I explained quickly how upon completion of our visit with the armorer, he had given us a box containing six gold-handled daggers. I opened the box to display the knives. “They were not ready when you came to collect your purchase, and he asked us to deliver them to you.” I passed the box to him. “We have done what we agreed to do, and now we will leave you in peace.”
The frown reappeared on the Templar’s face. Turning, he called to one of his brother knights across the ship; the man joined him and the two held close conversation for a moment, then de Bracineaux said, “It is true that the knives were missing from the cargo. I owe you my thanks for delivering them, and will pay you for your trouble—for I, also, am an honest man.”
“Bezu has already done that,” I told him. “You owe us nothing.”
The Templar nodded, regarding Padraig and me with, as I thought, an expression of regret. “Are you certain we cannot tempt you to join our ranks?”
“I would feel disposed to consider it,” I said, “if you could provide passage for three pilgrims bound for the Holy Land.”
“Three?” asked de Bracineaux. “You multiply like weasels, sir. A moment ago there were but two.”
“We have another with us,” I said, and told him about the young Lord Roupen, a nobleman of Armenia.
At the name, his interest reawakened with wonderful swiftness. “I know only one noble family in Armenia,” he said, “that of Prince Leo. Could it be the same family?”
“One and the same,” I replied. “I have undertaken to aid his return to the Holy Land.”
“By all means you must come with us,” de Bracineaux said, making up his mind at once. “We have room aboard this ship for such as yourselves, and you will be made welcome and enjoy every comfort we can provide. Make whatever preparations you require, we sail tomorrow at dawn.”
I thanked the Templar, whereupon Padraig and I hurried back along the quay to where Sarn and Roupen were waiting. As we walked along, I caught Padraig watching me with a sour expression on his face—as if he had swallowed a bolt of vinegar.
“What?” I demanded, stopping in my tracks. “Whatever in the world is wrong now?”
“You told the Templar you were foresworn,” he said, “and could not undertake the Templar vow.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “So?”
“I know of no such vow.”
“You think I lied to him, is that it?”
“Did you?”
“No. The vow was my own.”
He folded his long arms across his chest and regarded me suspiciously. “As I am your companion through all things, I think I should know this vow you have taken.”
I started walking again. “It does not concern you.”
“Duncan!” he said sharply. The gentle priest so rarely raises his voice, I forget he can be quite stubborn when he chooses. “Everything about this pilgrimage concerns me. I will hear this vow you have made.”
“And I will tell you—but in my own time,” I replied over my shoulder and kept walking so I would not have to speak to him further.
We quickly rejoined Sarn and Roupen, who were waiting to hear how we had fared with the Templars. Roupen was less than overjoyed; he grumbled his thanks and went off to see if he could discover any word of his home from the sailors and merchantmen on the wharf. Sarn, too, grew petulant and quiet. He stared at me balefully, but said nothing; meanwhile, Padraig and I busied ourselves searching for suitable companions to accompany Sarn back to Britain.
Our search was concluded when Padraig discovered a fellow pilgrim named Robert Tookes who, having been sorely wounded in the Holy Land by a Seljuq bandit’s arrow, was returning home to Britain with his aged father. The two of them had arrived in Marseilles three days earlier with a Venetian merchant ship from Jaffa, and were now seeking passage to England.
Padraig found them at the small chapel which served the wharf and harbor. He had stopped by to pray at midday, and had passed them as he was leaving. He heard them speaking to one another and, recognizing their speech, had paused to inquire where they were bound. Upon learning their destination, he brought them to the boat.
Although Sarn did his best to discourage them by glaring and frowning as if he were being asked to sail off the edge of the world with the Devil and his brother for passengers, the men were courteous and well disposed, and we quickly struck a bargain: they would pay for all necessary supplies, and Sarn would take them to Inbhir Ness, where they would easily find a boat going south.
Upon concluding this arrangement, Robert Tookes seized me by the hand in friendship. “We are both very grateful to you, my father and I,” he told me. “Have no worry for your man, or your boat; as God is my witness, we will see him safely home.”
We arranged for them to return at first light with their belongings, and they hurried away to secure provisions and prepare for the voyage ahead. All was falling into place at last, and I foresaw only clear and pleasant sailing ahead. Feeling pleased with myself, I settled back and enjoyed a well-deserved nap, despite Sarn’s disgruntled huffing and clumping around.
SEVENTEEN
ROUPEN RETURNED A little after sunset, and we ate our evening meal. “No one in this fly-blown swamp has even heard of Anazarbus,” he complained, disappointed at not discovering any news of his home. Sitting beside the doleful Sarn, the two of them presented a uniformly dismal appearance which Padraig and I did our best to ignore. We talked idly of this and that as night slowly deepened around us. The harbor grew quiet, and we watched the swallows skim the water as the new moon rose in the eastern sky.
I was lying back, and thinking what a fine night it was for star-gazing, when Padraig turned to me, and said, “I think a prayer before we sleep would see us in good stead for the journey tomorrow.” He stood. “Come, the chapel is not far.”
“We can say our prayers here just as well,” I pointed out, reluctant to leave the peaceful harbor.
