At the first barn they stopped to put some fodder into the crib for the animals. The barn was warm, and heavy with the sharp smell of sheep and their oily wool. The abbess left the door open to allow the fresh air inside. Several of the ewes were already round-bellied with lambs, including one poor old ewe which appeared ready to burst. “We call that one Sara,” the abbess told her. “She was barren once, but no more. Every year she has triplets or twins.” She reached out and stroked the animal’s woolly head. “But this lambing will be her last. Sara is getting too old. Like me.” She looked at Cait. “It is time for someone younger to take my place.”
“Abbess Annora,” began Cait, “surely I cannot—”
“Hush, daughter, I did not mean you—at least not yet. As I said, the choice is yours. I merely meant that I have been feeling my age of late. I know the time is coming when I must lay my burden down and step aside.”
“I see.” Cait nodded, brow puckered in thought.
“All in God’s good time, child.” The abbess regarded Cait in the dim light of the barn’s open door. “But there is something else, I think.”
“I have a confession,” Cait said. “Once you have heard it, you may change your mind about me.”
Abbess Annora laughed. “Do you know how many confessions I have heard over the years?”
“I doubt you will have heard this,” Cait replied, frowning. There was nothing for it but to name the black deed and face her judgment. She drew a deep breath and blurted, “The cup—the Mystic Rose—I came here to steal it.”
An expression of wonder rearranged the elderly abbess’s features. “Well, you are right. In all my years I never have heard that. And now that I hear it, I am not at all certain that I believe it.”
“Oh, I assure you it is true. Sadly, I am no better than the worst thief who ever lived.”
“Neither do I believe that. Still, I suspect there is a tale here, and I would hear it. Come, you can tell me while we see to the pigs.”
They walked to the next barn to refresh the water in the pigs’ trough, and while they went about this homely duty, the abbess scratched the old boar behind his large ragged ears and listened to Cait’s long and rambling explanation of the events that had brought her to the abbey and to this decisive moment.
She told it all—about her father’s murder, how she had gone to confront the murderer, to hold him to justice, but had been thwarted by the appearance of the White Priest, and had stolen the precious letter instead. The letter, she explained, described a great treasure. She went on to tell how, upon discovering the prize to be won, she had raised a company of knights, and traveled to Aragon with the intent of claiming the Holy Cup of Christ for herself. She told about the attack on the trail, and how Thea had been abducted by bandits, how they had searched and searched for her, and how they had at last been found by Prince Hasan Al-Nizar and taken to his palace in the mountains, the resulting skirmish with Ali Waqqar, and how Abu’s dying words had led them to the village by the lake.
She finished, saying, “I prayed to be God’s instrument of justice. I thought to use the Mystic Rose to lure my father’s killer to his doom. For that, I needed the Holy Chalice, and I came here to take it.” Overwhelmed by the enormity of her crimes, Cait lowered her head, awaiting the abbess’s censure. “You must think me a most brazen and contemptible sinner. The audacity of my deeds amazes even me.”
“Aye,” agreed Annora, observing Cait with a shrewd appraising eye. “In truth, it does amaze me also. But I do not know what amazes the more—that you should hold yourself so low, or that you should fail to see the Swift Sure Hand at work in these dark deeds to bring about his glorious purpose.”
Cait made to object, but the abbess asked, “Did you know that the Sacred Chalice was here?”
“Why, no,” replied Cait after a moment. “When Brother Matthias was killed all knowledge of the cup was lost, and we gave up any hope of finding it. Also, Alethea and Abu were missing so we abandoned the search in order to rescue them.”
“You did not know the Holy Cup was here until you drank from it, and then its true nature was revealed to you.”
“Yes,” replied Cait. “That is the way of it.”
“Why did you do that, do you suppose?”
Cait recalled the ceremony in the cave. “I saw Alethea and the other nun drink from the cup, and it produced such rapture that it roused me to envy.”
