The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  They dismounted, and as the grooms came running from the stables, the knights began moving slowly and stiffly toward the palace entrance. The doors were open, and rosy light from the braziers burning in the anteroom spilled out onto the steps and into the courtyard.

  “You and your men are exhausted,” said the prince, falling into step beside Rognvald. “Allow me to send a hot supper to you in your quarters. That way you can use the baths and eat at your leisure.”

  “Well,” said Rognvald, glancing back at Cait, who appeared not to have heard, “if it is no trouble.”

  “Not in the least,” Hasan assured him. “I myself often do this when I return from a day of hunting. Otherwise, I would fall asleep at the table, and that would never do. We will talk tomorrow.”

  He sent them off with words of encouragement and, turning to Cait, said, “I am afraid you must endure my company once again. Your knights have chosen to take their meal in their quarters tonight. To be sure, it is for the best—they have been riding three days and are very tired.”

  “Oh,” replied Cait, disappointment flitting across her features. “I had hoped to hear more from Rognvald about their searches.”

  “Tomorrow, my love,” promised the prince. “We will all sit down together and tell what we have learned. And, who knows? Maybe tomorrow Ali Waqqar will join us and we can put an end to this trouble at last.”

  Dinner that night was as sumptuous and enjoyable as any that had gone before. Prince Hasan was charming and attentive, winsome in his manner, and subtly insinuating in his flattery. This time, however, she was able to plead weariness and leave the table with most of the night still before her. Under Jubayar’s stern and silent eye, she returned to her chamber feeling more than ever as if she were playing the hapless hare to the prince’s falcon.

  Mahdi and Pila’i were surprised to see her so early, and took the opportunity to brush her hair and braid it in preparation for bed, chattering away to her, blithely indifferent to the fact that Cait could not understand a word they said. So absorbed were they in their talk that neither one of them heard the gong ringing at the entrance to the Ladies’ Court.

  “Shh!” said Cait, putting her finger to her lips. “Listen.”

  The gong sounded again—a low ringing tone, not loud.

  Cait stood and was moving toward the door, when it burst open and Lord Rognvald entered. The two serving maids began to cry out, but Cait silenced them with a sharp slap on the arm apiece. “Hush,” she said. “I will speak to my friend.”

  She crossed to where Rognvald was waiting by the door. “Rognvald, I was hoping to speak to you. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Please, I have little time,” he said. “Svein and Rodrigo will keep the guard Jubayar busy as long as they can, but he could return at any moment and I dare not let him find me here.”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “God knows it gives me no pleasure to say it.”

  “Pray, speak. What is it?”

  “The prince is lying about the offer of ransom. He never sent his men to the settlements.”

  “But, just today I saw—”

  “No.” Rognvald shook his head firmly. “The offer was never made.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “I know enough Arabic to discuss ransom,” the knight replied. “And no one in any of the villages knew anything about Hasan’s offer.”

  “And Ali Waqqar?”

  “Him they knew about—that much was clear. But no one would talk to us. I think they are afraid.”

  “What should we do?”

  Rognvald regarded her intently, his eyes searching, probing. “If you are with me in this—”

  “I am.”

  “Then we must confront Hasan and make him tell us the truth.”

  “I agree,” Cait replied. “And it must be soon.”

  “Tomorrow morning—when we meet to breakfast. We will take him by surprise.”

  Cait nodded and, suddenly very grateful for the tall knight’s stalwart devotion, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Rognvald smiled suddenly. “Your change of heart is wondrous to behold. Truly, I did not think you would hear any word against the prince.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Have I been so prickly of late?”

  “Lady, a bramble thicket is more welcoming.”

  Putting her hands on his chest, she pushed him toward the door. “Go now, my lord. I fear you have outstayed your welcome.”

  He opened the door a crack and looked both ways along the gallery before stepping out. The door closed silently, and he was gone.

