“Because,” she said, as the wounded Templar slumped lower in the snow, “Lord Duncan had two daughters.”
FORTY-EIGHT
ROGNVALD RUSHED TO Cait’s side and knelt beside her in the snow. Alethea took a quick step and kicked the dagger from de Bracineaux’s slack grasp. She stooped and retrieved the Blessed Cup, backing away as the Templar made a last scrabbling grab for it.
“My lady,” said Rognvald, “you are hurt.”
“No,” replied Cait as she tried to get up. “I—” The pain made her gasp.
Rognvald eased her down once more. “Rest a moment. Let me look at the wound.” Dropping his sword, he shook the glove from his hand and pressed his fingertips to the side of Cait’s neck just below the jaw where blood was oozing in a thin crimson sheet down her throat. “It is a nasty cut,” he observed, “but not deep, I think.”
“Help me to my feet.”
He was just gathering her into his arms to lift her, when there came a sudden rush from behind. Rognvald glanced back to see Baron d’Anjou bearing down on them—a savage leer on his face and a knife in his hand. He ran with surprising quickness, closing the distance in an instant. Rognvald spun around; knowing, even as he reached for his blade, that he would be too late, he placed himself between d’Anjou and Caitríona, shielding her with his body.
Yngvar darted in from the side, flailing with his sword as d’Anjou passed. The blade slashed, went wide. D’Anjou dodged the blow easily. Closing on them, he prepared to strike. Cait saw the baron’s arm draw back, and then halt, its forward progress abruptly halted. The baron spun around and into Svein’s fierce, bone-bending embrace. D’Anjou gave a little cry of surprise and Cait saw his spine stiffen as the Norseman’s blade slid in beneath his ribs. The baron roared in anger and pushed himself away, slashing wildly with the knife. Rognvald snatched up his sword, stepped in behind, and with the action of a man putting a mad dog out of its misery, made a quick chop at the base of the baron’s neck. D’Anjou staggered, the dagger spinning from his hand. As his knees gave way beneath him, he looked up at Cait with an expression of mild reproach. “Damn it all,” he sighed, then pitched forward onto the ground beside the dying Templar.
Then everything became confused for Cait. It seemed as if a dense cloud descended over her, muffling sight and sound. She felt Rognvald’s strong arms beneath her, sensed movement, and guessed that he carried her to the church. Alethea was there, holding the Holy Chalice, and several nuns flew around her, fussing and clucking while they cleaned and bandaged the wound at her neck.
Prince Hasan was there, too, and some others, including Brother Timotheus. There were voices, movement, and then she felt fresh air on her face once more, and saw the mountains gleaming in the sun…dead bodies in the trampled bloody snow…wounded men holding their seeping wounds…nuns with white hands binding brown Moorish limbs…horses, long winter coats lathered and wet, heads down, noses to the ground in exhaustion, their flanks steaming in the cold sunlight…And then it grew dark and when she awoke she was no longer in the church; she had somehow been transported to Dominico’s house, and there were people talking somewhere nearby but she could not see them.
She raised a hand to her injured throat and felt the cloth of her bandage. She made to rise and the movement started a fierce pain throbbing in her neck. She lay back down and waited for the pain to subside, and listened to the voices in the next room—somber, subdued, earnest.
After a time, the throbbing eased to a raw ache; she tried again to rise, more carefully this time, and succeeded in holding her head in a way that did not aggravate the wound again. She was light-headed, and slightly wobbly on her feet, but she steadied herself by the bed and then walked slowly to the next room. Rognvald was there, together with Prince Hasan and Brother Timotheus, while Dominico and his family flitted around them preparing a meal. Yngvar and Svein sat on a bench against the far wall, their long legs stretched out in front of them. Dag and Rodrigo sat on stools nearby, jars in hand, drinking in great thirsty drafts until the ale ran down their beards.
