The entire order, with the abbess at its head, was driven out into the frigid night and made to toil down the steep mountain pathways by the fitful light of the Templar torches. The knights, embarrassed to be riding while the nuns were made to walk, offered their mounts to the oldest captives, and the rest dismounted at intervals and took up places along the way in the more perilous steeps where, due to ice, or loose rock, the path had become unsound. Thus, they lit the way for the order as, silent but full of reproachful glances, the Gray Marys made their slow way down to the village.
Night was far gone when they reached the valley. Sergeant Gislebert marched his straggling charges through the silent village to the church. By the light of low-burning candles on the altar, Cait could see that the people were still there—most of them asleep in heaps on the floor. Grand Commander de Bracineaux dozed in his chair, and Archbishop Bertrano was stretched out on the low platform beneath the altar. Baron D’Anjou came awake as the door opened; he stood and nudged the Templar commander, saying, “Wake up, de Bracineaux. The sergeant has returned with your lady friend.”
“At last,” said the commander, sitting up as the nuns entered, limping and staggering from their enforced ordeal in the dead of night. He took one look at the line of exhausted women, and cried, “What have you done, Gislebert? I send you for the relic and you bring the entire convent.”
“Just so,” mused d’Anjou, a perverse smile playing on his lips. “This affair ripens most deliciously.”
The entrance of the sisters wakened the sleeping archbishop and townsfolk. They roused themselves and stood. Some of the villagers, seeing the distress of the sisters, all of whom they knew and loved, ran to their aid; they sat the women down, wrapped them in cloaks and mantles and chafed their hands to warm them. Cait and Alethea found places at the back of the assembly near the door. Where are they? Cait wondered, quickly surveying the dim interior for any sign of her knights. What has happened to them?
Despite her fatigue, the abbess strode to where de Bracineaux sat, and said, “We agreed that I would deliver the cup tomorrow in my own good time. Why have you violated our agreement?”
The archbishop, alarmed by this unexpected development, rushed to intercede. “What has happened? Dear sister abbess, come, sit you down.” To de Bracineaux, he said, “What is this, commander? What have you done to these poor women?”
“He ordered his soldiers to storm the convent,” the abbess declared loudly, “and bear the Blessed Cup away by force.”
“Is this true?” demanded the archbishop, aghast at the accusation.
“Be quiet,” snapped de Bracineaux irritably.
Undeterred, the abbess said, “You would take by force that which was to be freely given? What manner of man are you, Commander de Bracineaux?”
“An impatient man.” He glared at the abbess. “I might have granted you the condition we agreed upon if you had not dealt falsely with me.”
“Preposterous!” said the abbess.
“Oh?” sneered the commander. “Do you deny that you shelter a known enemy beneath the cloak of your order?” He thrust an accusing finger at Cait. “That one—bring her here.”
As a nearby Templar worked his way toward them, Cait removed the cup from inside her robe, where she had carried it lest she stumble and drop it while on the trail. “Keep this out of sight,” she whispered, passing the Sacred Vessel to Alethea. She stepped out from among the sisters at the rear of the church and took her place beside the abbess. “So, you thought I would not recognize you a second time,” de Bracineaux said. “Most unwise, lady. Most unwise.”
Levelling his malignant gaze at Cait, he said, “See here, archbishop, this is the woman who stole your letter. You know her, I think.”
“I have seen her before, yes,” the archbishop confessed. To Cait, he said, “Lady, is it true? Did you steal the letter?”
“Why ask her?” demanded de Bracineaux angrily. “You know the truth of it—how else could she have cozened you with lies about my death?”
“Let her speak,” said Bertrano. “I would hear it from her own lips.” Turning once more to Caitríona, he said, “Is it true, lady? Did you steal the letter from Commander de Bracineaux?”
“I did,” answered Cait simply. “And I would do it again.”
“Why?”
“What difference does it make?” charged de Bracineaux, rounding on her again. “She has admitted the theft, and stands condemned out of her own mouth. She must be punished for her crime—and all who aided her in this deception shall be punished as well.” He glared around the church as if he meant to begin seizing villagers then and there.
