This bleak prediction cast Cait into a doleful, desperate mood, which she hated, and so she railed against Paulo for speaking it. “What do you know about anything?” she snapped. “If you were but half so observant as you think yourself, we would have found Alethea long since!”
The knight’s face fell, and he looked at her with sad, tired eyes. “I beg your pardon, my lady, if I have spoken out of place.”
The slender Spaniard appeared so appalled and crestfallen that Cait did not have the heart to remain angry at him. “It is I who must beg your pardon, Paulo,” she relented, forcing down her emotion. “You merely speak a truth my heart does not wish to hear.”
“The truth, yes,” he agreed sadly. “But I would give the world to change it.”
They searched two more days—with no greater success than before—and then Rognvald called for a day of rest. Cait did not like this any better than the icy fact of winter, but she kept her disappointment to herself this time. As luck would have it, their day in camp proved sunny and calm—easily the best weather they had seen since the raid and Alethea’s abduction.
The first snow of the season fell that night, and they awoke the next morning to find the ground covered with a fine, even layer of gleaming white, and a fresh blue sun-dazzled sky. As they were getting ready to ride out, Svein and Yngvar discovered new tracks in the snow: a small herd of roe deer had ventured from the wood before dawn. The prospect of fresh meat overwhelmed all other concerns, and the day’s search was swiftly abandoned so the men could go hunting. Cait declined to accompany them, forsaking the thrill of the chase for a rest beside the fire. “Keep the flames burning brightly, my lady,” called Dag. “We will bring back a fine buck or two for our supper tonight.”
She sat by the fire, gazing at the pale blue Spanish sky. After a while, the supply of firewood began to dwindle, and she decided that if there was going to be any roasting of venison that night she had better gather more. So, taking up the sack and rope the men used, she saddled her horse, and rode some way into the forest where she found a ready supply of dead wood. She filled one sack and dragged it back to camp; seeing the men had not returned, she decided to fetch another.
She enjoyed this humble task—the day was bright and crisp; the snow on the trees and on the high mountain peaks gave everything a glistening sheen—and allowed her mind to drift where it would, losing herself in the aimless flow of her thoughts as she moved among the trees looking for fallen branches that would be easily broken up. She thought about Sydoni waiting at home, worried by their absence—and then remembered that they had originally planned to winter in Cyprus, so those left behind in Caithness were not yet missing them.
Unexpectedly, this thought moved her to prayer. She prayed that Alethea was well, and would be found before the supplies ran out and they were forced to give up the search for the winter. Please, Almighty Father, she prayed, send a sign that you are with us, and that you care.
No sooner had Cait sent up her simple prayer, than the answer came speeding back with the swiftness of an arrow. For she heard a strange jingling sound—like tiny bells high in the air.
Amazed, she looked up quickly. The sound seemed to travel—as if an angel was gliding slowly from east to west over the treetops—but she could see nothing for the close-grown branches. She started forward, following the sound as it drifted overhead and soon found herself standing on the edge of the wood and gazing up into the crisp, blue sun-bright sky at a soaring falcon. As the majestic bird wheeled through the cloudless heavens, she noticed something dangling from its legs—the leather jesses of a trained hunting bird.
The recognition caused Cait’s heart to quicken; such a hawk in flight meant a hunter nearby.
Darting back into the forest, she ran to retrieve her mount—only to discover the animal had wandered away; probably it had returned to camp, leaving her to carry her burden by herself. Taking up her half-filled sack of firewood, she began dragging it over the rough ground, scolding herself for failing to adequately secure the horse. The sack was heavy and she labored with it as she struggled back through the trees.
Upon emerging from the wood, she paused and searched the sky once more, but the hawk was gone. Unaccountably disappointed, she turned and resumed her walk, dragging the sack behind her. The track down to the camp passed by a hillock around which the stream coursed as it wound through the valley. Upon drawing even with this small promontory, she heard the light clinking jingle of the hawk’s bells once more and turned toward the sound.