  Cait turned to her two gawking handmaidens and, through a series of what she hoped were sternly pointed gestures, warned them to secrecy. In an effort to maintain the pretense that nothing unusual had taken place, she commanded them to continue brushing her hair and making ready her bed. They fell to readily enough, and were soon whittering away again like birds.

  When they finally blew out the candles and settled down for the night, Cait could not rest. Sleep eluded her; she kept thinking about the lies she had been told, and tried to discern what might be behind them. Daylight found her ill-rested and in a foul humor, but all the more eager to face Prince Hasan and demand an explanation of him.

  She woke her sleepy servants and dressed hurriedly, leaving the women’s quarters in the company of a grimly disapproving Jubayar. She was first to arrive at the room where they most often broke fast—a small, bright room with colored tiles of blue, green, and yellow, and a large window overlooking a garden court below. There was no one about, so she settled down to wait, and presently an old servant appeared, bowed in greeting, and began making up the fire in the hearth.

  After a time, more servants came to prepare the table, spreading bright cloths on which they placed baskets of bread and cold sliced meat. One servant began cooking oat porridge in a pot on the hearth, and others brought a large bowl of hot almond milk spiced with cinnamon. Cait accepted a cup of the warming drink, and waited while more servants came and went.

  Where was Rognvald, she wondered? What could be keeping him?

  She went to the door and looked out into the antechamber and the corridors beyond, but aside from Jubayar, slumped asleep in a corner, there was no sign of anyone about. She waited some more, and had just decided to go in search of the knights when she heard footsteps and voices in the anteroom. She jumped up from her place at the table and ran to the door to meet Prince Hasan and his advisor, Halhuli.

  “Allah, the Ever Gracious, be good to you,” exclaimed Hasan. “Darling Ketmia, how lovely you look this morning. I did not know you would be waiting or I should have come sooner.”

  Cait greeted him pleasantly, and said, truthfully, “I did not sleep well last night, so I rose early.” She looked beyond the two men. “I was hoping to speak to Rognvald, too. I wanted to hear how he fared in his search.”

  “But Ketmia, he is gone.”

  A sudden anxiety overcame her. “What do you mean? Where would he go?”

  Raising a calming hand, the prince said, “Peace, my darling. I am sorry. Had I known you wished so ardently to see him, I might have prevented him from leaving.”

  She looked to Halhuli for confirmation; he merely shrugged, as if to say there was nothing to be done.

  “But why would he go off without telling me?”

  “Allah alone knows, my love. We will ask him when he returns. But, if I may speculate?”

  “Please do,” said Cait, her tone growing brusque.

  “It seemed to me that he was disheartened by his lack of success in finding Alethea. The man is very stubborn, as you know.” Hasan offered a sadly sympathetic smile and spread his hands. “I believe he could not accept his failure. He and his knights roused the stablemen and ordered fresh horses to be saddled. They compelled the porters to open the gate, and rode out just before dawn.”

  Cait looked at him blankly, a feeling of desperation rising up from the soles of her feet and into h
er belly. She knew the prince was lying, but she could not understand why, or know how to force him into an admission. “He might have left some word for me,” she said darkly, as if her anger were directed at the thoughtless knight.

  Hasan turned to his silent advisor. “Did he leave any word?”

  Halhuli shook his head. “No, my lord.”

  “I am sorry, Ketmia. Now you are angry and unhappy. What shall I do to cheer you?” He tapped his chin with a finger as if in thought. “I know! The Winter Garden is ready now, and it is a rare delight. The day is fine; we will break our fast and then I shall take you for a walk in the garden.”

  “Later, perhaps,” said Cait. “I think I would like to go back to my room. Lord Rognvald’s thoughtlessness and negligence have spoiled my appetite. I pray you will excuse me.”

  She left then, lest the prince find some means of persuading her to stay. On the way to her quarters the realization struck her that her position had suddenly grown extremely precarious. She was all alone now, and there was no one she could trust, or turn to for help.