Brother Timotheus pushed his way forward. “Heaven forbid!” he cried. “We know nothing of any crime. This lady has shown us only kindness and respect. She is a true noblewoman in every way.”
“No doubt she can appear so when it suits her,” said de Bracineaux smugly. “The archbishop and I know otherwise.”
Archbishop Bertrano turned sorrowful eyes on Cait and asked again, “Why did you take the letter? Was it to steal the Holy Cup for yourself?”
“I did take the letter,” she replied. “I went to the commander’s room that night to avenge the murder of my father, Lord Duncan of Caithness. Renaud de Bracineaux killed him in Constantinople,” she said evenly, pointing to the commander. “I wanted to find a way to hurt him, and I allowed myself to imagine the Blessed Cup would help me to do that.” She paused and looked to Abbess Annora. “I was wrong.”
“Yes, of course,” said de Bracineaux as the last details of the explanation fell into place, “you were with him in the church that day.” His face twisted in a paroxysm of hate and gloating triumph. “So, Duncan had a daughter. I imagined he was alone, otherwise I would have finished you, too.”
The archbishop turned astonished eyes on the Grand Commander of Jerusalem. “Is this true? You murdered her father?”
“I settled an old debt, yes,” replied de Bracineaux carelessly. “As Defender of Jerusalem, it is my right to vanquish the enemies of the Holy Land—wherever I encounter them.”
“Very messy, my friend,” said d’Anjou, shaking his head slowly. He regarded Cait with an expression of delight that made her skin crawl. “It seems you’ve made an extremely resourceful enemy. You want to be more careful.”
“Archbishop Bertrano,” said the abbess, “I refuse to deliver the Sacred Chalice of Our Savior into the hands of a self-confessed murderer. If we are to surrender the holy relic, I demand that it be given to Pope Adrian himself, and no one else.”
“From your hands to his, abbess,” answered Bertrano. “In view of all that has come to light, I agree that would be best.”
“No!” roared de Bracineaux. “That we will not do. It has been entrusted to me, and I will fulfill my duty.” He stepped nearer so that he towered over the abbess. “I want the cup. Now. Give it over.”
“I will not.”
De Bracineaux’s hand whipped out and caught the old woman on the cheek. The force of the blow snapped her head sideways and she staggered backward. Cait caught her as she fell and bore her up.
“I will not ask you again, old woman.” De Bracineaux stood over the half-kneeling abbess. “Bring me the cup.”
Brother Timotheus rushed to interpose himself between the Templar and the abbess. He raised his hands before the commander’s face, crying “Peace! Peace!”
“Fool, get out of my way.” De Bracineaux shoved the priest violently aside. The cleric fell, striking his head on the stone-flagged floor. He groaned and lay still.
All at once the villagers rose up with a shout. They had watched the conversations in bewildered silence, but an attack on their beloved priest was something they understood. They rushed forward in a mass, swarming over the commander, lashing at him with fists and feet.
“Sergeant!” roared de Bracineaux as he fell.
D’Anjou and Gislebert, swords in hand, leaped to defend the fallen commander. Two of the Templars near th
e door sprang forth, wading into the clot of people. Cait, still holding the abbess, moved back through the surging crowd, pulling the elderly woman back from the fray.
It was over in a moment. When the shouting and chaos subsided, three lay unconscious and four more were wounded. Gislebert, d’Anjou, and the two Templars stood over the commander with bloody swords, defying anyone else to come near. De Bracineaux climbed to his feet; he was bleeding from a split lip, and sputtering with rage. “Get these people out of here!” he shouted, swinging his arm wildly in the direction of the cowering congregation. “This outrage will be avenged. Get them out!”
The Templars started forward, but before they could lay hands on any of the offending villagers the church door burst open. “Master!” shouted the Templar soldier who entered. “You are needed at once.”
From outside someone shouted, “Moors!”
De Bracineaux whirled toward the open door. “What?”