It was not a hawk this time, however, but a great black stallion, his glossy coat shimmering in the sunlight. At the sudden appearance of the beast, Cait stopped in her tracks and jumped back, giving out a small cry of alarm.
Then she saw the man: astride the horse, his head swathed in a shimmering black turban, a richly embroidered black cloak flung back from his shoulders and over the stallion’s hindquarters. He saw her in the same instant, and although he gave no outward sign, she saw in the quickness of his keen dark glance that he had not been expecting to encounter anyone in the glen.
That he was a Moor was as obvious as the curly black beard on his face; in aspect and appearance he looked very like the bandits. But where they were sloven and cowardly, the man before her was regal, bold, a man of wealth—his cloak was sewn with silver, and his high-cantled saddle was fine black leather, ornamented with shell-like silver bosses and trimming; the horse’s long, thick mane was braided, and each braid interwoven with threads of silver.
Cait stood motionless, holding her breath as the man regarded her with disarming curiosity. Turning away, he lifted his head and raised his arm into the air; he wore a heavy leather gauntlet. He uttered a piercing whistle, which was echoed by a shriek from on high, and an instant later there was a rush and rustle of wings as the falcon swooped down to take its place on its master’s fist.
“I give you good greeting, woman,” he said, turning his attention to her once more. His face was fine and handsome, his skin dark and smooth, his limbs slender and graceful.
“God keep you, sir,” Cait replied, releasing the sack of firewood. She straightened under his scrutiny, resting her hand on the pommel of her sword.
“Forgive me for startling you,” he said, “but would you mind very much if I asked you why you are encamped upon my land?” His Latin, although heavily accented with a thick Eastern intonation, was spoken with a low, strong voice. The combination produced a sound which reminded Cait of the magician Sinjari, and the thought produced a feeling of recognition which made her bold.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she replied courteously. “If I had imagined this wilderness canyon belonged to anyone, I would never have spent a moment camping here when I might have come to your house and demanded hospitality.”
His smile was a white glint of teeth in the blackness of his beard. “Indeed! What makes you so certain that this Muslim would honor the request of a Christian?”
“A wise man once told me that among Muhammedans it is considered a sign of true nobility to demonstrate mercy and generosity.”
“Even to enemies?”
“Especially to enemies, sir.”
He laughed, his voice rich and deep. The sound roused the falcon on his hand. The bird shrieked angrily and flapped its wings. “Hush, Kiri, naughty girl.” He reached into a pouch at his side and produced a ragged strip of red meat which he fed to the hawk. “Leave us, I wish to talk to this charming lady.” With that, he flung the hawk into the air; the bird disappeared in a rushing flurry of wings and tinkling of silver bells. “Kiri is a cunning and fearless hunter,” he said admiringly, “but she is also exceedingly jealous.”
The Moor slid from the saddle then to stand before Cait, regarding her with a lightly taunting amusement that Cait found slightly disconcerting. “If we are to begin as enemies,” he said at last, “let us at least strive for the virtuous nobility celebrated by your wise acquaintance.”
“The man was my father,” Cait sa
id. “Lord Duncan of Caithness.”
“Then he has my condolences,” he replied with a smile.
“Sir?”
“Any man who would let such a daughter out of his sight, even for a moment, must certainly be suffering a most powerful bereavement.” He smiled again, and Cait felt a strange warmth flood through her—a result, she strongly suspected, of his shameless flattery.
“I am Prince Hasan Salah Ibn Al-Nizar.” He made a low, sweeping bow. “Peace be with you. May Allah the Munificent crown all your endeavors with triumph and glory. Forgive my curiosity, my lady, but what miracle brought you to this lonely and forbidding place?”
Cait gave her name and told him she was on pilgrimage from her home in Scotland.
“Caitríona,” he repeated, then frowned. “That will never do. My poor Moorish tongue has not the facility to express the natural mellifluence of your wondrous name. I believe I shall call you Ketmia, instead—if I may be so bold.”
Cait repeated the name uncertainly. “It is not disagreeable, I suppose. Ketmia…what does it mean?”
