At the innkeeper’s bewildered expression, d’Anjou put his arm on the archbishop’s shoulder and said, “Our cleric is on a special pilgrimage, you see. Nothing but cabbage and cold water for him, and a horsehair robe in the stable.”
“The stable!” cried the innkeeper. “But, my lord, I could never allow it. Why, it would ruin me. Please, you must see that—”
“Just give him the room next to mine,” said de Bracineaux wearily. “And bring us wine at once. You can stable the horses later.”
“Of course, my lord,” said the landlord. He hesitated.
“Well?” demanded the Templar.
“I have two rooms, my lord, but they are not next to one another. Unless, you wish to…”
“Just put him where I do not have to look at him, or listen to him snore.”
“At once, my lord.” The innkeeper spun on his heel and hurried inside, followed by Grieco, who caught the door and held it open for the important guests. De Bracineaux pushed the reluctant churchman ahead of him and, once inside, made for the low table before the hearth. D’Anjou came last and paused long enough to take Grieco’s arm and pull him close.
“I will be wanting a companion this evening,” he told the youth.
“A companion?” wondered Grieco. “I am certain my uncle would be most happy to oblige. I will ask him, if you—”
“The devil take your uncle, boy! I want a woman. The younger the better.” He gripped the young man’s arm hard. “Understand?”
He left the gaping Grieco at the door and, while the landlord bustled the silently disapproving archbishop to a room at the back of the inn, he joined de Bracineaux at a large table before the fire. He removed his gloves and put them on the table. “God’s eyes, but it is good to be dry again,” he said; sweeping off his hat, he tossed it onto the floor. “I thought it would never stop raining.”
“You are soft, d’Anjou. You would not last three days in the East. You would have perished long before ever setting foot in Jerusalem.”
“Then you can have your Holy Land, and all that goes with it,” the baron replied airily. “I will stay here and delight the ladies of Iberia.”
The anxious innkeeper arrived just then with a large jar and cups which he placed gingerly on the table. “Wine, my lords. It is not mulled, but…”
“Pour,” said the Templar.
The innkeeper did as he was told, and then backed away as the commander raised his cup to his lips. He took a single sip, swilled it in his mouth and then spat it out. “Agh!” De Bracineaux pitched the contents of his cup into the fire, then threw the cup at the startled landlord. “I said I wanted wine, you dolt. Not this horse piss you serve everyone else. Now get you gone and bring me something drinkable—the best you have.”
The innkeeper’s mouth worked as he tried to think of a suitable reply. D’Anjou stood, shoved the jar into his hands, spun him around, and sent him staggering back the way he had come. “Look lively, man. My throat feels like old leather.”
The baron sat down again and began removing his boots, which he placed by the side of the hearth. He stretched out his feet to the fire. The Templar watched him without interest.
In a moment, the innkeeper came creeping back with another jar which he offered with extreme hesitation. At a glance from the Master, he proceeded to pour, but his hand shook so badly that he missed the edge of the cup and spilled wine on the table, almost splashing d’Anjou. “Clumsy oaf!” snarled the baron, leaping to his feet. He snatched the jar from the cringing innkeeper. “Get out and leave us in peace.”
The man scurried away and d’Anjou, returning to his chair, poured a cup of wine which he pushed across the table to de Bracineaux. He watched as the commander sniffed the offering, and then took a swallow. “Passable,” said the Templar, whereupon the baron took up a hot poker from the hearth and plunged it into the jar.
“Mulled,” d’Anjou said, as the wine sizzled. Tossing aside the poker, he poured himself a cup and settled back into his chair once more, feet spread before the fire.
They drank and let the wine do its work; when de Bracineaux held out his cup for more, the baron filled it and said, “I suppose this priest has a church somewhere close by. Has the archbishop said where it is?”
“The bloated pig’s bladder of a priest professes not to know. He is more trouble than he is worth. I am sick of the sight of him.”
“Regrets?” inquired the baron.
