The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Rising, he turned and looked across the clearing toward the trees. A large branch lay on the ground before a rock outcropping between two trees. He went to it, lifted it, and examined the end. The cut was ragged; it looked as though the branch had been half-chopped, half-yanked from the tree. He stood fingering the cut and looking around.

  “Lord commander, have you found something?” asked one of the Templar scouts.

  “I cannot say,” he replied. “I think there was some trouble here. You there,” de Bracineaux called to the other scout, “search in those trees. And you—” he said to the other, “we know they had a wagon; see if you can find any tracks.”

  While the scouts carried out their orders, the commander walked back and forth slowly over the clearing. Although it was difficult to tell for certain, it did appear as if the turf was broken and churned up in several places—more than it would be by a company of travelers stopping for a night or two.

  “Here, d’Anjou,” called de Bracineaux, “look at this and tell me what you think.”

  The baron leaned low in the saddle, holding his head to one side then the other. “I think it is too wet and too damnably cold to be searching for weevils in the porridge.”

  “The ground, damn you,” barked de Bracineaux. “Look at the ground.” He paused for a moment, then demanded, “Well?”

  “It looks as though they have had a falling out. A fight among thieves perhaps?”

  “Not among thieves,” the commander corrected. “Between thieves.”

  “There is a difference?”

  “There is every difference, d’Anjou,” replied de Bracineaux. He then declared: “They were attacked.”

  The baron regarded the muddy patch doubtfully. “A bit of scuffed-up turf is hardly indication of a pitched battle.”

  “Scout!” shouted the commander. The nearest Templar came running. “Fetch the sergeant and four more men. I want a search made of the perimeter.”

  The man disappeared on the run and de Bracineaux, fists on hips, head bent down, continued his close scrutiny of the soggy ground. Every now and then, he stopped to examine something that caught his eye, before moving on again.

  “Lord commander! Here!” called the remaining scout.

  De Bracineaux joined the man at the edge of the clearing. “What have you found?”

  “It appears to be barley meal,” replied the knight, stooping low over a pale heap of sodden matter.

  The commander knelt, and removing a glove, picked up some of the soggy stuff. He rubbed it between his fingers, held it under his nose and sniffed. “I think you are right.”

  “There must be a quarter of a barrel spilled there,” the knight pointed out. “Either someone was very careless—”

  “Or in a very great hurry,” concluded the Templar commander. “Too great a hurry to salvage what he had spilled.”

  “And there,” said the scout, pointing to four shallow, evenly spaced indentations. “Those could be from the wagon wheels.”

  D’Anjou approached and sat on his horse a little distance away. “Does anyone smell what I am smelling?” he asked, lifting his beak-like nose into the air. “Something has given up the ghost.”

  De Bracineaux walked to where d’Anjou, head tilted back, was sifting the air for the scent. “It is somewhere off through there,” he said, pointing across the clearing toward a stand of taller trees.

  Sergeant Gislebert and the additional men arrived just then. De Bracineaux met them in the center of the clearing. “There is something dead in those trees just there,” he said, pointing to the place d’Anjou indicated. “Start your search there. Call out if you find anything.”

  The Templars hastened off into the wood, and almost immediately the cry came back. “Commander! There is a grave!”

  Baron D’Anjou smiled as he dismounted. “I may never be right, but this nose of mine is rarely wrong.” He followed the commander into the wood and they quickly arrived in another small clearing to find the Templars standing beside a wide rectangle of mounded earth. A crude cross was pressed into the soft dirt, and around it were the spent stubs of burnt branches.

  De Bracineaux took one look at the mound and said, “Dig it up.”

  The knights hesitated. One of their number made bold to reply. “My lord commander,” he said, pointing to the cross, “Christians are buried here.”

  “Unless you wish to join them,” growled the commander, “do as I say. Dig it up!”

  Still the knights hesitated. “My lord,” said Gislebert, speaking up, “the shovel is in the wagon back there.”

  “Damn the shovel, Gislebert! You have swords, do you not? Hands? Dig!”

  Slowly, and with great reluctance, the Templars began to burrow into the soft wet earth with their bare hands. With every handful of dirt they removed, the stink d’Anjou had noticed grew stronger. Soon the men were holding their noses with one hand and digging half-heartedly with the other as, slowly, five human forms began to emerge.

  “Dig, damn you!” cried de Bracineaux, growing impatient. The soil was less damp nearer the bodies, and the stench all the stronger. The Templars continued to scoop away the dirt, one or two with tears streaming down their beards, the rest clutching the edge of their cloaks to their faces. Slowly, individual bodies were revealed. There were five of them; two big men in dark brown cloaks laid out on either side of a slender man in black.

  “Hold!” called the commander, bending near. “What have we here?” He pointed to the one in the center. “Pull the hood away from his face.”

  The nearest knight did as he was told, and pulled the hood of the corpse’s dark robe from his face. The flesh was wan and waxy, but the cold ground had prevented the body from bloating so it still resembled the man that had been. The beard was black against the bloodless pallor of his skin, and the lips held the hint of a smile.

  “It looks like a priest,” said the Templar, pulling a small wooden cross from beneath a fold in the robe.

