“Your knights are resting comfortably, my lady,” said Halhuli, stepping forward. “They have been confined to the Ladies’ Tower. They have not been harmed.”
“You must release them at once,” Cait insisted.
Prince Hasan hesitated.
“My lord prince, you profess to feelings of affection for me. If that is true, you must release my knights. I will speak to them,” Cait said. “Lord Rognvald is an honorable man, and he will understand. There will be no blood shed over this—only you must set them free at once.”
The prince raised his unhappy gaze to Cait. “Very well.” To Halhuli he said, “See that it is done.”
More relieved than angry, Cait did not have it in her to sustain her fury any longer. “All will yet be well, my lord prince,” she told him. Taking Danji by the arm, she said, “Come, we will see to those bruises while we wait.”
Leaving Prince Hasan to stew in his misery, the two women proceeded to the reception hall to wait for the Norsemen’s release. While they waited, Danji’s maidservants applied a soothing balm to the red stripes on her shoulders and back.
“You have suffered this injury for my sake,” said Cait as the servants finished applying the unguent. “I am sorry, Danji. If we had left the palace when you warned me…”
“It is finished. We need not speak of it again.” She waved the servants away and arranged her clothing once more. “Please, I would not have you think ill of my husband.”
“I do think ill of him,” Cait replied. “A man is a brute who would do a thing like this to—”
Danji shook her head. “You do not understand.” She sighed and gazed at her hands which were clasped in her lap. “My husband is an honorable man. He is good and kind, but great as is the love within him, greater still is his grief.”
Cait regarded the dark-eyed woman before her. “Are you telling me sorrow has driven him to behave this way?”
Danji nodded. “Two years ago this palace was a very different place. We were happy then. The voices of children rang in the courtyards and corridors, and the women’s quarters were full of gossip and activity. Truly, Al-Jelál was a small portion of paradise on earth.” Her gaze fell to her hands once more. “Now it is a tomb.”
“What happened?”
“The fever.” Danji shook her head. “It was very bad. The children were taken first. I lost my baby, and Hasan’s sister lost two of hers—and then Hasmidi herself was taken, and Hasan’s mother also. Four of the serving maids died in one night. After that, the fever spread to the rest of the palace.”
Cait was beginning to understand the enormity of the tragedy. “What did you do?”
“There was nothing to be done, but wait, and watch our people die, and bury their bodies when the fever was finished with them. The plague passed to the servants’ quarters, and most of them were taken, and the stablehands and grooms—the fever even killed some of the horses. And still it had not reached its full height.
“Tughril, the old prince, Hasan’s father, was taken, and his last remaining wife. Then Hasan’s younger brother, Kalaat, and his wife—they had been married less than a year.”
“Oh, Danji, I am sorry. I had no idea.”
“In the end, Hasan lost all of his family, except me. He lost his sons and heirs.” Danji raised sad eyes to Cait. “Please, the prince is not a bad man. He is desperate to make this empty shell of a palace a home once more. He has been praying every day for a way to make this happen. And then he found you.”
Cait understood at last. “When he saw me in the wood, he must have thought…” She shook her head in wonder. “I had no idea.”
“Truly, I do not believe he meant to harm anyone.”
“I thank you for telling me. It is indeed a sorrowful tale, but I feel better for knowing. I will not judge your husband too harshly.”
They sat together in silence for a time and then, hearing footsteps in the anteroom, turned as Lord Rognvald and two of the knights came trooping into the hall. Lord Rognvald hurried to where Cait and Danji stood waiting. “Thank God you have not been harmed,” he said, taking her by the arms. “I was worried. I did not know what he might do.”
“Is there anything to eat?” wondered Svein, eyeing the empty tables.
“Or drink? It is thirsty work being a hostage,” said Yngvar.
“Be seated, all of you,” said Danji, rising. “I will order food and drink to be brought.”
“It would be a kindness,” Cait told her. “Perhaps I should go with you.”