“Since Santiago he has been worthless,” grumbled the Templar. “And he was very little use before that.”
“I smell something cooking.” The baron lifted his nose and craned his neck around.
“Probably pork,” muttered de Bracineaux. “I am heartily sick of pork, too.”
“What about some of that beef we saw coming into town?” said d’Anjou, sipping from his cup. “Perhaps we should have Gislebert get us some.”
“He has better things to do than cater to your idle whims, d’Anjou.”
At that moment, the door opened and Gislebert appeared. “Ah!” said d’Anjou, lifting his cup. “The very man himself. Here now, sergeant, de Bracineaux thinks you have better things to do than serve my trifling fancies. Is that so?”
Gislebert glared, but made no reply. “The men are lodged and the horses stabled.” He looked at the wine longingly.
“What news of Matthias? Did the abbot say where the priest might be found?”
The sergeant swallowed. “He is not here. The abbot said he is expected to return to the monastery for the winter, but he has not yet arrived.”
“Then we shall go and get him,” said the commander. “Where is he?”
“He is building a church on lands near here. It is no great distance—half a day’s ride, perhaps, not more.”
“Then tomorrow we will ride out and convince this priest to join our happy pilgrimage.”
“That should be no great difficulty. His grace the archbishop can simply compel him under threat of excommunication,” said d’Anjou, pouring a cup of wine for Gislebert. “Sit down, sergeant. You look faint from thirst.”
“Once we have the priest to lead us, we will abandon that puffing windbag at last.” De Bracineaux drained his cup and, as the baron refilled it, he shouted for the landlord to bring the food. When the innkeeper appeared, the Templar said, “I have a taste for roast beef.”
“I have no beef, my lord,” the landlord said, wringing his hands in the cloth at his waist. “My good wife has made a rabbit stew with shallots, wine, and mushrooms. Everyone says it is excellent.”
“I want beef, damn you! Beef!”
“But there is none to be had in all the town just now. Perhaps a young bull will be butchered in a day or two, and then I shall certainly get some for you.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I have some sausages; and there is fresh pork. If you like, I will have my good wife make for you a fine—”
“Devil take you and your good wife!” the Templar raged. “I want beef, and that is what I shall have.”
The innkeeper appealed to d’Anjou. “I am sorry, my lord, there is no beef in all of Palencia.” His dark eyes implored. “The rabbit stew is very good.”
“Bring it,” the baron told him.
“At once, my lord.” He turned and scurried back to the kitchen. “I will bring bread, too.”
“And more wine!”
“At once, sir.”
The Master glared at d’Anjou. “Never cross me like that again,” he growled.
“What—and do you mean to crucify the man?” replied the baron casually. “For God’s sake, de Bracineaux, there is no beef. Carving up our host will avail you nothing.” He leaned back in his chair, clutching his cup to his chest and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of the fire.
The innkeeper brought another jar and a round loaf of brown bread which he placed diffidently on the table and scurried away before drawing the ire of his difficult guests. Gislebert tore the loaf in half once, and then again; he sat chewing his portion and
staring absently into the fire. The commander drained his cup and poured another.
The three drank in brooding silence until the innkeeper reappeared, holding the sides of a bubbling iron pot which he placed in the center of the table. A boy with him brought an assortment of wooden bowls, which he left beside d’Anjou’s elbow before darting away again. The innkeeper produced four wooden spoons which he cleaned on the greasy scrap of cloth around his waist. Placing a spoon in each of the bowls, he proceeded to ladle out the contents of the cauldron.
“What is that?” growled de Bracineaux, eyeing the fourth bowl balefully.
The landlord hesitated. The ladle wavered uncertainly above the table. “Stew, my lord,” he replied, timidly. “For the archbishop.”
“You were told he was to have nothing but boiled cabbage and water,” the Templar said darkly.
“Of course, my lord, but…” he swallowed, glancing anxiously from one to the other, “that is, I thought you were in jest.”
“I do not expect you to think,” the commander replied menacingly, “I expect you to obey. Pour it back, and get him the cabbage as you were told.”