  By the time she reached the women’s quarters, however, the first fright at her predicament had passed; in its place had settled a cold determination not to allow the prince to work his devious will. The heat of righteous indignation fired her thoughts. And, by the time she reached the door to her room, she had remembered that there was someone she could trust to help her now: Danji.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  CAIT WAITED THROUGH the day for Danji to appear. By way of signs and gestures, and the repetition of Danji’s name, she had at last brought Mahdi to comprehend something of the urgency and apprehension she felt. The handmaid went off on her secret errand and Cait settled back to wait. Tired from her restless night, she soon closed her eyes and descended into a fitful sleep, full of fragments of images and half-remembered dreams.

  She stood again on the high cliffs above the little bay south of Banvar, alone, the sky filled with the cry of the gulls circling high overhead…dark stone buildings and green fields beyond, snug between heathered hills, a thin silvery thread of smoke rising to flatten on the wind from the sea…a tall figure dressed in black standing alone on the clifftop—Sydoni, gray hair combed by the wind, taking her by the hand and saying, “Caitríona, dear heart, it is good to see you. I was hoping you would come and bid me farewell.”

  Sydoni vanished, and Cait was outside the gate of the stronghold in the twilight. Abbot Emlyn was there, they were walking very quickly and he was talking to her, but she could not make out the words. And as they walked along she kept falling further and further behind. Desperate, she cried, “Wait! Abbot Emlyn, wait for me!”

  The kindly old abbot did not stop, but turned his head and called over his shoulder, “Sanctus Clarus, Cait, remember. Sanctus Clarus—it is your birthright. One day, it will be your name.” And then she was alone once more. The walled stronghold was gone and she was alone with the night and the stars…and Mahdi’s gentle touch.

  “Ketmia?” Mahdi said, touching her lightly on the arm.

  She came awake at once and looked around. The room was dark; the small round windows admitted no light. She had slept longer than she knew, and as she sat up she found her mouth was dry and her face was warm, her forehead slightly damp. “Danji,” she said. “Is Danji here?” She made motions with her hands to communicate her question.

  The handmaiden understood and shook her head. In an effort to fight down the desperation she felt coiling like a serpent around her heart, Cait threw back the silk covering and rose from her bed. She moved to the door, opened it, and then stopped, realizing she did not know where she was going.

  There was, she concluded, only one place to go.

  Having decided, she walked quickly through the covered courtyard and out into the anteroom. Jubayar was nowhere to be seen, so she moved swiftly on lest her nerve desert her, composing her thoughts as she went. She would find Prince Hasan and confront him, demand the truth from him, and hold him to account.

  By the time she reached the main corridor leading to the reception hall, she knew exactly what she wanted to say to the prince. It was Halhuli, the prince’s overseer, she encountered first, however. She greeted him and asked whether he knew where Hasan might be found.

  At the question, Cait saw a stiffness come into the servant’s face. His eyes shifted away from her. “I do not know, lady.”

  “I must speak to him, Halhuli. It is important and there is no one else I can ask.”

  “I must beg to be excused.” He turned to leave.

  “No!” said Cait. “Stop.” The force of her command caught and held him. “Hear me, Halhuli. There is something wrong here—something very wrong. I will do all I can to see that it is put right, but I need your help.” She moved beside him. “Please, Halhuli, help me.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about. I am sorry.”

  “I think you do, Halhuli. You know exactly what I am talking about.” He looked straight ahead, and said nothing. “I can see that I am right,” Cait continued, softening her tone. “I think you want to help me, but your loyalty to your master prevents you. I understand.”

  “I am katib to the prince,” Halhuli told her. “Like my father before me, and his father before him, we have served the House of Tashfin. I am my prince’s to command,” he paused, and added, “whether in honor, or dishonor.”

  Cait pounced on the morsel he had given her. “But if the prince is behaving dishonorably, then is it not the katib’s duty to save his prince from the infamy and disgrace of his actions?”

  Halhuli regarded her with deep, sad eyes, but remained silent.