“It is not envy to see the joy of the Lord manifest and want it for yourself. Rather, it is the voice of the Good Shepherd, calling you to himself.” She allowed Cait to think about that for a moment, and then said, “Let us walk some more.”
Cait followed the abbess out into the bright sunlight and crisp cold air once more. Across the field, some nuns were taking firewood from the pile and carrying it to the abbey yard. “We drink but twice from the Holy Cup,” Annora told her. “Once when we begin our life in the abbey, and once when death’s dark angel approaches to gather us to our rest. That is the same for all of us.
“But not everyone enjoys the same experience of the cup. Some see visions, it is true, but visions are very rare, and even more rarely the same. As each soul is different, each encounter with the Holy Cup is different, too. Neither Alethea nor Sister Lora saw what you and I have seen. And, of course, neither of them received the stigmata.”
Abbess Annora stopped walking, turned and took Cait by the shoulders. “Do you not see that you have been led here? All that has happened is according to His purpose.”
“Perhaps,” allowed Cait doubtfully.
“Not perhaps. Not maybe. It is as certain as sunrise.” Taking Cait’s hand in hers, she laid her fingertips lightly on Cait’s wrist and the livid marks now hidden beneath the cloth of her sleeve. “Tell me you cannot see that even now.”
Cait gazed at Annora, desperately wanting to believe what the abbess said might be true.
“Daughter, I said you were chosen.” She squeezed Cait for emphasis. “From the beginning your feet have been directed on the path which has led you here.”
“All is as it must be,” Cait murmured to herself. At the abbess’s questioning look, she said, “It is something Abbot Emlyn used to say.” Recalling that old scrap from her childhood comforted her a little; she clutched at it and held on tight.
The abbess released her and stepped away. “It is a beautiful day, but my old bones do not like the cold. I will leave you to think on this a while. We will talk again in the evening.”
The elderly woman walked back along the path, and Cait watched her until she disappeared behind one of the buildings. So wise, she thought, so patient and understanding. Could I be like that? she wondered. Perhaps, as an abbess, one might, given sufficient time, grow into such goodness.
She turned her face to the clear, bright, sun-washed sky. The blue was a pale and delicate bird-egg blue, and the snow-covered peaks of the mountains round about shone with an almost aching brilliance. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her neck and shoulders, she wrapped her arms around her chest and walked on. Lost in thought, she did not heed where she was going, but simply walked until the path ended and the trail leading down into the valley began. Although she could not see the village, she knew that the Yuletide festivities were continuing apace. And Rognvald was waiting for her.
The thought of him down there, waiting, knowing nothing of the extraordinary changes she was facing, produced a restlessness in her. Rognvald and the knights, her stalwart protectors and faithful companions—she had promised to lead them home…
Home—the thought of Caithness far away brought a confused welter of images before her eyes: the churchyard where her mother was buried, and where she had vowed to bury the heart of her father…the lands and fields and the wide, restless bay…the slate-colored sea beneath storm clouds…the copper-colored hills when the heather was red…Suddenly the idea of remaining forever within the close confines of the abbey seemed abhorrent to her. It was astonishing enough that Alethea should choose thi
s life; for herself it was inconceivable.
Raising her hand, she held her wrist before her face, and was again awed by the deep red mark emblazoned on her flesh. There, for all the world to see, was the indisputable sign of her calling.
The vision still burned in her mind with all the heat and force of a bonfire. There was no denying what she had seen—any more than she could deny the visible signs it had left in her flesh. But neither could she deny who she was—a proud, sometimes arrogant, often stubborn woman—yes, and vengeful—used to thinking her own thoughts, speaking her own mind, and having her own way. Her tolerance for fools, incompetents, and miscreants could be measured in the speed with which she dismembered them with a cutting remark or slashing reply. Anyone who knew her at all, knew the sharp edge of Cait’s tongue was a cruel and ready weapon.
