“Your search is at an end, brother,” replied the monk in easy, Spanish-tinted Latin. “I am Matthias.”
“God be good to you,” said Cait. “We have something of importance to discuss. Is there a place we might talk?”
“I have no secrets before God, sister,” the monk replied, turning back to his work. “And, as you can see, there is no one here but the Good Lord and me, so whatever is in your heart, speak.” He placed the stone onto a bed of oozing gray mortar which he had prepared, then scooped the excess mortar from the side of the wall and packed it around the stone.
“Are you building this church all alone?” asked Alethea. “Is there no one to help you?”
“God is helping me, sister,” answered the monk. He lowered himself onto the plank, and then dropped to the ground; moving to the nearest heap of rubble, he chose another stone, hefted it on to the plank, and then clambered up once more. “The people come when they can, but it is soon harvest time and they are needed in the fields.”
“We have come from Archbishop Bertrano in Santiago,” said Rognvald.
“Have you indeed?” said the monk, turning toward them again. “Then you have traveled a fair distance.” He straightened and regarded them with renewed interest. “I would share a cup of wine with you,” he said, “but all I have is water.” He pointed to a gourd hanging from the wall by a strap. “Still, you are welcome to it.”
Cait thanked him, but declined. “I fear we come bearing bad news,” she said.
“Bertrano is dead?” guessed the monk. He picked up the stone from the plank and gazed at it sadly. “How did it happen? Was it one of the builders?”
“The good archbishop was hale as ever when we last saw him,” Cait assured the priest quickly. “Unfortunately, it is Commander de Bracineaux who is dead.” She noticed Alethea’s quick and questioning glance, and prayed her sister would, just this once, keep her mouth shut. “I am sorry,” she said, ignoring Alethea. She hated deceiving the priest in this way, but the ruse must be maintained if they were to secure his help.
A puzzled frown clouded the monk’s open, guileless features. “I do not understand.”
“There was a shipwreck,” Rognvald said, and explained how the Templar commander and the other survivors were attacked by Muhammedans. “Sadly, the commander died of his wounds.”
“I am aggrieved to hear it,” offered the monk, resuming his work.
Alethea watched him set another stone in the wall. “You seem to take your grief in your stride,” she observed.
“Thea, hush!” whispered Cait furiously.
Matthias glanced at her, his sun-browned features breaking into a grin. “No doubt I would be more sorrowful if I had the slightest idea who this man de Bracineaux might be.”
“You do not know him?” asked Cait.
“Good lady, I know him less well than I do the knight beside you,” said the monk, “and him I know not at all.”
“Forgive me, brother,” said Rognvald quickly. “I am Rognvald, Lord of Haukeland and Orkneyjar. And this is Lady Caitríona, and her sister Lady Alethea of Caithness in Scotland.”
“May the Lord of All Holiness bless you and keep you, my friends,” said the priest, inclining his head in an ecclesiastical bow.
“As it is nearing midday,” said Cait, “I wonder if we could entice you down from your lofty perch with an offer of a meal. We have brought some food—would you care to share it with us?”
“The work of God cannot be diverted.” Matthias dropped down to the ground once more, selected another stone, and hoisted it onto the plank.
“You do eat, do you not?” asked Alethea.
“Sometimes,” allowed the monk, “when time is not so pressing. Still, I want for nothing. God supplies all my needs.”
“If he feeds you like he helps with the building,” Thea observed, “then I am not surprised you have but little time for food. Indeed, it is a wonder you do not waste away altogether.”
Matthias laughed. “O, ye of little faith,” he said, clambering back on to his rough plank. “We must work while we have the light. For I tell you the truth, night is soon coming when no man can work.”
To Cait’s surprise, it was Rognvald who parried this lighthearted thrust. “Blessed Yesu said, ‘My food is to do the work my father has given me.’ Perhaps, what we have to tell you is also the work of God. Therefore, let us also eat—and perhaps we will discover what Our Heavenly Father would have us do with the light we yet possess.”