  De Bracineaux nodded. “What about these others?” he said, indicating the corpses either side of the priest. Another knight pulled back a hood covering one of the faces. Here the worms were at work on the eyes; the sudden sight of squirming, half-empty sockets proved too much for the knight, who jerked back his hand as if he had been burned.

  “A Spaniard,” observed d’Anjou. “Judging from their clothing, so are the others.” Indicating the priest, he said, “Do you think that could be Matthias?”

  De Bracineaux nodded. “Five dead,” he mused. “If the villagers at the last place were telling the truth, she has only six left.”

  “Do you want me to bring the archbishop to see the priest?” asked Gislebert.

  “He insists they never laid eyes on one another,” replied d’Anjou.

  “Bring him anyway,” the commander ordered, “for all the good it will do. By the Rood, I wish I had sent him back; the man is a very millstone.” Turning to the knights standing nearby, he said, “Well? Search the rest of the area, and be quick about it.”

  In the end, they found nothing else—save the ragged remains of three human carcasses which had been gnawed by animals. The dead were Moorish, from what they could gather from the remains and scraps of clothing. Of the company that had been attacked, no further signs were found, so Commander de Bracineaux ordered his scouts to begin scouring the area, working out in ever-widening circles from the camp, in the hope of raising the trail again.

  The day ended without success, but the next morning one of the scouts found a small heap of rocks beside a nearby stream—and another on the opposite side, pointing the way. “They passed this way, and marked the place,” the scout told them. “They seem to be heading into the mountains.”

  “Hear that, d’Anjou?” said the commander. “We have found the trail.” Lifting his eyes to the mountains in the distance showing above the trees, he continued, “The hind is swift, but the hound is persistent. We will yet run her to the ground. And when we do, I will tear her apart.”
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  THIRTY-THREE

  DESPITE DANJI’S REVELATION and the urgency of her warning, Cait dined with Hasan again that night, and also the next. In any event, she had little choice. Rognvald and the knights were still away, and she could think of no reasonable apology she might offer to excuse herself without rousing unnecessary suspicion—all the more since she ardently professed to enjoy their evenings together. And she did enjoy them, albeit somewhat warily now as she tried to determine the nature of the danger Danji had intimated.

  She perceived no change in Prince Hasan; he remained as charming and engaging as ever, and each evening’s meal was pure enchantment from beginning to end. Still, the worm of doubt had begun to gnaw its way into her heart. Was he, or was he not, the man she thought him to be?

  During the day, she pondered this question, turning it over and over in her mind. On the one hand, she could not discern anything amiss in either mood or manner: he was solicitous, thoughtful, respectful, and polite in every way. On the other hand, there was Danji. If she was telling the truth—and Cait had no reason to doubt her—Hasan was not at all as he appeared.

  Although she looked for any opportunity to speak to Danji alone, she did not see the slender young woman again—but she did notice that Jubayar was much more attentive and present than previously.

  On the second day, the storm subsided and by dusk the sky had cleared. Cait decided to try the prince’s integrity for herself. When they met for dinner that evening, she said, “The storm has abated, and that is a blessing. Therefore, I was hoping we might ride to one of the valley settlements and inquire whether anyone has word of Ali Waqqar.”

  “Of course, my lovely Ketmia; if that is what you wish,” replied the prince smoothly. “After so many days shut inside, even the most splendid palace becomes dreary as a prison. We will ride down to the valley and see if the seeds I planted have borne fruit.” He paused, as if considering the matter more thoroughly. “Although—” he began, then hesitated. “No, it is not important.”

  “What is it?” asked Cait, alert to even the slightest nuance of deception. “Tell me.”

  “Well,” he said, “I do not expect we shall learn anything, for if Ali Waqqar had heard the terms of my offer, the rogue would have been here already.” He smiled suddenly. “But you must not worry. No doubt the storm has prevented word from reaching him.”

  “Yes,” Cait agreed absently, “I suppose it would be wrong to expect too much just yet.”

  Hasan’s smile broadened; he held out his hand for hers. “Precisely, my love. Give it another day or so, and no doubt the brigand will be beating on these very doors, demanding payment.”

  “And then what will you do?” asked Cait sweetly.

  Hasan appeared distracted by the question. “Please?”

  “What will you do with Ali when you catch him?”

  “Why, I shall throw him in chains and, before the sun has set, his ugly head shall adorn a pike above the gate.” He pulled her to him. “But come, Ketmia, it is not seemly for a woman to discuss such unpleasant subjects. Let us talk of finer things. I have written a poem for you. Sit here, my lovely, and I shall read it out.”

  Nothing more was said that night, and the next morning, true to his word, the prince had horses saddled and ready for their ride. They left before the sun quartered the sky, and rode out into a bright, crisp winter day. The storm had scoured every cloud, leaving the vault of Heaven clean and polished to a brilliant crystalline clarity.

  Wrapped in her fine new cloak, Cait enjoyed the stinging fresh air and the stunning views from the ridgeway high above the valley floor. The trail was steep and winding, and so they rode in single file to the valley. The prince led, followed by Halhuli; Cait came next, and then four mounted guards with banners attached to their spears.