How, then, in the name of God’s Sweet Son, could she endure the endless cycle of confession and forgiveness of weak-willed, selfish, and unthinking offenders? The notion of shepherding a flock of nattering women, and officiating over the mundane concerns and petty grievances of an all-female fellowship left her cold as the snow-topped mountain peaks towering aloof and frozen in the distance.
And yet, she reasoned, perhaps this was precisely what it meant to be chosen. Perhaps God was calling her to a life of sacrifice: never to know the love of a man, never to hold a child of her own in her arms, never to see her dear ones again, to surrender her considerable will and live in continual, everlasting submission to the One Great Will, and never allow herself to be herself ever again.
Thus, she had come to an impasse. She stood gazing at the trail as it passed between the towering shoulders of the mountains, and it was as if the steep and rocky descent signified her dilemma. To answer the call was to go down into the valley of despair, from which there was no return.
God in Heaven, she thought miserably, it is a fate worse than death. What should I do?
The soughing of the wind in the high rocks made a distant whispery sound, as if their ancient voices would speak to her.
And they did speak. For, as she listened, she heard the sound of storm-roused waves on the rough shingle of the bay below Banvar. She heard the rustle of bracken on the low sun-splashed hills; she heard the driven rain rippling through the dry stubble of the grain fields. As a child she had roamed the green wilderness of Caithness; in the long years of her father’s absence, she had come to love the land and the people who lived in it.
Caithness was the place that stirred her heart, even now, and nothing—not even the Stigmata of Christ—could ever change that. To live and die in a land not her own and never to see the high wild skies of Caithness again—the thought was almost crushing.
I cannot do it, she concluded. The abbess said I have a choice. God help me, I cannot do it.
Cait was all too aware of her many failings, but self-deception was not one of them. She knew herself. She knew her mind. And where some women might cheerfully resign themselves to serving the simple needs of their sisters and the people of the village, Cait knew she would quickly tire of the tedium, the dull routine of the daily round, the endless repetition, the deadening sameness. Life in the abbey would begin to chafe. Sooner or later she would begin to resent the choice. Resentment would harden into loathing, and loathing into hate. She would end up hating the abbey and, in time, that hatred would come to poison and pervert the very thing she was honor bound to uphold and protect.
No, it was impossible; she knew it in her heart and soul—not that knowing would make the telling any easier. She drew a deep breath and made up her mind to tell Abbess Annora at once. Better by far to end it now, before things went any further.
Cait turned and started back along the trail to the abbey, intent on relating her decision. She had taken but a few steps, however, when she heard someone calling from the valley trail behind her. She stopped, looking back, and saw a small figure toiling up the last incline to reach the abbey path.
It was a young girl; she had begun shouting as soon as she saw Cait on the path. Cait quickly retraced her steps, reaching the girl as she collapsed at the end of the trail to lie gasping in the snow. That she was from the village, there was no doubt. Cait thought she recognized the young girl as the eldest of Dominico’s daughters.
Her lips, fingertips, and cheeks were blue from the cold. In her haste, she had come away without her cloak, or had lost it along the way. Her hands were scraped raw, and through the holes in her mantle Cait could see that her knees and shins were bloody where she had fallen and skinned herself on the rocks.
Cait rushed to the child and flung her cloak over the trembling body, gathering her up as she tried to rise. “What is it? What has happened?”
The child, gasping, clutched at her and jabbered in her incomprehensible tongue. Cait could neither understand the girl, nor make herself understood. Taking the child’s hands in her own, she rubbed them and blew on them to warm the thin, freezing fingers. “Come,” she said when the girl had calmed somewhat, “I will take you to the abbess. She will know what to do.”
Cait helped her to her feet and together they moved off along the path. Upon reaching the second barn, the nuns who had been carrying firewood heard Cait’s call and came running to her aid. At sight of the nuns, the girl started babbling excitedly again. “I found her on the path,” Cait told them. “Can any of you make out what has happened?”