“There is no need,” replied the young woman. “My husband’s shame is sufficient; he will not increase it with another attack.”
Danji walked with slightly pained dignity from the room, and the knights took places at the empty table to wait for the food to appear.
“I did not know she could speak Latin,” said Rognvald when she had gone.
“Nothing here is quite as it seems,” Cait replied. “Lady Danji is not Hasan’s sister; she is his wife. And, if he had won his way, I would have been his wife as well.”
This brought a smile from Rognvald.
“What?” demanded Cait accusingly. “And is that so unlikely that you should mock?”
“It is not mockery you see, but pleasure. I confess, I much prefer the Lady Caitríona before me to the swooning, cow-eyed maid we have been seeing of late.”
“Cow-eyed indeed,” replied Cait with an indignant huff. “Perhaps I should have left you locked in the tower.”
“That would have been a shame,” replied Rognvald lightly, “for then we would never learn where Alethea has been taken.”
“Hasan? You mean he knows where she is?”
“That I do believe.” The tall knight nodded firmly. “In any event, I sent Dag, Rodrigo, and Paulo to fetch the prince, so we will soon discover the truth of this treacherous affair.”
PART III
September 7, 1916: Edinburgh, Scotland
I read through most of the night, and all the next day. My reckoning may be faulty, for it is difficult to gauge the passage of time below ground. Without the sun to aid orientation, one loses all sense of regularity and proportion; the body quickly succumbs to its own peculiar rhythm. Hence, I ate and slept as it seemed right to me, performing any small tasks as need or whim dictated—washing, grooming, tending the fire—and the rest of the time, I read from William St. Clair’s old book.
When I grew tired of sitting in bed, I sat on the stool; when the stool grew uncomfortable, I took a fleece from the bed and laid it before the hearth and read by the flickering light of the fire. Eager to finish Caitríona’s tale before Evans returned for me, I read the hours away—discovering in the process that without the ordinary distractions of daily life with all its clamor and clutter, without the tyranny of petty demands and humdrum obligations, the mind soon ceases its continual fretting and gnawing over the events of the day. The spirit calms and peace descends like a balm over the soul.
Feeling very much like a monk who has devoted his life to prayer and study in quiet solitude, I read the book and the bare confines of my cell ceased to exist. I was transported across the centuries to that far-off time at the embryonic beginning of our long-lived order. In short, as my understanding grew toward completion, I envisioned the form my final initiation would take and began to prepare myself accordingly.
My time of contemplation passed so peacefully that I was actually startled when I heard the door open at the end of the passage and footsteps descend the stone steps. I was ready when Evans reappeared at the entrance to my cell. And again I started a little, for he was not wearing the scarlet of the Inner Circle, nor the ordinary gray of brotherhood; he was wearing a long white robe without emblem or insignia, but belted with a wide woven band of cloth of gold.
He carried another white robe which he held up for me, saying, “Peace and grace to you, brother.” By this I knew the formal ceremony had already begun. I returned his greeting, and he said, “The Council of Brothers has gathered, and
we await your presence.” He glanced at the book on the table. “I trust your time here has been of profit to you.”
“It has been inspirational,” I replied, slipping into the offered robe, “and I am grateful for it.”
“Good.” He held out to me a woven belt like his own. I passed it around my waist, and he tied it for me, arranging the knot at the side. He stepped back, regarding me with a critical eye, then nodded his approval. “If you are ready, we will proceed.”
I replied that I was, and taking up the candle, he led me from the cell. We did not return to the Star Chamber, as I might have expected, but continued down the passage leading deeper into the underground interior. I followed and we walked without speaking until reaching a low door at the end. Evans knocked on the door. There came the long metallic scrape of a bolt being drawn, and the door was opened from inside. Evans held the candle above the lintel and indicated that I should enter. I stooped, bent my head low, and stepped inside to see Genotti standing beside the doorway, candle in hand.