“The chapel would be better,” replied the stubborn monk, climbing quickly from the boat. “You come, too, Roupen.”
I rose slowly and followed. Roupen declined, saying he would stay with Sarn and help watch the boat. I caught up with the long-legged priest as he started across the all-but-deserted square which fronted the wharf. “You will like the chapel, Duncan,” he said as I fell into step beside him. “It has a very unusual carving.”
He led me to a small square building made of stone. A dull glimmer of light shone in the two tiny windows either side of an arched wooden door. An iron latch secured the door, but it lifted easily and Padraig pushed open the door. Two large candles burned either side of a simple wooden altar above which hung the carving Padraig had mentioned.
The candles were poorly made and gave off black smoke which stank of burning hair. The foul light did little to dispel the gloom, but, as the room was empty, we stepped up to the altar for a closer look at the carving: a mother with an infant child cradled in her arms. A halo of gold surrounded the heads of both mother and the holy child whose figures had been carved from a large piece of very dark wood. Aside from that, it was something one might have seen in any Latin church.
“What do you notice?” asked Padraig.
“The wood carver employed some considerable skill. Beyond that, I find nothing unusual about it.”
“They are black,” said Padraig.
“Well, the wood is black,” I allowed.
“No,” he said. “Look more closely.”
I did as he directed and put my face near the carving. As I had said, the figures were finely rendered. The child was reaching a tiny hand up toward the mother’s solemn face as she gazed with maternal gravity upon the world that would one day revile and crucify her son. Aside from the somber, almost doleful, expression on the mother’s face, I saw nothing at all to remark upon. “Is there some mystery here that I am supposed to see?” I asked.
“They are black,” Padraig repeated.
“Yes, we have established that. They are black—”
“Not because the wood is black; it is not. They were painted black.”
I looked again, more closely, and realized he was right. There were places near the base where scratches in the paint work revealed the lighter color of the wood beneath. “How strange,” I remarked, touching the colored wood lightly with my finger. “Why would anyone want to paint them black? Is it that they think the mother of Jesu was an Ethiope?”
“She is called the Black Madonna,” announced a voice from the doorway. Roupen had thought better of his decision and joined us after all. He came to the altar and, indicating the mother figure, said, “Mary she is, but not the mother of Jesu.”
“Then who is she?” I wondered.
“Mary the Magdalene.”
“But that is ridiculous. Why should the Magdalene be cradling the infant Christ? It makes no sense.”
“Indeed.” The monk smiled shrewdly. “Unless, it is not the infant Christ she is holding.”
I waited for one of them to tell me who the infant figure represented. “Well, am I the only one in all of Frankland who does not know who the infant is supposed to represent?”
“It is Jesu’s son,” said Roupen.
His answer so amazed me that it took me a moment to work out all the implications of this extraordinary revelation. “Christ’s son!” I exclaimed aloud, staring at the tiny carved figure. “But that is horrendous!”
Placing a finger to his lips to quiet me, Padraig merely nodded. “There are those who believe that Jesu and Mary were husband and wife. After all, the scripture speaks often of the disciple Jesu loved. Most scholars assume the appellation betokens John the apostle, but there is no reason why it might not designate another.”
“Besides,” added Roupen, “it is well known that many women followed Jesu and supported his earthly ministry in various ways—this, too, is well attested in holy scripture.”
“But see here now,” I protested. “Christ’s son—think what you are saying.”
“As to that,” the monk replied in the same calm, equivocal tone, “it was commonplace for a Jewish rabbi to be married. In fact, it would have been remarkable, if not improbable, if it had been otherwise. If, as the church that bears his name believes, Our Lord and Redeemer was subject to the same humanity we all possess, then why should marriage remain beyond Christ’s experience? The union of husband and wife is an essential part of God’s design for the human family, after all. Should not the author of our faith adhere to the same rigors that are imposed upon his followers?”
“The Magdalene was a prostitute and a demoniac,” I protested. “Would you have me believe that our Beloved Lord was one flesh with a demon-ridden whore?”
“Again, you speak only hearsay and slanderous supposition. Nowhere in the scripture is it written she was a whore—only that demons were driven from her and she was healed. In all likelihood the designation of prostitute came very much later when it became, let us say, inconvenient for the pope to recognize the rank and position of a powerful and influential woman.” Lifting a hand to the carving, he said, “However it was, those who hold to this cult believe the union of Jesu and Mary produced a child. After Christ was crucified, and the persecution of the new faith began in Jerusalem, the holy family fled—first to Damascus, and then to Rome. Eventually, however, they settled here.”
“In Marseilles?” I wondered. “This grows more fantastic with every word.”
“Indeed,” agreed Roupen. “I have never heard that part of the tale.”
“It was called Marsalla then,” Padraig explained, “a well-known Roman port. Grain and cattle were shipped from here to the East, and the trade in those days was very good. It was a fine and prosperous city—and far away from the religious intrigues and oppressions of the East. The holy family and their train of followers brought the new faith with them, and they have been revered in this region ever since—as you can see.”
He answered with such assurance, I could not help asking, “How can you possibly know all this?”