The priest stood upon his plank and beamed. “A man after my own heart. I yield to your wise counsel.”
As the priest climbed down from his suspended walkway again, Cait indicated a solitary scrub-oak tree a little apart from the building site. “Come, Thea, we will prepare the meal. We can sit in the shade.”
They dismounted and, taking the bundles from behind her saddle, Cait led her sister past the mounds of stone and timber to the tree. “Thea, there is no time to explain. But whatever Rognvald or I may say—just you consider it the truth. Better yet, Thea, keep your mouth closed.”
“I know the Templar isn’t dead,” she said. “Is that what you mean?”
“Yes, and there is more. I will explain everything later. Believe me, I do not like it any more than you do—”
“I like it just fine,” remarked Alethea glibly. “And so do you—I saw your face when you told him. You enjoy it! So, do not try to pretend being holy and contrite all of a sudden. I know better.”
“Oh, very well, have it your way,” Cait told her. “We will talk later. Just see you do not interfere.”
“Why would I interfere? Anyway, he is a fine and handsome man—do you not think so, Cait?”
“He is a priest!” hissed her sister. “You cannot treat with him like other men. In fact, you must not treat with him at all.”
Alethea shrugged, and they unwrapped the bundle and began spreading the meal beneath the tree. Shortly, the knight and priest finished their inspection of the far-from-finished church, and joined them. “Bertrano sent you to tell me this?” the priest was saying.
“He did,” answered the knight. “You see, the archbishop took your concern to heart and sent to the pope for guidance in the matter of the Holy Cup.”
“You know about the Mystic Rose?” wondered Matthias. “Bertrano told you?”
“Commander Renaud de Bracineaux was Master of Jerusalem,” the knight said. “He told me of the pope’s letter before he died. He asked me to take word to Archbishop Bertrano, and Bertrano has sent me to you.”
The priest nodded. “I begin to see now. I did not know the archbishop would involve anyone else. I told him in confidence.”
“And so it remains,” Cait quickly assured him. “I am certain the good archbishop would not have confirmed us in this task if there was a better way.”
“Although you might not know it,” the knight added, “the Muhammedans have been troubling the region of late. Travel has become very difficult. No doubt the archbishop took this into account.”
“I suppose you are right,” agreed Matthias. “There has been trouble, true enough. Thanks be to God, we have been spared until now.”
“Why did you think Archbishop Bertrano was dead?” wondered Alethea.
“Thea, not now,” hushed her sister.
Matthias grinned again, his teeth white against the sundarkened patina of his skin and curly wisp of a beard. “So long as that cathedral of his remains unfinished, the man is a very plague to all the poor workmen who must labor under his tireless zeal.” He chuckled to himself. “In truth, it is only a matter of time before one of his harried builders smites him with a hammer, or throws him from a scaffold.”
“Even so,” said Rognvald, “the cathedral rises day by day. It will be a magnificent church.”
“That it will,” agreed Matthias with a sigh of resignation.
The marked lack of enthusiasm did not go unnoticed. “You do not approve of such enterprise?” asked Cait.
“Lady, I confess I do not. The expense is beyond belief. For the cost of one cathedral, a thousand churches like mine could be built and a hundred monasteries, convents, and hospitals besides.” He sighed again. “But cathedrals woo the wealthy, and everywhere kings are vying with one another to see who can build the most ostentatious monuments to their own vanities.”
“The food is ready,” said Alethea pleasantly. She smiled at the tanned and hardy priest. “Please sit, brother, be our guest.”
Taking up one of the small loaves of bread, the monk raised it on high as if it were the host of the holy sacrament, and blessed it, whereupon they all sat down to a simple, but perfectly satisfying meal. They had brought bread and smoked fish, olives, cheese, and plums. There was watered wine to drink, and while they ate, they listened in enthralled silence as Matthias told an enchanting and wondrous tale.