To a man, all were so preoccupied that no one saw her standing in the doorway. She took a step forward, and Elantra, Dominico’s wife, glanced up and ran to her side. The others noticed the sudden movement and looked around to see Cait walking gingerly, aided by the diminutive woman. “My lady,” said Rognvald; he was on his feet and beside her in an instant. “Come, sit down.” He took her elbow and led her to the table as Elantra scurried back to the hearth. “How do you feel?”
“Well enough,” replied Cait, scarcely recognizing her own voice. She sounded as if she had been swallowing chips of flint, and it hurt to speak; but, aside from the ache in her throat and a brace of bruises on her arm, she felt tolerably hale and whole. “It seems you shall not be rid of me just yet.”
“Nor, I hope, for a very long time to come,” he said, his voice low so that the others did not hear. She glanced up and saw in his eyes a warmth of regard she had not seen before.
“I am sorry, Ketmia,” said Prince Hasan, rising from his place as they arrived at the table. “We came as soon as Lord Rognvald reached us with news of the Templars’ arrival, but if we had been here sooner…”
Cait did not let him finish. “It is I who should thank you, my lord.” Taking his hands in hers, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “That is small thanks, but it carries all my heart. My debt to you is great, and grows ever greater.”
Turning to Rognvald, she said, “I owe you more than I can say. Thank you, good friend. One day, perhaps, I will find a way to repay you.” She kissed him, too, and then sat down in the offered seat. “Where is Alethea?”
“She is helping the sisters who are caring for Archbishop Bertrano,” replied Brother Timotheus, his tone grave. He paused to swallow down his emotion. “They are doing all they can, but…” His voice faltered and he left the rest unsaid.
“It is not good, Ketmia,” Hasan told her. “Halhuli is with them. Whatever can be done for the priest, will be done. Yet I fear there is little anyone can do but pray.”
“We were just discussing it when you joined us,” Rognvald said. “His death will—”
“Heaven forbid it!” Timotheus put in. “We must not give up hope.”
“Should the archbishop fail to recover,” Rognvald said, amending his words, “his death would place both Hasan and the village in peril.”
“Blame would inevitably fall upon the Moors,” the prince explained. “There would be reprisals. The Spanish kings would insist.”
Cait nodded. “I see.”
“And then there is the question of what to do with the surviving Templars,” said Rognvald. “There are nine altogether—de Bracineaux’s sergeant among them.”
“They cannot have been privy to their commander’s wicked schemes,” Brother Timotheus pointed out. “We must show clemency.”
“But we cannot allow them to simply ride away as if nothing happened,” said Hasan.
“Would you imprison them?” said the priest.
Seeing a tedious discussion stretching ahead of them, Cait stood. “Please, excuse me. I want to see Bertrano. Where is he?”
“He is in the church,” Timotheus said. “We thought it best not to move him just yet.”
“Allow me to attend you,” Rognvald said; rising, he took her arm. Cait covered his hand with hers and let the touch linger for a moment. Then, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she removed it, saying, “I am well enough, my lord. Stay and finish your talk. I will return when I have seen how the good bishop fares.”
She moved to the entrance where Elantra opened the door for her, then walked with her out into a fresh, crisp day. The sun was high; it had passed midday and the sky was clear and bright and blue. The dead had been removed from the battleground, and were now placed in orderly rows beside the church where Prince Hasan’s men and most of the villagers were working over them, removing armor, weapons, clothing, and boots—anything that could be of use to the living.
&nbs
p; As she drew near the church, she saw that someone had tried to dig a grave; a long, narrow rectangle had been scraped in the snow, and the green turf beneath was cut. But the ground was too hard, so the work had been abandoned. Down by the lake, she saw men working to erect a wooden pyre; the corpses would be burned.
Upon entering the church, she stood for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Then she saw, against the south wall, a heap of wadded cloaks; around it huddled three or four nuns, and Halhuli, sitting on his heels, his hands resting idly in his lap. They turned to look as Cait entered, then returned to their vigil as Alethea rose to greet her sister. The two met and embraced without speaking; they simply stood and held one another. After a time, Cait whispered, “Thank you, Thea.”
