Thus, the banquet began.
TWENTY-NINE
“NOW THEN,” HASAN said, leaning his chin on his palm, “how did you come to be wandering around in my mountains?”
They had feasted on spiced lamb and kid, and on strips of fresh venison which the prince’s serving maids cooked for them over charcoal braziers set up beside the tables; when the meat was done, they transferred the roasted strip to the bowl of each individual guest using extremely long forks. The knights had not seen this before, and took an instant liking to this method of cooking and serving meat. There were also rich, highly seasoned stews of vegetables, and fragrant rice with dates and almonds, and plenty of honey-sweetened wine.
The prince’s sister, Danji, summoned six of her handmaids to come and join the festivities so that the knights might have a pretty companion to share the meal. As a result, the somewhat icy wariness of the men melted in the warmth of the prince’s lavish and convivial hospitality—except for Rognvald who, while allowing himself to enjoy the meal, nevertheless maintained a discreetly guarded attitude toward the prince.
“As you have discovered, my al-qazr is far from any roads, and travelers seldom pass this way,” he continued, looking from one to the other of them as he reclined on his elbow amidst the cushions. “What brought you here?”
Despite Rognvald’s cautious glance, Cait decided the moment had come to tell Hasan about her sister’s abduction and secure his aid. “In all it is easily told,” she began. “We were on pilgrimage following the valley road some distance from here when we were attacked by bandits. They killed five of our men, but we fought them off—only to find when the battle was over that my sister, Alethea, had been taken.”
“A shameful business, to be sure,” said Hasan. “But, alas, far too common in these remote regions. This is a wild land in many ways.”
“The assault came at dusk,” Rognvald put in, “or we might have made good the pursuit. As it was, we followed the trail until we lost the light, and were forced to give up the chase.”
“A pity,” sympathized Hasan. “And the next day, you resumed the search, but…” he sighed, “it was too late. They were always too far ahead, and eventually you lost the trail.”
“That is exactly what happened,” said Cait, much impressed. “How did you know?”
“Because that is the way of these brigands. They attack at dusk and make off with whatever they can carry, trusting darkness to cover their path. They ride through the night so that when dawn comes they are far ahead of any pursuit.”
“Just so,” said Rognvald. “We would not have come this far, only one of the servants—a Syrian fellow named Abu—had followed Lady Alethea. He marked out the way for us.”
“But then the markers stopped,” Cait said. “We made our camp in the place where we saw the last marker. That was five days ago. We have been searching for the trail ever since.”
“You will not find it,” Hasan told her. “How many bandits did you say made the attack?”
Cait glanced at Rognvald, who said, “I make it at least twelve—but there may have been more.”
“Then, unless I am mistaken, it was Ali Waqqar,” said the prince; his tone suggested both familiarity and contempt. “Yu’allah! He is the worst. He and his rabble of outcasts have been a scourge of thievery and murder for far too long.”
“You know them?” wondered Cait, hope quickening inside her once more.
“Alas, I do know them—and wish to Heaven that I did not,” replied Hasan, his voice thick with animosity. “Once Ali Waqqar was a fine warrior and leader of men. He led the army of Sultan al-Farama in his wars to recover Saragossa. When the sultan was finally defeated, the army dispersed and Ali Waqqar has lived as a bandit and cut-throat ever since.”
“If you know them,” suggested Rognvald, “perhaps you also know where to find them.”
“They know the mountains well and they have many places to hide. Such is the fear they inspire, the people look the other way when they pass. Thus, they are not easy to find.” The prince paused and shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, my friends. That this has happened is unfortunate; that this has happened within the boundary of my realm is unforgivable. From this moment,” he said, his tone growing more adamant, “I will make it my sole concern to find Ali Waqqar and his brigands, and bring them to justice.” Drawing himself up he placed his right hand over his heart and said, “Prince Hasan Al-Nizar makes this solemn vow, and I will not cease until you are joyfully reunited with your beloved sister, and your valorous servant.”