“Hurry, my lord. We are attacked.”
FORTY-SIX
COMMANDER DE BRACINEAUX glared at the messenger. “How many?”
“Thirty, my lord. Maybe more.”
The Templar commander turned and called, “D’Anjou, keep everyone in here.” Then, shouting for the sergeant to fetch his sword and shield, he strode from the church and out into a raw red dawn.
As soon as he had gone, the townsfolk rushed to the bodies of their wounded. Archbishop Bertrano moved to the stricken priest and the nuns hastened to the aid of their injured abbess. Annora waved them off, saying, “I am not hurt. Go and help the others.”
“Stay where you are, all of you,” shouted d’Anjou, but no one paid any attention to him. Within moments, the door of the church was open and villagers were crowding the entrance.
Cait motioned Alethea to join her. “Wait here with the abbess.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, but Cait was already dashing away.
She pushed through the press at the door and looked out. High clouds were coming in from the north, drawing a veil across the pale dawn sky. The Templars were racing to their mounts as de Bracineaux called them to arms. Above the shouting and clamor of men and horses could be heard the rhythmic drumming of hooves, and through a gap between the nearer houses came the attacking riders as they rounded the lake and rode for the village. A moment later, the first rank came into view at the end of the wide expanse which served the town for a street.
Even in the pale light of dawn Cait could see from the turbans and battledress that the riders were, indeed, Moors—and they were coming fast. Ali Waqqar! she gasped. The bandits had found them and now joined the fray. Hands clenched in helpless desperation, she watched as they drew swiftly closer. Now she could pick out individuals from among the dark mass of advancing riders. There, in the center of the front rank, was the bandit leader. She recognized the imposing, arrogant bulk, and her heart sank.
But then a movement in the ranks caught her eye. The riders parted and Prince Hasan appeared in the gap, astride his black stallion, his warriors at his back. Beside him rode Halhuli; like those with them, they carried small round black shields and long, slender-bladed lances.
The Templars were quickly armed and mounted. The speed with which they had prepared themselves to meet the enemy was remarkable and, Cait thought, demonstrated their renowned and formidable discipline. They had met Arabs before, and were not afraid.
With a single word from their commander, they formed the battle line and rode out to meet the attack. Cait, watching from the church door, heard a movement behind her, and someone grabbed hold of her arm to pull her back. “Please,” she said, “I have to see.”
“De Bracineaux misjudged you,” said Baron d’Anjou. “But I will not. We cannot have you running loose out there, can we? That would not do at all. Who knows the trouble you might make?”
Contempt and revulsion roiled within her as she looked into the baron’s dead eyes. “I beg you,” she said, swallowing down her loathing. “Let me stay.”
“Very well, if only because I want to see it, too. We will stay here together, you and I.” D’Anjou moved close beside her, maintaining his tight grip on her arm. Others were pushing in around them now—villagers eager to witness the clash, and nuns praying for deliverance. The crowd gave a push, and Cait and d’Anjou were carried out into the yard. Soon almost everyone from inside the church had joined them, including Archbishop Bertrano and a very dazed and bewildered Brother Timotheus pressing a hand to his injured head.
The Templars urged their horses to speed. Levelling their lances, they prepared to meet the onrushing Moors. Up from their throats arose a cry: “For God and Jerusalem!”
The battle cry of the Templars was met and drowned by a mighty shout from the Arabs: “Allahu akbar!” they cried, spurring their mounts to a gallop. Over the snow they came, the horses’ legs lost in a blurring cloud churned up by their swift hooves so that the riders seemed to glide like avenging angels flying to the fight.
“Now we see whether the Moors have mettle enough to stand to a real fight,” observed d’Anjou.
“The Templars are outnumbered,” Cait pointed out.
“Dear, deluded lady,” replied the baron, “the Templars are forever outnumbered. That is how they prefer it.”
The two lines closed with heart-stopping speed and Cait, unable to look away, held her breath. At the last instant, the Moors split their line, dividing neatly in two. The main body of the Templars found themselves carried into the midst of a fast-scattering enemy and suddenly exposed on either flank.
