By evening, they were back aboard the ship, and remained in the harbour for the night. Having discovered the Norsemen's fondness for ale, Cait thought it best to move on as quickly as possible, putting out to sea again at first light the next morning to continue their journey north along the coast. The evening of the second day, they arrived at Porto Cales, where again they stopped for the night. Haemur's chart was good, but not so exact that he felt confident to navigate the treacherous, often lethal waters of the rock-strewn coast ahead; he wanted to talk to the local fishermen and find out all he could about their destination. So they put in for the night and, while Abu and Haemur, with chart in hand, spent most of the next day conversing with the boat owners and sailors of the town, the others prowled the marketplaces-except for Svein, Dag, and Yngvar, who prowled only as far as the waterfront inn and remained blissfully occupied drinking ale until Rognvald came and fetched them back to the ship.
'The best counsel, my lady,' reported Haemur on his return, 'is to go up coast to Pons Vetus and hire a guide for the way ahead.'
'There are many ways to Santiago de Compostela,' Abu put in. 'The entire city is a shrine to Saint James the Great and many pilgrims come there to reverence his bones. It is second only to Jerusalem, they say.'
'Can we go and see it?' asked Thea. 'Oh, Cait, can we?'
Ignoring her, Cait said, 'And did anyone happen to mention which of the many ways to the city we should take?'
'The best way for us is by river,' answered Abu. 'They say the river is wide and deep enough to take the ship, but the channels can be difficult for the unwary.'
'It will cost a little,' Haemur said, 'and no doubt I could do it myself if pressed to it. But if it please you, my lady, I would feel better for the use of someone who knows the water hereabouts.' He paused, then added, 'Your father would not thank me to wreck his beloved Persephone and forsake you and your lady sister in a foreign land.'
'Nor would I, Haemur,' replied Cait. 'But thanks to you, I am certain that will not happen. I am happy to trust in your good judgement.'
'Very good, my lady. God willing,' he said, as if resigning himself to an irksome task, 'I will take on a guide at Pons Vetus.'
Two days later, that is what they did. The fisherfolk of the busy little port knew the region well, and when it was discovered there was silver to be had for showing the strangers the way, Haemur had no end of offers from which to choose. Eventually, he decided on a man of mature age, like himself, who had for many years fished the coastal waters and supplied the Galician markets with his catches.
'Wise you are,' the fisherman told them when he came aboard at sunrise the next morning. 'To many folk the river is just a river. They learn otherwise to their disadvantage. The Ulla is chancy -especially above the bend. But never fear, Gines will see you safe to port without a worry.'
With that, the old seaman took his place beside Haemur; and although neither man could comprehend the other, with Abu and Olvir's help, and much use of the signs, nudges, and nods recognized by sailors the world over, the two men soon formed a rough understanding of one another. Gines directed the old Norse pilot around the peninsula, and up through the scattered rocks and islets on the other side. It was slow work, and the tide was out by the time they reached the river mouth. 'It will be dark before the water is high enough again,' Gines told them. 'The weather is going to change. We will find no better place to stay tonight. If you are asking me, I would say to drop anchor right here and proceed when it is light-weather permitting.'
Although the sky seemed clear and the day mild enough, they accepted the old fisherman's advice, and prepared to spend the night idly drifting in the sluggish river current. After supper, Cait soon lost interest in listening to the sailors trade sea tales and watching the knights drink wine; she summoned a complaining Alethea and went below deck to bed. In her sleep, she dreamed that she and her father had completed the pilgrimage and returned home. She awakened when she felt the ship begin to move again and went up on deck to find what at first sight appeared to be a dream come true: they were back in Caithness.
The sky was thick and dark and low; clouds lay on the hilltops and it was raining gently. The hills themselves were green and steep, and covered with splotches of yellow gorse and the criss-crossing patterns of sheep trails etched in the thick turf. The rounded bulges of granite boulders broke the smooth surface of the hills, like the tops of ancient grey skull-bones wearing through their moss-green burial shroud.
White morning mist searched down the slopes, twisting around the stones with long, ghostly fingers.
In all, the landscape of Galicia evoked her homeland so suddenly and solidly that before Cait knew it, tears were running down her cheeks. More mystified than melancholy, she nevertheless felt the inexplicable pull of her far-off homeland and marvelled that this place should appear so remarkably like Scotland.
'Here, my lady,' called the old pilot from the helm, 'I never saw a place looked more like home. If I knew no better, I'd say we were come to Caithness.'
'He is right,' remarked Olvir. 'I was thinking the same thing.'
Cait nodded and moved quickly to the rail so that Haemur and the others would not see her crying; she stood wrapped in her mantle gazing at the mist-covered hills as they slid slowly past. When the knights came on deck to break fast, she was dry-eyed once more and ready to embark on the next stage of the journey.
It was after midday when the ship came to the small river town of Iria. 'There is a hostler at the crossroads in the town. You can hire horses from him,' Gines told them. 'Compostela is not far, and you will soon be there.'
As it happened, the hostler had only two horses left for hire. Not wishing to wait until others became available, Cait took the two: for herself and Rognvald. The others, she decided, could remain behind with the ship, and she and Rognvald would travel more quickly without a crowd to slow them. Thus, they set off early the next day and undertook the ride through thickly wooded countryside. The road was old and straight, a Roman road, but well-maintained and busy, passing through several little hamlets and holdings in the valley bottoms.
They rode through forests of beech and oak, damp from the rain and heavy with the smell of ferns. As the day progressed, the clouds parted and the sun grew warm. They began to pass bedraggled travellers on foot, some cloaked in brown and stumping along with long wooden staffs, wearing wide-brimmed cockle hats. Most of those they passed had scallop shells sewn on their hats and on their cloaks. No doubt, she reckoned, these were some of the pilgrims Abu had mentioned; but what the crude symbol might signify, she could not imagine. They also overtook farmers carrying braces of chickens, trudging along beside their wives lugging baskets of eggs, or bunches of onions, or carrots, or bushels of beans, and once an oxcart piled high with turnips, and another with yellow squash as big and round as heads.