“I pray you swift success,” Cait told him. “Achieve your aim and you shall win a loyal and loving friend.”
“Praise Allah the Magnificent! I could ask for nothing finer.”
So caught up were they in pledging their fealty to one another, neither saw Rognvald’s tight, slightly scornful grimace as he lifted his cup to his mouth. “Do you have a wife, Lord Hasan?” he asked abruptly.
The prince regarded him with mild surprise. “I have been married, yes—once, when I was a very young man,” he said.
“Only once? I thought Muhammedans kept wives the same way herders keep cattle.”
Cait, incensed at the knight’s bad manners, glared furiously at him in an effort to make him desist. He took no notice.
“Some may take more than one wife. It is permitted,” Hasan forced a thin smile, “although not advised. As the great Qadi Tukhmin has said, ‘A house with many wives is like a ship with many oars, but no rudder.’ And you, my friend, have you ever been married?”
“No,” replied Rognvald, returning to his cup. “One day, perhaps—God willing. But not yet.”
Hasan nodded sympathetically. “God wills all good things for his children. I am sure you will find the very woman one day, and then qismah—your fate will be well and truly sealed.”
From somewhere outside of the hall, there came the sound of a gong. Instantly, Danji and her handmaidens rose and, bowing to the prince and his guests, they departed. The knights, sorry to see the women go, looked to their host for an explanation. “It is the Hour of Covering the Fire,” Hasan told them. “From ancient times, my people have observed this practice. You see, we were once a desert people and each night the signal was given to cover the fire so that all would know when it was time to sleep.” He smiled. “But, please, you are guests in this house; you must not interrupt your revelry on account of this quaint custom.”
Seeing a chance to establish some small authority of his own in this strange place, Rognvald said, “We will observe your custom, Lord Hasan. For we, too, must sleep if we are to renew our search in the morning.” He stood. “I thank you for your kind consideration. Certainly, it was the best meal we have had in a very long time. Now, if you please, we will leave you in peace.” To Cait, he said, “I bid you good night, my lady.”
The other knights, recognizing the signal, rose—albeit somewhat more reluctantly—and, following the example of their lord, took their leave. They walked from the banqueting room, leaving Cait and the prince alone.
“I cannot remember a more lavish and delightful feast, Prince Hasan,” Cait said. “Your kindness and generosity have made this a night I will never forget.”
The prince smiled and inclined his head. “Your praise is more than my small effort deserves.” He paused, regarding Cait with a pensive expression. “Alas, I do not think your Lord Rognvald approved. He is a cold one, to be sure, but I had hoped the festivity would have warmed him a little.”
“Please, I pray you, do not take a moment’s thought for him. He is a frozen Norwegian who cannot accept kindness when it is offered.” Cait spoke with more vehemence than she felt, but did so for Hasan’s sake. “Proud men often disdain the benevolence of others.”
“Ah, you are as wise as you are lovely,” sighed the prince. “It is rare in my experience to find those two qualities united in one woman. For, as the poet says, ‘What can be bought with wisdom’s coin, that beauty does not own?’ But you, Ketmia,
possess both in abundance.”
No one had ever called her beautiful before, and Caitríona did not know how to reply. She tried to think of something to say, growing more and more uncomfortable as the prince, blissfully silent, regarded her with delight akin to rapture, until at last, she said, “It has been a most enjoyable night, and I thank you—not least for undertaking to help us find my sister.” She rose slowly. “I must sleep now if I am to be ready to ride in the morning. So, I will bid you God’s rest, my lord.”
“To be sure,” said the prince, rising slowly. “I will have Jubayar escort you to the women’s quarter.”
Taking her arm, he led her to the anteroom where a very tall, very fat man was standing beside the large brass gong. He wore a pale blue turban and long, unbelted mantle. His face was beardless, revealing a livid scar running from the point of his chin to his collarbone. He regarded Cait with a sleepy haughtiness, his large, fleshy features impassive as she came before him.