“It is the name of one of the most fragrant and beautiful flowers ever to blossom,” Hasan told her. “In the East it is given to brides on their wedding day. For, like the loveliness of the flower, the memory of that day will last through all time, infusing each remembrance with its glorious perfume.” His smile broke forth in a sudden blaze of delight which Cait found endearing. “When I saw you, I thought to myself, Ketmia.”
“Very well,” agreed Cait, suitably charmed.
“Splendid!” said Prince Hasan. He made a flourish of his hand, as if in elaborate acceptance of her will, and said, “It would vastly improve the austerity of my cow-byre of a dwelling if you would accept my hospitality while you are sojourning in my realm.”
“Since you ask so nicely,” Cait replied, “I do accept—although, perhaps I should warn you that I am not alone. As it happens, I have a company of knights with me. Five of them—all under the authority of Lord Rognvald of Haukeland.”
“Even so?” The prince looked to the right and left and back toward the camp. “Are they Djinn, these warriors of yours? By the hair of my beard, I cannot see them.”
“They are riding to the hunt just now,” she explained, “trying to get a little meat for our supper.”
She thought she saw a shadow of displeasure pass over his face as she spoke, but it vanished in the sudden sunburst of his smile. “Then let us pray they are successful, for fresh meat will be a welcome addition to the banquet which I shall spread before you and your estimable retinue this night.”
He turned and smoothly swung up into the high-cantled saddle. “Gather your things, if you please,” he instructed. “I will send my katib to bring you to my house when you are ready.”
Cait thanked him and watched him ride away. He stopped at the edge of the wood and whistled for his falcon, then lifted his arm and with a wave of his black-gloved hand wheeled the stallion and galloped across the meadow and was gone. She stood for a time, wondering whether she had done well in accepting the Moor’s offer of hospitality. She worried over this for a while, and decided that Prince Hasan was precisely placed to help her find Alethea. Indeed, his appearance had all the fortuitous indications of an answer to her prayer.
The knights returned at midday in a jubilant mood, having killed two young stags—a humor cautiously increased when Cait informed them they would not have to sleep on the cold wet ground that night. “Tonight we are to banquet with a prince,” she said, and went on to explain her encounter with Hasan.
“He is heaven-sent,” she told Rognvald as the others trooped off to begin preparing the deer.
“More likely a trick of the devil,” muttered the tall knight; his face clenched in a scowl of sour disapproval.
“Listen to you,” she scoffed lightly. “You have not even met the man, and already you condemn him. In truth, he is the very likeness of a nobleman.”
“So is the Devil,” Rognvald replied.
“He has offered us hospitality and I will not hear a word against him,” Cait snapped indignantly.
“He is a Moor,” Rognvald said tersely. “Need I remind you, it is the Moors who have taken your sister?”
“That was unkind, my lord,” Cait snarled. “Have I not spent every waking moment these past many days searching for my sister? Tell me what more I could have done, and rest assured I will do that, too.”
Rognvald’s scowl deepened. He opened his mouth to reply, but Cait cut him off.
“As it is,” she continued, levelling the full brunt of her anger on him, “we are running out of food and the weather is against us. Therefore, I think it no bad thing to accept help when it is offered.” She glared at him defiantly. “And yes, even from the Devil himself.”
The tall knight stared implacably at her; his jaw muscles tightened with unspoken words, but he held his tongue.
“We are going to accept Prince Hasan’s hospitality, and at the first opportunity I am going to enlist his aid to help find Alethea. I do not care whether you approve, or not. One way or another, I will find my sister.”
She did not allow him the satisfaction of making a reply, but turned on her heel and stormed away. They stayed away from one another as they went about striking camp and preparing to leave. The prince’s katib arrived a short time later, and found them ready, if not eager, to quit the cold and damp for the warmth of hearth and hall.
Like his master, the man was gracious and well mannered. He was somewhat older than the prince, his beard was streaked with gray and his skin was weathered and creased like an old leather glove. Though not tall, he carried himself with a posture which would have become a king. Dressed in a rich brown cloak and high riding boots, he rode a tawny brown mare, and carried a long, curved knife with a jewelled handle in his wide cloth belt.