  As they neared the lower slopes, they passed through a snow-dusted forest where Hasan pointed out the delicate hoofprints of red deer, and the less dainty tracks of wild pigs in the unbroken snow. Upon reaching the valley floor, the snow vanished entirely, and the track became a road. The nearest settlement was some distance away and it was after midday by the time they reached the place: a small upland village of squat white-washed houses, forlorn amidst bare muddy fields.

  At their approach, the villagers came out to watch and greet them. A gaggle of ragged children, wide-eyed and stiff-legged, pointed at the brightly colored banners and exchanged whispered observations behind their hands. While Halhuli and his men looked on, the prince dismounted and spoke to the villagers in Arabic; he passed along the line, handing out silver coins to one and all. The children danced with excitement.

  Presently, a stout man with a rough beard and dirty yellow turban appeared and, with a gesture of welcome, loudly hailed the prince. Hasan turned to Cait and called, “Here is Abdullah, the head man. We will learn something now.”

  The two walked a little apart from the clutch of villagers. Cait watched them closely, but saw nothing to arouse her suspicion one way or another. After their conversation, the prince placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, and then embraced him. They parted then, and the prince returned to his horse and climbed into the saddle.

  “Abdullah says that the bandits were seen skirting the village four nights ago—before the storm.”

  Cait’s heart leaped at this sudden revelation. “And Alethea, was she with them? Did they see her?” She looked at the man, who was now standing beside the prince’s horse. “Oh, please, ask him. I must know.”

  “I am sorry, Ketmia. It was growing dark and they were far away.” The prince spoke to the head man, who pointed across the fields to a line of trees in the distance. “He says they were riding east toward the hills. One of the boys saw them, and Abdullah went to look but could not tell how many there were—eight, ten, maybe more.”

  The prince thanked the villagers and moved his party on, escorted from the village by the children who ran along behind, ululating in a weird chorus of acclaim. They proceeded to the next settlement—a short ride away on the other side of the river which divided the valley in half. Here, as before, the same custom of greeting was observed, and the same discussion alone with the head man of the village—a toothless, hump-backed old man this time—who told them that two of the bandits had come to the village to buy ground meal and cured bacon.

  It was almost dark when the men appeared, the chieftain reported, and the villagers were afraid of what the brigands would do if they were turned away empty-handed. So they sold the bandits meal and bacon, and some wine—and the men rode away.

  On further questioning, the old chief said that although he did not see any more riders, he knew there were more waiting nearby. Was it Ali Waqqar? asked the prince. Who else? replied the toothless chieftain. It is always Ali Waqqar.

  “Then you were right,” said Cait, much relieved by what they had learned. “It is Ali Waqqar.” Her relief was short-lived however, for in the very next breath she asked, “But now that he has provisions, what if he has moved on? What if he is riding south even now?”

  “Peace, dearest Ketmia. A little faith can move great mountains—so it is written, is it not? You must trust me.” He remounted his horse, cast a quick look at the sky, and said, “I think we should begin the journey home.”

  “So soon?” asked Cait.

  “Alas, my love, even a prince cannot prevent the sun from setting.” He smiled sympathetically. “Still, it has been a good day. We have learned much, and I have repeated my offer of ransom. It will not be long now, I think, before we obtain your sister’s release.”

  Thus, they started back, reaching the steep trail to the high al-qazr as the sun dropped below the ridge to the west casting the valley in shadow. They were just beginning the long climb up the winding mountain track when they were hailed by riders from the south. Halhuli spoke a word of command and the prince’s guards lowered their spears and took up a protective position between the oncoming riders and the prince.

  “It is Lord Rognvald!” shouted Ca
it when the newcomers were near enough to recognize.

  Hasan shouted a command to his guards, who raised their weapons and rode out to meet the knights. “Greetings, my lord knight,” called the prince as the Norsemen, escorted by his guards, reined up. “Good hunting?”

  “No,” said Rognvald, his voice cracking with fatigue, “not as good as we had hoped.”

  “We saw smoke from a campfire once,” offered Svein.

  “But we lost it before we could find the place,” concluded Dag.

  “We never saw it again,” added Yngvar. Too tired to speak, the two Spanish knights shook their heads in agreement.

  “Most unfortunate,” answered the prince. “Still, there is cause for joy. We have learned that Ali Waqqar is nearby.”

  “Indeed?” Rognvald looked from the prince to Cait, who confirmed Hasan’s assertion with a nod.

  “The bandits have been seen,” she told him. “They came into the valley for provisions three or four nights ago.”

  “That is good news,” agreed Rognvald. He rubbed his face wearily. “They are still in the region at least.”

  “Yes,” said Hasan. “I think it will not be long now before our efforts are rewarded. As the poet says: ‘A silken net to catch a bird; a silver net to catch a thief.’ Ali Waqqar will come to us very soon.”

  “I pray that it is so, lord prince,” replied Rognvald.

  Hasan signalled to Halhuli, who began leading the way back to the palace. The prince took his place beside Caitríona and rode with her for the rest of the journey. Twilight was full about them by the time they entered the outer courtyard, the stars shone as bright needles of light in the thin cold mountain air.