One of the nuns knelt down in the snow in front of the child, and took her hands; another stepped close and put her arm around the slender little shoulders. The first nun spoke quietly and, as Cait watched, the sister’s expression of concern deepened. “Brother Timo says to come quickly,” the nun explained. “A great many soldiers have arrived in the village; they have put all the people in the church, and the priest says the abbess is needed at once.”
“What do the soldiers look like?” said Cait. “Ask her.”
The nun holding the girl’s hands asked and listened to the answer, then raised her eyes to Cait. “She says they are very big, and ride horses.”
“What about their clothing?” demanded Cait impatiently. “What are they wearing?”
Again the nun asked and received the answer. “They are wearing cloaks.” The child interrupted to add another detail to her description. “The cloaks are white, she says, and have a cross in red just here.” The nun touched the place over her heart. “And on the back.”
The other sisters regarded one another in bewilderment. “Who can it be?” they asked one another.
“I know them,” Cait replied, fighting down the fear spreading like a sickness through her gut. “The Templars are here.”
FORTY-FOUR
“TEMPLARS?” ABBESS ANNORA repeated the word uncertainly. “Is that what you called them? But who are they?”
“They are priested knights,” Cait answered, realizing how little the Gray Marys knew of the events beyond the protecting mountain walls. “They belong to a special order called the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, but they are known as the Templars, and they are dedicated to the protection of pilgrims and travelers in the Holy Land, and the defense of Jerusalem.”
“They are renowned warriors,” Alethea added.
“Fighting priests,” mused the abbess, shaking her head at the strangeness of it. “Whatever can they want with me?”
“They have come for the Sacred Cup,” Cait told her.
“Have they indeed?”
“It is true,” replied Cait. “I am sorry.”
This admission caused a sensation among the gathered nuns. They all began talking and crying out at once. “Silence!” commanded the abbess. “Silence—all of you. Return to your duties. Those of you who have finished may go to the chapel and pray.” The sisters did as they were told, leaving Cait, Alethea, and the abbess alone. “What else do you know about this?” asked Abbess Annora when the others had gone. She regarded Cait sternly. “And I think I had better hear it all this time.”
“You led th
em here,” declared Alethea accusingly. “They followed you.”
“So it would appear,” admitted Cait unhappily. To the abbess she said, “I should have told you everything from the beginning. But yes, I knew about the Templars. Their leader is a man called Renaud de Bracineaux; he was the one who murdered my father in Constantinople.”
“The letter,” replied the abbess, adding this information to that which Cait had already told her. “It belonged to him.”
“Yes,” Cait admitted. “It belonged to him.” She looked to the wise abbess with pleading in her eyes, begging for her understanding. “I knew he wanted the Holy Cup, and I thought if I could get to it first, I could use it to bring de Bracineaux to justice.”
“And you would not shrink from carrying out that justice yourself, I suppose?”
“No,” confessed Cait. “I would not.”
“I see.” The abbess nodded, her mouth pressed into a thin, firm line.
“What are you thinking, abbess?” asked Alethea after a moment.
“I think I must go and speak to these Soldiers of Christ and learn how the matter is to be resolved.”
“I will go with you,” said Cait. “I may be able to help.”
“Cait, no,” objected Alethea. “They will recognize you.”
“Not if I go in habit,” she replied.
“Hurry then,” Annora said. “Alethea, go to the chapel and wait there with the sisters, and tell them to pray for God’s will to be revealed to us. Caitríona, you come with me, we will find you a mantle and robe, and then we will go down to the village—and,” she added pointedly, “you can tell me anything else I ought to know along the way.”
Two nuns arrived in the village a little before sunset; the sky was livid, staining the undersides of the clouds violet and muddy orange. The two lone figures made their way through the deserted village to the church where a number of white-cloaked men were gathered around a fire they had made outside the door of the timber building. The abbess and her companion marched directly to the knight standing guard at the door, and said, “I am Abbess Annora. I was told someone wanted to see me.”
The Mystic Rose Page 43