He entered the camp with two attendants, one of whom carried a wheat-colored bundle tied with golden cord; the other led a saddled black horse. As the knights gathered to receive them, he dismounted, and in fine aristocratic Latin presented himself to Cait, saying, “May the light of Allah the Magnificent shine for you, and may his blessing of peace rest upon you.” He bowed low, making an elegant motion of his hand. “I am Al-Fadil Halhuli, katib and overseer to Prince Hasan, from whom I have come with an invitation to join him at his home.”
Cait received his greeting with good grace, while the knights stood looking on from a short distance. Arms folded across their chests and similar expressions of distrust fixed firmly on their faces, they followed Rognvald’s lead, adopting a suspicious stance, and made no move to join in the proceedings.
Ignoring their bad manners, the katib snapped his fingers and the attendant with the bundle dismounted and came to kneel beside his superior.
“My master the prince has sent me with a gift which he hopes you will do him the very great honor of accepting.” He motioned to the kneeling servant, who extended the bundle in his hands. “Please, my lady,” Halhuli said, indicating that she should receive the bundle.
Cait took it in both hands, whereupon he untied the golden cord and unfolded a handsome hooded cloak of the finest wool she had ever seen; it was the color of wheat and brushed to a soft, almost fur-like finish. The hood, cuffs, and hem were embroidered with blue silk in a series of tiny swirling, filigree loops. Instantly enchanted with the gift, Cait took the cloak, shook out its folds and held it up before her.
“Oh, it is wonderful!” she said, forgetting her composure in her enthusiasm. “It is easily the finest I have ever seen—by far.” The cloak was indeed exquisite—yet, it was more the completely unexpected nature of the gift that so amazed and delighted her. However, if she had seen that Rognvald’s scowl had reappeared in force, she might have reined in her excitement somewhat; and if she had seen the disapproving, furtive glances the knights exchanged with one another, she might have recovered the greater portion of her natural dignity and bearing.
While the katib held it up for her,
she put her arms through the sleeves and turned, drawing the splendid garment around her, luxuriating in its richness and warmth. “It is true what my master has said,” he told her, “you have eyes like the very houri of paradise.”
To Cait’s embarrassment, she colored under this blandishment, and it brought her to herself once more. “I thank you, my lord—” she began.
“If you please, my lady,” he interrupted smoothly, “I am simply Halhuli. I deem it the utmost pleasure to serve you.” He turned and spread his hands in a gesture of deference, and said, “Now, if you are ready, my lords, we can proceed. My master is waiting to welcome you, and I assure you he is most eager to make your acquaintance.”
With a flick of his hand, Halhuli sent his bearer hurrying to bring his horse, though it was but a few paces behind him. At the same time, the other servant dismounted and came on the run, leading the black horse. Taking Cait’s hand, the katib helped her into the saddle, and then resumed his own mount. Without another word or backward glance, the prince’s overseer turned and rode from the camp with Cait at his side. The knights gathered the pack animals and hurried after.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SHORT DAY faded. With high clouds coming in from the north on a bitter wind, the mountain tops were soon lost to view, and the sky grew dark and heavy long before they came in sight of their destination. Although she tried, Cait found it difficult to maintain her sense of direction. One desolate, tree-filled valley was very like another; and one twisting, trackless bare rock ridge the same as all the rest. After they had traveled a fair distance into the mountains, they paused. “It is not far now,” Halhuli told her.
Turning in his saddle, he lifted his hand and said, “Behold! Al-Jelál, the palace of Prince Hasan Salah Al-Nizar.”
Cait looked up to see, high on the towering ridgewall before her, a low, box-like structure squatting on the edge of an almost vertical curtain of rock rising from the valley floor. The lofty dwelling, built of the same drab stone as the surrounding mountains, was so uniformly colorless and dull that if the katib had not stopped to show her, she might never have noticed it.
The Mystic Rose Page 27