The innkeeper appealed silently to d’Anjou, who softened. “As this is his grace’s last night with us,” suggested the baron, “why not let him have the stew? Let him join us. He can tell us what he knows about this priest Matthias.”
“We have asked him already,” de Bracineaux said. “He has told us all he knows—which is little enough.”
“Get some wine into him, and he may surprise you and sing like a lark,” said d’Anjou. “It is the last chance to find out.”
“Very well,” said the commander. To Gislebert, he said, “Fetch the disagreeable priest and tell him he can join us if he minds his manners.”
The sergeant stuffed a last piece of bread into his mouth, then rose and lumbered off; de Bracineaux regarded his companion with dull petulance. “You are an old woman, d’Anjou. Do you know that? You should have been a priest.”
The baron sipped his wine. “I lack the mental rigor,” he replied placidly. “I am too easily led astray by frivolity and caprice.”
The commander stared at him, then laughed, the sound like a short, sharp bark. “God’s wounds, d’Anjou.” He lifted his cup and drank again, then pulled his bowl before him and started to spoon hot stew into his mouth.
In a moment, Gislebert appeared with the churchman in tow. “Sit down, Bertrano,” said de Bracineaux, kicking a chair toward him. “The baron here thinks you should join us for a farewell feast. What do you say to that?”
“I say,” he replied, “a shred of common decency still clings to the baron. Perhaps he may be redeemed after all.”
“I would not be too certain about that.” The commander pushed a bowl of stew across the table. “I want you to tell me about the priest—this Brother Matthias.”
“I have already told you all I know,” said Bertrano. He bent his head, murmured a prayer, crossed himself, and began to eat.
De Bracineaux reached out and pulled the bowl away again. “First the priest, and then the food.”
The archbishop looked up wearily. “I can tell you nothing I have not already said before. The man was unknown to me before I received his letter. He roams about, building churches and preaching to the poor. That is all I know.”
“It will be a pleasure to see the back of your disagreeable carcass,” said the commander, shoving the bowl of stew toward him once more.
“You are too harsh, de Bracineaux,” said the baron affably. “Our friend the archbishop is a very font of wisdom and good will. The road will be a far more lonely and cheerless place when he is gone. We shall miss his merry japes.”
“Thanks to you, the building work will have fallen behind. Winter is upon us, and if the roof is not in place much of the work will be ruined.”
“Has no one ever told you that it is folly to store up treasures on earth where moth and rust do corrupt?” wondered de Bracineaux, bringing a snort of derisive laughter from Gislebert.
“And is it not written: ‘Because it was in your heart to build a temple for My Name, says the Lord, you did well to have this in your heart…’ and, ‘The temple I am going to build will be great, because Our God is greater than all other gods’?”
“And: ‘Who,’” retorted the Templar commander, “‘is able to build the temple of God? For heaven is his throne, and the earth his footstool.’” He raised his cup in mock triumph.
“Even Satan can quote scripture,” replied the archbishop sourly.
De Bracineaux bristled at the jibe. “Away with you,” he growled. “Your self-righteous prattling wearies me.”
The archbishop finished his stew, raising the bowl to his lips and draining it in a gulp. Then he stood. “How is it that a man can see the mote in his brother’s eye, yet miss the beam in his own?” With that, he wished them a good night and went back to his room.
“Remind me to give him that lame horse when he leaves tomorrow.”
“Better still,” said Baron d’Anjou, “why not give him an ass so he has someone of like mind for company?”
“Well said,” laughed Sergeant Gislebert. “A man after my own heart.”
“You are only half the wit you think you are, d’Anjou,” de Bracineaux grumbled, shaking his head.
“Be of good cheer, commander,” the baron replied. “Eat, drink, and rejoice—for tomorrow the search for the Mysterious Rose begins in earnest. With any luck, you will have it tucked safely away before the season is through. We can be in Anjou before the snow flies, and winter at my estate—what do you say to that?”