My first impression—that the room appeared to have been carved out of the living stone which formed the church’s foundation—turned out to be correct. This was swiftly followed by the recognition that I had been in this room before: years ago, when I was elevated to the Seventh Degree. Then, I had been blindfolded; but there could be no mistake: this was the cavernous chamber into which I was lowered on that night, when, a blind man searching in the darkness, I had found the beginning of the path which had led me to this final revelation.
I saw, in the flickering glow of candles in tall sconces around the room, the other members of the Inner Circle—De Cardou, Zaccaria, and Kutch—waiting before a stone altar; they were, like Evans and Genotti, robed in white. Behind them, to one side, was the vestibule wherein I had found the Iron Lance. The sacred relic was there; I could see its slightly bowed and crooked length resting in the shelved niche carved for it in the solid rock wall, and the sight produced a feeling of intense elation which flooded through me like a warm wave of triumph.
Opposite this vestibule, there was another. Evans, who had joined Genotti, saw my glance and knew I was curious to explore and so gave his assent with a silent nod. The others stood by and watched as I moved to the semi-chamber, ascended the single step and went in to find another carved niche. My heart quickened as I saw the dark scarred length of ancient timber and knew that I beheld the Black Rood.
The heavy-grained wood was grooved and sinuous with age, its deeply patined surface smoothed by saintly veneration to a satiny luster that shimmered dully in the gently flickering light. The truncated and much abused relic had been ornamented with simple gold bands which covered the rough-sawn ends. Humbled by its presence, I held my breath and ran my fingertips along the length of ancient wood in a caress of profound gratitude, reverence, and, yes, love.
My thoughts returned to the sunny island of Cyprus where I had encountered the tale of the relic in a copy of Duncan’s handwritten manuscript in the monastery of Ayios Moni amid the pine-forested peaks of the Troodos mountains. Had it really been fifteen years since Caitlin and I had passed the winter on that sleepy island in the midst of the sun-bright sea? We had always meant to return and relive that happy time…now we never would.
I left the vestibule and returned to where the others were waiting for me. “There is but one more secret to be revealed,” Genotti said. “Tonight there are no blindfolds; there will be no stumbling and fumbling in the darkness. Tonight we stand and move in the glory and radiance of the Sanctus Clarus.”
“Are you ready, brother?” asked Evans.
“I am,” I replied, little knowing how unprepared I truly was for what was about to happen.
THIRTY-FIVE
BY THE TIME they came in sight of the ridge the wind had turned raw, whipping at the horses’ tails and manes, and stinging the faces of the riders. What had begun as a crisp, sun-bright day slowly sank into a dull, freezing mist, and Cait was glad of the handsome wool cloak Hasan had given her. She had offered to return it, along with the other gifts, but he would not hear of it.
“I would brave the everlasting fires of Jahennem itself,” Hasan had declared boldly, “for the merest hope of your forgiveness, Ketmia. Leading your beloved sister to freedom will be but a token of my sincerity and contrition.”
Cait readily accepted his pledge, but Lord Rognvald was of a less forgiving mind. Despite the apparent change in Hasan, and the prince’s oft-repeated pledges of fidelity, benevolence, and selfless resolve, the wary Norwegian maintained a sceptical attitude; having been burned once, he was not inclined to wholly trust the fire again. Even so, inasmuch as Prince Hasan professed to know where the outlaw Ali Waqqar could be found, he had no choice but to swallow his misgivings and allow the contrite Moor to lead them to the bandit’s refuge.
During the night the horses, supplies, and weapons had been made ready, and the company departed at dawn—led by Hasan; Rognvald, Cait, and the knights came next, followed by Halhuli and three more servants leading a train of seven pack horses. They reached the first valley, crossed it, and continued on into the ragged northern hills beyond—a rough, desolate land of tumbled rock and deeply eroded ravines inhabited only by herds of tough little mountain goats and flocks of wild sheep.
