the more lamentable. In fact, it is because of his death that we have come.”
The archbishop raised his eyebrows in mystified amazement. “Pray tell me how this has come to be.”
“The tale is sorry, but soon told,” replied the knight. “The commander arrived sorely wounded—there was a storm and his ship had foundered on the rocks, somewhere between Tripoli and Tyre, I think. A great many men were drowned outright and, as ill luck would have it, the Saracens who found them killed a number as well. The few survivors were taken captive and brought to Damascus.” He frowned, as if remembering a tragedy. “They had fought valiantly to prevent themselves being captured…”
“As only a man of his courage and stature would,” offered the archbishop.
“The battle was fierce, as I say. Several were gravely injured—Commander de Bracineaux foremost among them. His wounds were too great; he could not recover. He lingered only a few days, and then
died.”
“I am grieved to the very soul to hear it,” sighed the archbishop. “Jerusalem will not see a finer soldier, and more’s the pity.”
So persuasive was the Norseman’s forthright tale, that Cait found herself feeling sorry for the plight of the poor Templars and their mortally wounded Master. “It is a very great loss,” she agreed, her voice soft with sorrow.
“I will say a special mass for them,” declared the archbishop, “and order a day of perpetual intercession on their behalf before the Throne of Grace.” He nodded absently to himself. “It is the least I can do.”
The three were silent for a time, and then the archbishop stirred himself and asked, “Did he say anything before he died?”
“Oh, yes,” Rognvald assured him. “As noblemen, we were held in the same cell. You can well imagine that the ransom price for such an important man is exceedingly large—as much as for a king. The Saracens were hopeful his release would earn them a fortune.”
“Greedy dogs!” snarled the archbishop. “I would to heaven that God might rain unending calamity upon their unbelieving heads. I truly do.”
“You will also appreciate, knowing de Bracineaux as you undoubtedly do, that his last days were eaten up with anxiety lest the Templars should hear of his capture and pay the money. He thought the ransom excessive, and worried that it would impoverish the order unnecessarily. He said to me, ‘I pray I may die quickly and cheat the devils of their due.’ He said he would not rest in peace if he knew the money paid for his release would be used to carry on the persecution of brave Christian knights.”
Dumbstruck, the archbishop leaned back in his chair and thumped his head gently against the carved rail of his chair. “Even as he lay dying,” he said after a moment, “even then, he took no thought for himself.”
The Mystic Rose Page 15