They held one another for a little longer, and then Alethea said, “They were going to burn the village and the abbey. Once they got hold of the Blessed Cup, they were going to destroy everything.”
“How do you know?”
“The Templars confessed it. Dag and Svein and the others were securing the prisoners, and they told them de Bracineaux had ordered them to destroy everything and kill everyone because he did not want anyone left alive to tell what had happened.”
Cait shook her head in bewilderment and started the pain clawing at her throat again.
Alethea saw her wince, and raised a hand to Cait’s neck, touching the bandage gently. “I think it will leave a scar.”
“I will recover; they say Bertrano may not.”
Alethea nodded. “His wound is very bad, but it does not seem to pain him overmuch.”
They walked together to the makeshift bed where the archbishop lay. Halhuli rose and said, “I have made him comfortable. Now we can but wait, and pray the Great Healer to perform a wonder.” Cait thanked him, whereupon he inclined his head in a bow and departed.
The nuns made room for Cait and Alethea as they took their places beside the bishop. Bertrano lay quietly, hands folded over his stomach as if in peaceful meditation. Cait thought he was asleep, but when she had, with Alethea’s help, knelt down beside him, Bertrano opened his eyes and smiled weakly. “You still have your head, my dear,” he said. “That is good.”
“And we still have the Holy Chalice,” she replied, returning his smile. “I must ask your forgiveness, archbishop. None of this would have happened if not for me. I am sorry.”
“If not for you and your dauntless sister, dear lady, de Bracineaux would be halfway to Jerusalem with the cup by now. Even so, I do forgive you. Lying to an archbishop is a sin—only a very minor sin, mind, for everyone does it. Still, I would not recommend making a practice of it.” He raised his hand and traced the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I absolve you.”
Cait leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, my lord archbishop.”
“And you, dear girl,” he said to Alethea, “are a very brave and intrepid adversary. I absolve you, too. Any ill the commander suffered, he brought upon himself. He alone was the author of his demise.”
“My only thought was for my sister,” Alethea replied, “and for the Blessed Cup.”
“He would have kept it, you know,” Bertrano told them. “Once de Bracineaux had it, he would never have given it up.”
“Well, it is safe now,” said Alethea.
“No,” the archbishop shook his head weakly. “The Holy Cup will never be safe here again. Sooner or later, others will come and it will be taken.”
Abbess Annora appeared just then, holding a steaming bowl on a tray; Sister Besa was with her, carrying a pile of clean, folded cloths. She acknowledged Cait’s presence with a kindly nod, and placed the tray beside the bed. “We must change the bandage,” she said as, with Alethea’s ready help, she knelt down beside Cait.
“In a moment,” said the archbishop. To Cait he said, “Annora has been telling me that you have been chosen to become the next Guardian of the Sacred Chalice.”
“So it would seem,” Cait answered.
“Show him,” whispered Alethea.
Cait stretched out her hands, palms up, and drew back the sleeves of her robe so that the churchman could see the marks of the stigmata on her wrists.
Archbishop Bertrano placed a finger lightly on the livid mark. “The foolishness of God is wiser than the wisdom of men. It is a heavy charge that is laid upon you, daughter. Still, your only freedom lies there—if you will accept it. That I do believe.”
“So do I,” replied Cait, realizing as she spoke the affirmation that she had decided to answer the call.
“Good.” He smiled, and a spasm of pain passed over his face. He closed his eyes and held his breath. When it was over, he opened his eyes again; they were a little duller this time, his gaze slightly less intense.
“Perhaps you should rest now,” suggested Thea.
“Soon I shall have all the rest I need,” Archbishop Bertrano replied.
“Let us change your bandage now,” said Annora. “You will feel better.”
“A moment longer, and then you can have me,” he replied. “I told Caitríona that the Blessed Cup will not be safe here any longer. Because of my infernal meddling, too many people know about it now. If it remains here, it will only bring trouble to the village; they would never know a moment’s peace again.” He reached out and took Cait’s hand. “But it has pleased God to choose you. Therefore, I bid you take it. Take it far from here, and hide it well. One day the time will come when it can be revealed once more. Keep it safe until then.”