Padraig smiled. “The cult of the Black Madonna is well known to the Célé Dé. It is heresy, of course, although mild compared to most. Still, it is heresy nonetheless. We came to know of it when it was once laid on the head of Beloved Pelagius, our great teacher and advocate. He defended himself mightily against the charge, answering his accusers in a bold treatise which is preserved and studied by the keepers of the Holy Light.”
Padraig led us briefly in our prayers, and we finished a short while later. Roupen went on ahead, leaving Padraig and me to our talk. “You knew the Black Madonna was there,” I said. “Was that why you brought me?”
He shook his head. “I had no idea it was there until I saw it today when I came in to pray.” He dismissed the carving, saying, “It is of no account—a curiosity, nothing more.”
“Then why?”
“I wanted to remind you that things are not always as they seem,” he replied. “And that even the most forthright appearances often hide a deeper meaning for those who know how to look.”
Even in the dim and flickering candlelight, I could see his gaze grow keen, and knew there would be no evading him any longer. “I brought you here so that you could tell me the true purpose of your pilgrimage.”
I should not have been surprised, but—as I have said, and will say again—the priests of the Célé Dé are ever full of surprises. I suppose he had worked it out following our brief exchange earlier in the day. Although I would have preferred telling him when we were somewhat closer to our destination, I knew there would be no putting him off now, so I said, “Very well. It seems this is the night for sharing hidden purposes.”
Padraig smiled knowingly. “It is that.”
“It is easily told,” I began as we left the chapel, “and not half so mysterious as the Black Madonna. First, I must ask you whether you have ever heard of the Iron Lance?”
“Of course.” He did not laugh outright, but my question amused him. “It is the spear of Christ’s crucifixion.”
“It is that,” I affirmed. “And since it seems the priests of the Célé Dé know everything, you probably also know that the sacred object resides in my father’s treasure room.”
“Now that you bring it up, I seem to recall hearing about that, yes.”
“Have you always known?” I asked, feeling like a fool for ever thinking I might hide anything from him. I stopped walking to look at his reaction.
“No,” he replied. “Indeed, I learned of it only a day or so before we left.”
“Abbot Emlyn told you, I suppose.”
“He did,” confirmed Padraig. “But my uncle asked me never to speak of it to anyone—unless, like now, someone else should speak of it first.”
“Have you seen the Sacred Lance?”
“Alas, no. One day, perhaps—who knows?”
“Well,” I told him, resuming our rafmble, “I have seen it and held it in my hands. It was the night my father told me how he had rescued it from the heathen, and from the hands of the iniquitous crusaders who would have made of it a sacrilege. That same night, I vowed within myself that even as my father had rescued the lance, I would rescue the cross.”
“The True Cross,” mused Padraig. I could not tell whether he approved of my plan, or not.
“Torf-Einar told me all about the shameful desecration of that holy treasure before he died,” I said. “You were there, you heard how they cut the cross of our redemption into pieces—with as little thought as I might chop a kindling stick.”
“I was there, yes. I heard.” He took a slow, deliberate step away, and then turned to face me. “And this is why you could not swear the oath of the Templars?”
“I did not think it would be right, since I cannot say where or how I shall obtain the pieces of the holy relic. I must remain unencumbered in my search.”
“I can see that.”
“And you approve?”
He did not answer; instead, he asked, “What will you do with the cross—if by some miracle you sh
ould obtain it?”
“I will bring it back to Caithness and place it in my father’s treasure room alongside the Sacred Lance.”
“I see.”
He was quiet for a time, gazing up into the night-dark sky—as if in search of an answer written in the stars.
“Your plan,” he said at last, “lacks nothing in audacity. And what it wants in feasibility, it more than makes up in ambition.”
“But do you approve?”
“In truth, I do not,” he declared firmly. “If this is why you have undertaken pilgrimage to the Holy Land, leaving all you love and hold dearest—then I must tell you as a priest and friend, that I do not approve in the least.”
Deep down in my bones, I suppose I had feared he would say something like this—which is why I had kept it from him. I knew he would not like my plan, but I needed his help.
The wily priest grinned suddenly and spread his hands. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform,” he said. “And, contrary to what you apparently believe, he does not often seek my blessing before he acts.”
“Is this your way of saying you think it is a good idea anyway?”
“No, it is a terrible idea,” Padraig assured me. “Even so, it may also be inspired.”
“Please, your assurance is breathtaking,” I replied.
“Have you not heard?” wondered Padraig. “The Good Lord often uses foolishness to humble the wise. If this idea of yours is of God, then the combined might of all the nations on earth cannot stand against it.”
I accepted his judgment, and we walked silently along the darkened street for a time. As we came onto the quayside, I asked, “You did not tell me, Padraig, why is the Magdalene painted black?”
“That I cannot say. It has been suggested that it was the color of her cloak when she came to these shores, and that is how she was known to the people: the Black Mary. Others say it is to distinguish her from the mother of Jesu, since they are so often confused one for the other.” He paused thoughtfully, then said, “Wise Pelagius said that it was to hide a secret which those who revere the Black Mary hold sacred and guard to the death.”
The Black Rood Page 17