“I say,” replied the commander, “we do not yet have the relic. I will not revel and make merry until I hold it in my hands.”
“Then let us drink to the quest,” said the Baron, raising his cup. “May our joy be swiftly consummated.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THEIR SUPPER WAS peas porridge and black bread again—and for the next three nights—as each day’s search took the party further into the wild, desolate mountains. The weather grew steadily worse, each day colder than the last, the clouds lower, darker, filled with mist and rain. Wind blew down from the barren heights, buffeting them by day, and invading their sleep by night.
One cheerless day they found one of Abu’s markers in a broad, grassy glen. Nearby lay the remains of a campfire; there were tufts of wool on the bushes and brambles, and sheep droppings on the ground. “Probably a shepherd taking his flocks down to the lower valleys for the winter,” observed Paulo, raising his eyes to the mountain peaks which now loomed over them. “God willing, we will soon be going home, too.”
The next day they rode out in the direction indicated by the marker and promptly lost the trail. By nightfall they had not found it again. “It is gone,” Paulo concluded dismally.
“We must have missed a marker,” suggested Yngvar.
“Perhaps,” allowed Paulo. “But I do not think so.”
“We will find it tomorrow,” Cait said, “when the light is better.”
“I am sorry, Donna Caitríona,” he said, shaking his head, “the ground is mostly rock and chippings. If not for Abu, we would not have been able to trail them this long. Something must have happened to him.”
“If he was injured or killed,” said Svein, “we would have found him on the trail.”
“The bandits must have caught him,” Yngvar concluded. “This is what I think.”
“Then God help him,” said Dag.
“What are we to do now?” Cait asked, turning to Rognvald, who stood nearby with his arms folded over his chest to keep warm.
“I suspect they have a stronghold hidden in one of the high valleys,” the tall knight replied. “We will establish a camp at the last marker, and then we will ride out from there and examine each valley in turn until we find them.”
The place Rognvald suggested was a grassy dell formed by the junction of two larger glens running either side of a great, jutting spur of a peak. A fr
esh-running stream flowed around the foot of the mountain, so they never lacked good water; there was a sizable stand of trees on one side of the meadow where they could get firewood, and green boughs with which they constructed crude shelters to keep off the worst of the rain and wind. Not for the first time did Cait wish they had been able to bring the tents—and the extra clothing she had left behind.
The next morning they began searching out the many-fingered valleys, following the rough mountain pathways through one wind-blown canyon after another. It quickly became apparent that there were far too many canyons, gorges, dales, and hollows to be explored; so, to make the most of their efforts, they decided to pair off, each pair of searchers pursuing a different direction.
They changed horses every day, to rest the animals and allow them to graze on the lush grass of the glen. Each morning they rode out with hope renewed. This day, they were certain, their dutiful perseverance would be rewarded; but each evening they returned to collapse beside the coldwater stream, exhausted and frustrated, to spend another dank night on the ground. Each day Cait’s hopes, like the late autumn sun, rose a littler lower than the day before, the light that much weaker, and more distant.
The horses ate their fill of grass and began to grow thick winter coats; but Cait and her company of knights were not so fortunate. They soon ran out of the most perishable provisions: eggs, cheese, and bread; then the wine slowly disappeared, leaving only the dried meat, meal, and beans. Each night there was less to eat, and it grew increasingly apparent that if their efforts were not soon rewarded, they must abandon the search to return to the lowlands where they might find a settlement or town where they could replenish supplies.
“We have enough for ten more days, maybe,” said Dag, who had become cook and provisioner for the company. They had awakened to find a fine white haze of hoarfrost on the ground; a delicate coating of frost edged the stream and spiked the bare branches of the trees. “After that…well, it is in God’s hands, I think.”
“The supplies will not outlast the weather,” Paulo pointed out. “Winter is on us. The snow is coming—it could come any day—tomorrow maybe, or the day after, but soon—and when it does, it will close off the passes and we will be lucky to get out of here.”
The Mystic Rose Page 26