TWENTY-ONE
“I FIRST LEARNED of the Holy Cup four years ago,” Matthias said, rolling an olive between thumb and forefinger before popping it into his mouth. “This was in Old Alfonso’s day, mind, when the king’s peace still held—and I was traveling in the high hills to the east, beyond the Ebro valley, where there are many villages without churches. But in one of the places—a small settlement in the mountains reached by a single sheep trail which is all but impassable most of the year—I found that the people already knew Christ and his teachings.
“I asked how this had come about, and the head man of the village told me that they had preserved this knowledge from long before the Muslims came—”
“But that must be,” said Rognvald breaking in, “what? Three hundred? Four hundred years?”
The priest nodded; he broke off a bit of bread and chewed thoughtfully. “You know something of history, my friend. Yes, four hundred years—as you shall see. And for all those hundreds of years the people have remained faithful though surrounded by Muhammedans on every side—like a tiny rock of Christianity in a turbulent Muslim sea.”
“Extraordinary,” breathed Alethea, hanging on the handsome young priest’s every word.
“Miraculous,” agreed the monk placidly. “I confess that, at first, I scarce thought it possible. So, during my sojourn with them, I took every opportunity to question the villagers about this—subtly, of course, for I did not care to make them wary. Gradually, they began to trust me, and to tell me more. And the more I learned, the more extraordinary it became.
“In time, they came to realize my interest in them was genuine, so one night the village chief came to me and asked if I wanted to learn a secret which would answer all my questions. I told him I would welcome it—if he wished to show me. But if it would disturb any of his people in any way, I did not care to know it; for I valued their friendship far more than any secret they might possess.”
Alethea clucked her tongue with impatience at such irrelevant civility. “I would have made him show me at once.”
“And that,” replied Matthias with a wink, “is why you would still be waiting to discover the secret. You see, the hill people are not like others. I believe they are the remnant of a more ancient race. They are secretive by nature, but they can be very loyal and they have extremely long memories. They remember the slights and injuries of centuries as if they happened yesterday, and they never forget a kindness.
“So, my answer was just the right one, for the chief looked at me and said, ‘I would not show you if I had not already asked everyone. I asked them, and everyone has agreed—even Gydon, and he never agrees to anything!’ Well, it was the middle of the night, and I thought he meant to show me in the morning, but he instructed me to tie up my shoes and put on my cloak and, taking neither lantern nor torch, we walked out into the darkness and up into the hills behind the village with nothing but the light of a pale quarter-moon to guide us.
“I saw neither trail nor path; like a blind man, I had to maintain a tight grip on the chief’s shoulder to keep from stumbling with every step. We walked a fair distance, or so it seemed, and came at last to a hidden valley—nothing more than a crease between two steep bluffs—and high up on the side of one of the bluffs was the entrance to a cave.
“I could not see it—for all it was dark as the bottom of a well—but he assured me it was there, and by virtue of small steps cut in the bluff, he led me up to the cave. Though it was a tight squeeze through the rough doorway, once inside the chamber we could stand upright. My guide knew the cave well, and by means of some materials left there, he soon lit an oil lamp so we might view what he had come to show me.”
“What was it?” asked Alethea, rapt, her eyes gleaming.
“A small altar had been cut in the rock at the back of the cave, and the entire wall whitewashed and painted with the sign of the cross so as to make a sort of shrine. This painting was of a delicate and intricate craft the like of which I had seen but once before—in an old, old text in the scriptorium of the monastery where I received my priesting. This text was one of the monastery’s principal treasures: a gospel of John copied out by the hand of Saint Samson of Dol.
“It was a very beautiful ornament, and I imagined that this was what he had brought me to see—and it was wondrous enough! But no. The chief indicated that I should move nearer the altar, which I did; and on the altar was a curious object. At first I took it for a knife—it was long,” the monk held up his hand to indicate a dagger-length span, “and like a knife, it tapered along its narrow length. A closer look revealed that it was not a knife, however, for although it had a sharp point, it had no edge like an ordinary blade, and no handle.”
“What was it?” demanded Alethea, hugging her updrawn knees and rocking back and forth in anticipation.