“This,” said the prince, “is Jubayar. He is one of my most trusted servants. He is a eunuch, and therefore has charge of the women’s house. You will be entirely safe in his protection.”
The big man bowed, but said nothing when Cait attempted to greet him.
“Jubayar!” the prince shouted, and then, as an afterthought explained to Cait: “He is also very deaf. But he can be made to understand if you speak loudly—although he knows no Latin.” Turning once more to the large eunuch, he spoke a rapid burst of Arabic, whereupon the servant bowed and, with a last glance at Cait, began leading the way down the corridor. Cait thanked the prince once more, bade him a good night, and then hurried after her surly escort.
Mahdi and Pila’i were asleep when Cait entered the room; both young women slept on thin pallets at the foot of her bed. They roused themselves as she entered, and helped her undress, folding the numerous items of clothing and carefully stowing them away in the wooden chest. They brought out a loose-fitting silk gown which she put on and, as Pila’i prepared her cushions, Mahdi brushed her hair and then skillfully braided it so that it would not grow tangled in the night.
Leaving her maids to put out the lamps, Cait drifted off to the first truly restful sleep since leaving home. That night she saw Alethea in a dream.
She dreamed that she and her sister were in Caithness. It was a fair summer day, and the two of them were walking along the brow of the high promontory to the south-east of Banvar. The wind was fresh and the sun bright on the water in the bay far below; she could hear the rush and tumble of the waves, and the mewing of the seabirds as they wheeled and circled in the wide, cloudless sky.
Alethea was talking about something which Caitríona could not make out; she listened in a halfhearted way as Thea droned on and on, her voice growing slowly fainter—until Cait could no longer hear her any more. Cait stopped and looked around, but could not see her sister. She called out once and again, but there was no reply.
Fighting down the panic rising in her breast, Cait tried two more times, with no better result; on the third try, she heard Thea answer. The voice came from the direction of the sea, but sounded far away. Realizing what must have happened, Cait rushed to the edge of the promontory and, fearing the worst, looked over. Instead of seeing Thea’s mangled body lying on the rocks below, she saw instead a steep and narrow trail leading down to the shingle beach, and Thea herself halfway down along the precipitous track.
“Thea, wait!” she cried. “Go no further. Wait for me, I am coming to help you.”
At her cry, Alethea looked back over her shoulder to where Cait was starting down the treacherous path. “Cait, no!” she called. “Do not follow me. It is for me to go on alone.”
“You will be killed,” Cait shouted. “Come back.”
Thea shook her head gently. “No harm will come to me.” She put out her hand and pointed to the bay far below. “You see,” she said, “they have come for me. I must go with them.”
Cait looked and saw that a boat had entered the cove, and was making landfall. There were a number of women in the boat, and they were all dressed alike in long hooded robes of gray with a small, curiously short mantle of white covering their shoulders. Two of the women climbed out of the boat and waded to the shore; they came to stand at the water’s edge and, looking up, beckoned Thea to them.
“Farewell, darling sister. Do not feel sorry for me. I have never been happier.”
With that, she turned and proceeded down the steep and winding trail. Cait continued to call after her, but she neither looked back, nor gave any other sign that she heard—until, after joining the two figures on the shore, she turned and lifted a hand in farewell. Cait watched as her sister waded out to the waiting boat and climbed aboard; the boat turned and made its way from the cove and out into the empty sea.
Cait stood on the clifftop long after the boat was out of sight. When she at last turned from the wide expanse of water, she saw the sky was dark with angry clouds and rain was beginning to spatter the ground at her feet. She could hear the howl of the wind rising out of the east, and knew there was a storm coming. Still, she refused to leave the place she had last seen dear Alethea.
It was not until the lightning raked the clouds with jagged talons, and thunder trembled the ground beneath her feet, that she finally turned away—only to find that the sky had grown dark and she could no longer see the path. The wind whirled around her, dashing rain in her eyes and tearing at her clothes and hair. She threw a hand before her face and staggered forward, the force of the wind almost knocking her to the ground.