Cait lifted his hand and brought it to her lips. “By the strength and wisdom of God, I will, my lord archbishop.”
“There now. That is settled.” Bertrano smiled again. “Now, if I might make one last request of you, dear abbess.”
“Certainly,” Annora replied. “Anything.”
“I should like to receive the Holy Sacrament of the Cup once before I die.”
“Of course, archbishop.”
“Could we do it now, do you think? I do not wish to keep the ferryman waiting.”
“At once, my lord.” The abbess retrieved the Holy Chalice from its place on the altar, and Cait and Alethea watched as she proceeded to administer the holy rite to the dying man. Kneeling at his bedside, she spoke so softly to him that none in the room heard what passed between them, but in the end, when Bertrano drank from the cup, a smile of such serenity and pleasure lit his features that each one present felt as if they had seen a little of Heaven’s bright glory reflected on his face.
When the sacrament was finished, the abbess returned the cup to the altar. Cait and Alethea drew near the bed once more and bade the dying cleric farewell. Bertrano blessed them and then lay back; he allowed the nuns to care for his wound then, and while the abbess and Sister Besa changed his bandage Cait and Alethea crept away quietly together. They paused briefly at the side of the church to view de Bracineaux’s blood-stained corpse.
The Templar commander seemed smaller now and older: death had diminished him. He gazed with unseeing eyes to the boundless heavens, the scar puckering his brow in a doleful expression. Cait looked at him and felt neither hate nor exultation at his defeat—only sorrow at the lives his reckless pursuit had wasted.
After a moment, they turned without a word, and proceeded to Dominico’s house where the meal Elantra had been preparing was now being served. The Norsemen were there, too—all eating hungrily, their bowls to their mouths, sopping gravy with chunks of bread. Brother Timotheus called for Cait and Alethea to join him at table with the others; Cait sent Alethea ahead saying, “Tell him I will join them in a moment. I would speak to my knights first.”
With that, Cait walked to where Yngvar was sitting; the Norseman stopped eating and raised his face to her as, without a word, she bent and kissed him lightly on the cheek. She then did the same with Svein, Dag, and Rodrigo in turn.
“Your courage is matched only by your loyalty and skill,” she told them. The knights looked w
ith pleasure at their lady. “You have my admiration and my gratitude. And,” she added, “as soon as we return home, you shall have your reward.”
“My lady,” said Yngvar, glancing at Svein and Dag beside him, “it would be no small reward to be allowed to continue in your service.”
“We have been talking,” said Dag. “And you will be needing good men-at-arms when you return home. This is what we think.”
“And what does Lord Rognvald think?”
“He has given us leave to follow our own minds in this matter,” answered Svein, adding, “He is making plans of his own, I think.”
“I see.” Cait nodded. “Very well. Then hear me, all of you. I will not say you no, but neither will I agree just yet. It is a long way to Caithness, and much can happen before we arrive; you may change your minds. If you do, you will not be bound.”
“That is fair,” Svein agreed for all of them, “and we will abide. Only, tell us if you view our offer in a kindly light.”
“Dear Svein, and all of you,” Cait said, “I look upon your offer with nothing but the highest esteem. I will never forget what you have done for me and Alethea.”
Svein reached out, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Your servant, my lady.”
She turned to the Spanish knight who sat looking on. “And you, Rodrigo? Have you decided also?”
“My lady, nothing would give me more pleasure than to remain in your service. These men have become my friends, and I would not hesitate to cast my lot with them. But I promised Paulo I would wait for him. He is improving, but is still too weak to ride. With your permission, my lady, I will wait as I have promised.”
“As to that,” said Yngvar, “the prince has said we can winter with him at the palace.”
“He has sworn on the beard of the prophet that he will not break faith with us again,” added Svein. “And after what I have seen today, I believe him.”
“It is a generous offer,” allowed Cait. “We shall see.”
The Mystic Rose Page 47