Matthias, enjoying the suspense, gave her a smile. “That is what I asked him. The chief stretched forth his hand, and said, in a prayerful and reverent voice, ‘This is the spike which pierced Our Blessed Redeemer’s feet as he hung on the cross for our salvation.’ Just like that.”
At these words, Cait felt a tingle of excitement trickle up along her spine. This is ordained, she thought. We are meant to be here. This is a sign.
“How did it come into their possession?” asked Rognvald.
“That is what I asked,” chuckled Matthias. “I said to him, ‘My friend, tell me, how did it come to be here?’ Crossing his arms over his chest, the village chieftain bowed low before the altar and spoke out a prayer in a language I have never heard before. And then, pointing to the spike he said, ‘Iago gave it to us.’”
“Iago?” echoed Cait. “You mean, Saint James—the same whose tomb is at Compostela?”
“The same,” replied Matthias, enjoying the wide-eyed wonder of his listeners. “The old Galicians called him Iago, and hold that after the infant church was driven from Jerusalem, Saint Iago fled by ship with a number of other followers of the Way. They landed in the north and wandered here and there, performing signs and wonders, and preaching the gospel of salvation through belief in the Risen Lord Christ.
“He lived among the Galician tribes for many years, and toward the end of his life decided to return to Jerusalem. His proselytizing landed him in trouble with the Jewish authorities, who had him arrested and taken before Herod Agrippa, who tried him and put him to death. So that his grave should not become a place of worship, Herod refused to allow him a proper burial.”
The priest paused to take a drink of wine before continuing. “When word of the sainted man’s unfortunate end eventually reached the new-founded churches of Iberia, the people grew very distraught. They came together and chose a delegation of twelve strong and righteous men, led by a priest of undoubted holiness. The delegation was sent to Jerusalem to claim the body of their beloved Iago.
“Through many travails they persevered, and were at last granted permission to recover the corpse of the great saint, which they placed in a specially prepared casket and carried back to Galicia to be buried in the place where he and his followers first made landfall, and where his bones have been venerated ever since.�
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“Was it really the true spike?” Alethea wanted to know. “It might have been any old scrap of iron.”
“There is no deceiving you,” declared the priest. “You put the Blessed Thomas to shame.” Leaning close, he said, “To tell you the truth, I had my doubts, too. I asked how it was that after such a long time they could be certain that it was the selfsame spike of the crucifixion—and do you know what the chief did?”
Alethea shook her head. The nearness of the priest made her stomach flutter, and she noticed how the sun had burnt the hair on his bare arms to a fluff of golden curls. “What did he do?” she asked, almost swallowing her voice.
“He told me to pick it up. He said, ‘Iago was a powerful prophet, and he foresaw the time when the Galicians would suffer under the Moors. He gave us this inestimable treasure so that we should never forget the teaching he left behind, for he knew the gospel he preached would help us endure and survive. And he told the truth.’ Then the village chieftain stretched out his hand toward the relic and bade me to pick it up.”
“Did you?” asked Cait.
“Lady, I did. I stood before the altar and I reached down and plucked up the spike and held it in my hand. It was heavier than I imagined, and cold to the touch. ‘Now I know you are a holy man,’ said my host, ‘or else you could not lift it.’ I did not know what he meant; but before I could ask, he bade me make as if to steal it away.
“Still holding the spike in my hand, I turned away from the altar and started toward the doorway and, wonder of wonders, the spike began to grow warm. In the space of a single step, the cold iron grew so hot as to scorch my palm. I looked and the metal now glowed red as if fresh from the smith’s fiery forge.”
“What did you do?” said Alethea.
“What could I do? I swiftly returned the sacred object to its place on the altar lest my hands be burned to unfeeling stumps. Lo and behold! No sooner had I replaced the relic than it resumed its former appearance. ‘Touch it,’ said my host, and I did.” The monk stretched forth a tentative finger, recalling the gesture for his astonished audience. “What did I find? The ancient iron was cold once more.”
The Mystic Rose Page 21