Struggling to her feet once more, she took a hesitant step and then halted, for she did not know which way to go. Frightened now, lest she be swept over the clifftop and hurled to her death on the rocks below, she stood shaking with indecision, and searching the howling blackness for some sign of the path ahead.
Lightning flashed and she saw, illumined by the naked glare, the figure of a man robed in white. The figure’s back was to her and he was striding purposefully away. This she glimpsed in the brief light before darkness reclaimed the hilltop.
“Wait!” she cried, lurching forward. The resounding clash of thunder drowned her words, but she made for the place where she had seen the white figure. “Wait! God help me,” she cried, “please wait for me!”
The next lightning flash revealed that the man had paused a few dozen paces further on. What was more, he bore a distinct likeness to her father. Could it be? she wondered.
She moved toward him in the darkness, her heart quickening in anticipation. As she drew close, however, the white-robed figure moved on. “Papa!” she cried, hurrying after.
Desperate now to catch him, she gathered her wet skirts and stumbled ahead. “Papa, it is Cait! Please, Papa, wait for me.”
Another jagged flash lit up the sky and she saw in the briefly shimmering light that the figure had stopped again. She ran to him. As he made to turn and move on, she lunged and, reaching out, caught hold of the trailing edge of his sleeve.
The man halted and as the sky was torn by another flash, she saw his face at last. He was a young man—much younger than her father, she could see that now—but his youthful aspect was belied somewhat by his old-fashioned dress and the way he carried himself: carefully, as if he did not fully trust his weight to the ground. Still, his dark eyes were keen, and his gaze almost distressingly direct; his hair was dark and thick, and trimmed in the tonsure of a monk.
“Oh,” she gasped, “it is you.”
“Greetings, Caitríona. Peace and grace be with you always,” the man said. At these words, the intensity of the storm seemed to lessen. The wind calmed and she could hear him plainly. “Come now, there is nothing to fear.”
“Brother Andrew—oh, please, hurry. It is Thea.” She pointed back toward the precipitous edge of the cliff. “She went down there and they took her away. We must find her.”
“Have no fear for Alethea,” the monk told her. “They could not take her anywhere she did not wish to go.�
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“But we must save her,” insisted Cait. “She needs me.”
“Where Alethea has gone you cannot follow,” he said gently. “She is at peace now.”
Cait stared at him, tears starting to her eyes. “But I do not understand.”
“Listen to me, Caitríona. You have departed from the True Path. Evil crouches at your heels and only awaits a chance to drag you down. Beware, dear sister.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but the White Priest raised his hand. “Time grows short. The end of the race is near; the prize awaits. Like your father and grandfather before you, my daughter, you must hold tight to the Holy Light. Cling to it, Caitríona. Put your faith and trust in it alone, and let it be your guide.”
At this, Brother Andrew made to step away. Cait reached out to take hold of him, but her hands closed on empty air and she was alone once more with rain and wind raging around her.
“Please,” she cried, “do not leave me. Brother Andrew, help me. Help me!”
There came no answer—only the voiceless shriek of the gale and the pelting sting of the rain…
This was how she awoke: with the wild wind screaming over the broken crags, pounding the thick stone walls with tremendous, fist-like blows that boomed with the sound of thunder, rattling the heavy iron-barred shutters, and driving the rain through tiny cracks around the windows.
She could not tell when the storm arose, but knew that she had been hearing it in her sleep for some time. The candles had blown out, leaving her room in darkness deep as the tomb. She heard a sound beside her, and her dream came back to her in a rush. “Brother Andrew,” she said aloud, reaching out, and praying the White Priest had not abandoned her.
Her fingers touched another outstretched hand; she gave a little cry and jerked her hand away. “Ketmia?” came the timorous, quivering voice.
The Mystic Rose Page 29