Shortly after midday the prince halted the party; while Halhuli and his men set about preparing a meal, he led Cait, Rognvald, and the knights a little further along the trail. “Observe that ridge which rises before you like a wall,” he said, lifting his hand to a massive bulwark of mottled brown rock in the distance. “That is Arsh Iblees—or, as you would say, the Devil’s Throne. Beyond it is a narrow valley, and that is where we will find Ali Waqqar.”
“It will be dark before we reach the ridge,” observed Rognvald.
“I think so,” agreed Hasan. “I suggest making camp here and beginning again at first light.”
“But the day is not so far gone,” Cait pointed out a little anxiously. “We could ride a fair way yet.”
“We might, it is true,” allowed the prince. “We will be more comfortable here, however, and there is less chance of alerting the bandits to our presence. I would prefer to arrive unannounced.”
Thus Cait was forced to endure yet another restless night on the trail. She lay sleepless in a little round tent, the front of which was open to a campfire that blazed throughout the night, and rose early and set about saddling her horse once more.
Waiting had made her sullen and surly. She begrudged the slowness of the others, and wished to high Heaven she had never embarked upon this disastrous course. She was cold and tired and aching with the knowledge of her own failure, folly, and conceit. With what arrogance had she conceived this reckless enterprise, with what sublime ignorance, what consummate vanity.
When at last they set off again, she turned tired eyes to the featureless sky above, and the bleak beginning of another dismal day in the saddle. So empty. So hopeless. And, like the revenge she sought, so endlessly, abysmally pointless.
Out on the winter trail with a fretful wind swirling about her shivering shoulders, grief enwrapped her in its cold clutch and squeezed her hard. Where before she had been able to ease her sorrow and remorse with the assurance that the reward was worth the cost, in the pale light of yet another dreary dawn that assurance foundered. Like a pack horse forced to carry a crushing burden far too long, her confidence collapsed, never to rise again.
It was all she could do to stifle the scream of desperation she felt rising up in her throat. She lashed her horse to a plodding trot and rode out ahead of the others so that they could not see the tears of frustration sliding down her frozen cheeks.
They spent the morning fighting a wet and gusty wind which threatened to sweep them off the trail. By the time they gained the top of the ridge and began their descent, Cait had determined to abandon the search for the Holy Cup. Her ill-advised pursuit of the relic had so far brought nothing but death and misery. It was time—and long past time—to renoun
ce her ambition.
While sojourning in Hasan’s palace, she had been able to hold off the decision she had known all along was coming. Now, as she sat freezing in the saddle, all she wanted was to win her sister’s freedom, and return to Bilbao and her waiting ship while she, and those with her, still had life and breath to do so.
De Bracineaux would win; he had killed her father, and he would gain the Mystic Rose, too. There was nothing she could do about that. She would walk away empty-handed, but at least, she told herself, she would still be alive. That would have to be enough.
In a little while, they came to a wide place halfway along the downward trail. Here, sheltered by the ridge wall behind them, they stopped to rest and warm themselves. The riders dismounted and the prince summoned Cait and Rognvald to join him.
“I do not see any settlements,” Cait informed him glumly, gazing down into the pinched ravine of a valley—little more than a deep, crinkled gash with a rock-filled stream at the bottom.
“No,” Hasan said, “there are neither settlements nor holdings in this wilderness. The land is not good for farming.”
“Then where will we find the bandits?”
“The hillsides below are seamed with a great many caves,” Prince Hasan told them. “This is where Ali Waqqar hides. As to that, I think it would be best if you and your men were to wait here and allow me to go on ahead alone.”
Rognvald frowned, and Cait shook her head.
“Please, Ketmia, what I propose is wisdom itself. Ali and I have had dealings in the past, you see. If I go to him alone, he will allow me to come near and speak to him. Surprise him with an army, however, and he could easily disappear into his labyrinth of caves where we could never find him.”
Cait resisted the idea. Alethea and Abu were somewhere down there and she meant to get them out.
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