  “I know that if I had lost my way, I would want you to lead me back to the path of virtue.” In her pleading, Cait put her hand on the katib’s arm. “I do not ask you to do this for my sake, but for Hasan’s. For, if the prince has strayed, who will rescue him if not his wise and loyal katib?”

  Halhuli raised his eyes and regarded Cait for a long time. She could almost see the battle taking place within him. At last, he straightened, having made up his mind. “Follow me. I will take you to him.”

  He led her to a part of the al-qazr she had never seen before. The rooms were smaller, the walls thicker and far less ornate. They climbed a flight of stone steps to an upper floor where Halhuli stopped before a low wooden door. Cait put her hand to the iron ring, pulled up the latch, and would have pushed open the door, but Halhuli prevented her. “May Allah forgive me,” he said, and pushed open the door himself.

  There, in the center of the room, lay Danji, shoulders bared and hands tied with cords of braided leather—prostrate before an enraged Prince Hasan who was using the other end of the braided cord as a lash to raise angry red welts on the delicate skin of her back.

  As the door swung open, the prince glanced around, saw Halhuli and Caitríona standing in the doorway, and halted the beating. Danji lifted her head as the prince moved quickly toward the door. “Ketmia,” he said, forcing a sickly smile, “what are you doing here?”

  He reached for Cait’s arm, but she deftly sidestepped him, moving quickly to the injured woman. Raising her up, she tugged on the braided cord. Hasan made to take hold of her shoulder. “Ketmia, you must not—”

  “Or what?” demanded Cait, whirling on him. “You will beat me, too?”

  Prince Hasan started, the color bleeding from his distraught features. “You do not understand.”

  “This is beneath you, my lord,” Cait told him, her voice shaking with fury. She bent once more to free Danji’s hands. “Perhaps Moors are permitted to whip their wives, but Christians detest the practice.”

  “She is not my—”

  “Save your lies,” Cait snapped. “I know she is your wife.”

  Prince Hasan swallowed hard; his hands fluttered toward the kneeling Danji as if he would appeal to her. She looked up at his face and said something in Arabic, which Cait took to be confirmation.

  Hasan stood caught between the two women, his
expression angry, bewildered, shamed, and mortified all at once. He looked from one to the other of them, and then at Halhuli who was standing just inside the door. “Why did you not prevent this?” he snarled, his fury finding outlet at last. “Is everyone against me now?”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” replied the advisor with quiet resolve. “Princess Danji is also my mistress, and I could not see her treated so.”

  “You speak above your place,” blurted the prince.

  “He speaks the simple truth,” Cait retorted sharply.

  “Believe me, Ketmia,” said Hasan, appealing to her, “it was never my intention to harm you in any way.” He took her hand in both of his. “Truly, your love has enslaved me.”

  Cait glared at him. “You lied to me,” she said. Jerking her hand from him, she moved to Danji and gently pulled her robes over her shoulders, then raised her to her feet and stood holding her.

  “Since the first moment I saw you, my heart was slain by your beauty,” the prince said. “I swear before the throne of Allah, I wanted only to keep you with me. I knew that once you tasted of life in the palace, you would be content to stay. I would have married you,” he raised his eyes hopefully, “I would marry you still—”

  “You are already married,” Cait pointed out tartly.

  “It is no impediment to a Moor of my rank and wealth,” replied the prince, recovering something of his former composure. “We are permitted more than one wife, and I would make you very happy.”

  Cait turned her face away.

  “I have disgraced myself in your eyes,” the prince said.

  “Yes,” agreed Cait sharply. “We agree on that at least.”

  “Tell me how I can redeem myself, and it shall be done.”

  “Then tell me what has become of my knights,” she demanded. “They did not ride out this morning. Where are they?”

  Hasan hesitated. The anguish on his face appeared genuine.

  “Tell her, my lord,” Danji said.

  The prince looked to Halhuli for help, his eyes pleading. “I will tell her, if you wish,” the advisor said. Hasan nodded, and lowered his head in shame.