This brought a cry from the watchers at the church. Some of the nuns sank to their knees, clasping their hands and crying to Heaven; others stood and gaped in open-mouthed amazement. All around her, Cait heard the quick babble of voices as the villagers discussed the maneuver excitedly, and the nuns prayed with increasing fervor.
De Bracineaux, a bold and decisive commander, realized the danger and signalled the retreat at once. Rather than allow his force to become surrounded, he chose flight. In an instant, the Templars wheeled their horses. Back they came, the Moors in close pursuit.
Halfway to the church, however, there came a rattling movement and out from among the houses of the villages another mounted force appeared. At its head was Rognvald, leading a score of Arab warriors with Dag and Yngvar beside him, and Svein and Rodrigo right behind.
The sudden and unexpected appearance of the knights sent the villagers into a rapture of delight. D’Anjou tried to shout them down, but to no avail. There was nothing he could do to make himself understood. He appealed to the priest. “Tell them to be quiet!” he shouted at Brother Timotheus. “Shut them up!”
“If they do not speak,” replied the priest neatly, “surely the stones themselves will cry out.”
Rognvald’s troops rounded on the retreating Templars, who now discovered themselves caught between two swiftly closing forces.
Surrounded, their retreat cut off, the Templars halted and de Bracineaux formed his soldiers into a tight defensive circle. Shoulder to shoulder, they took shelter behind a ring of stout shields and a lethal array of razor-keen lance blades. The Moors whirled around the circle, shrieking with exultation. Not a blow had been struck and already the foe was forced into its final stand from which there would be no retreat.
Around and around they flew, the swift Arabian horses spinning like black leaves in a whirlpool of white. The Templars remained unmoved as a boulder surrounded by surging rapids.
The battle began in earnest.
At first the great revolving wheel of warriors appeared content simply to surround the Templars, screaming, whistling, jeering, and taunting as they spun around and around. Then suddenly one of the Moors broke from the swiftly circling pack and drove in to strike a glancing blow at one of the Templars—a quick darting chop of the sword and away again before the knight could react. No sooner had he returned to his place than another Moor repeated the slashing lunge, and then another, and another. Soon the Moors w
ere striking at will—but to no avail, since the Templars refused to break ranks and attack. Despite their superior numbers, the Moors gained no advantage.
The diving feints continued for a time and d’Anjou, thoroughly fed up with the lack of Moorish courage in meeting the Templar challenge head-on, vented his frustration. “Cowardly bastards,” he sneered with profound distaste. “They refuse to stand and fight, the craven dogs.”
The Moors circled, the great wheel slowly revolving while those on the inner rim performed their wary darting sallies. Cait felt her heart, buoyed by hope, begin to sink. The Templars would not be drawn into a fight they could not win, and Hasan’s troops appeared unable, or unwilling, to force the confrontation.
She watched, hands clenched beneath her chin, as her own frustration grew. A few more lunges, a few more wild sweeping chops, and suddenly a cry went up from the Moorish ranks. In the same instant, Cait saw the head of a Templar lance spinning into the snow. A moment later, another lance head was carried off.
D’Anjou saw it too, and knew what it meant. “Filthy devils!” he spat. “Stand and fight!” he cried.
Three more Templars lost their lances in rapid succession. The knights did not move. They sat firmly in the saddle as if anchored there, faces hard, staring grimly ahead at the whooping, gyrating foe. Now and again, Cait caught sight of Rognvald, Yngvar, Dag, or Svein, or one of the Spanish knights as they careered around and around in the ever-revolving dance.
The slashing attacks continued with increasing ferocity and speed. The villagers gathered outside the church watched with dread fascination as one by one the lance blades fell to the reckless Moorish swords. Still the Templars held their ground. Indeed, the first indication they gave that the attack was wearing on them came when one of their number threw down his headless, battered lance and drew his sword. De Bracineaux steadied his men with a command; the ring tightened further on itself, and they held on.
The Mystic Rose Page 45