They made good time and reached the walls of Compostela before sunset. The city gates were still open and upon passing through, they immediately entered a wide stone-paved street leading to a great square, in the centre of which stood an enormous basilica. On this pleasant summer's eve, pilgrims without number thronged the square; those who were not waiting their turn to go into the church were either encamped on the bare earth of the square, or crowding around one of the scores of booths and stalls which had been set up to sell food, clothing, or trinkets-such as painted scallop shells, brass badges, drinking gourds, or sandals-to the restless pilgrim population that ebbed and flowed through the city like a brown, beggarly tide.
'He must be a miracle man, this saint of theirs,' observed Rognvald in amazement at the hordes. 'I have not seen anything of this kind since Jerusalem, and even there it was not like this.'
Besides the holy wanderers, there were traders, moneychangers, merchants, vendors of food and drink and the produce of the surrounding fields, and labourers of every kind. For the precinct of Sancti lacobi was rapidly becoming a town in its own right; with a dozen or more grand buildings in various stages o
f construction, the square seemed more like a building site than an ecclesiastical precinct.
In the streets surrounding the square numerous inns had been built to serve travellers of better means. Cait decided on a small establishment with a red rose painted on a placard above the door. 'This is the one for us,' she said, and Rognvald went in to enquire about rooms for the night.
'They will have us,' he reported, 'for two silver denari a night -each. There are others who will take less.'
'I am content,' she replied. Lord Rognvald signalled a young man who came at a run to take their horses; as he led them away, Cait and Rognvald went in to make the acquaintance of the innkeeper, a small bald man with a large moustache and a swollen jaw from an abscessed tooth. He was wearing a poultice of herbs soaked in vinegar and wrapped in a cloth tied to the top of his head. 'Peace and comfort, my friends,' he said thickly, trying to smile through his pain. 'I am Miguel. Welcome to my house. Please, come in and sit while I make your rooms ready. There is bread on the table and wine in the jar. I also have ale, if you prefer. Supper will be served at sundown.'
He heeded off, pressing a hand to the side of his cheek, and Cait and Rognvald found places at one of the two large tables in the centre of the hall-like room, one side of which was taken up by a great hearth on which half a pig was sizzling away over a bed of glowing coals. Owing to the cost of the rooms the inn was not crowded, and the guests were of a higher rank than the mendicants who swarmed to the monastery porches and hospices. Their fellow-lodgers were merchants and wealthier pilgrims for whom a visit to the shrine of the blessed saint was not a particular hardship.
Still, after the fresh air of the open sea, Cait found the smoky confines of the inn almost suffocating and was heartily glad when, after a supper of roast pork, bean soup, mashed turnips, and boiled greens, she could at last leave Rognvald and the travelling tradesmen to their stoups of ale and news of the world and retire to her room. Not much larger than her quarters aboard ship, it was swept clean, and the box which made the bed was filled with fresh straw and the coverings were washed linen.
She undressed, hanging her mantle and shift on a peg on the door, and happily sank into the bed-only to spend an all-but-sleepless night scheming how best to get Archbishop Bertrano to reveal the secret of the Mystic Rose. She had had plenty of time to ponder this since leaving Constantinople. But as many plans as she had made, that many had been discarded along the way. Now it was time to decide, and she was still far from certain what to do.
The following morning, as they walked across the busy square, an anxious Cait schooled a thoughtful Rognvald in the necessity of gaining the cleric's confidence before broaching the true subject of their visit. 'He must not suspect we are anything but genuine pilgrims,' she said. 'We will get the measure of him first, and then decide how to proceed. Understand?'
'Aye,' replied Rognvald, absently, 'I understand.'
They strolled through the gathering crowds to the huge oak doors of the archbishop's palace hard by the great basilica which, according to the pilgrims at the inn, contained the holy remains of the blessed lacobus Magnus, Saint James the Great, disciple and companion of Christ. It was the apostle's venerable bones that drew the penitent pilgrims in ever-increasing numbers. At the palace, they presented themselves to the much-put-upon porter, who eyed them with weary indifference. 'God be good to you. I am Brother Thaddeus,' he said in clipped, precise Latin. 'How may I help you?'
'Greetings in the name of Our Lord and Saviour,' said Rognvald, stepping towards him. 'We are looking for Archbishop Bertrano. It is a matter of some importance.'
Thaddeus regarded his visitors blankly, and said, 'He is not difficult to find, but you must take your chances like everyone else.'
'We would be happy to make an appointment to see him when it is more convenient,' suggested Cait.
The priest smiled pityingly. 'You misunderstand. The archbishop is overseeing the construction of the new monastery. He is seldom to be found in residence.' The monk lifted a hand towards the tower of timber scaffolding in a corner of the square and then closed the door.
They walked to the place and were soon standing on the edge of a cleared mound where, amidst vast heaps of grey stone and a veritable forest of timber, the stately curtain walls of a sizeable chapel and bell tower were slowly rising, block by heavy granite block. The place was seething with workers: an army of masons, stone-cutters, and sculptors, scores of rough labourers, and dozens of hauliers with their mules and teams of yoked oxen-all of them moving in concert to the loud exhortations of a large, fat-bellied man dressed in the simple black robes of a rural cleric. His jowls were freshly shaved, and his round face glowed with the heat of his exertion.
'Leave it to me,' Rognvald told her as they approached. 'I have a bold idea.'
'What are you-wait!' Cait began, but it was too late. Rognvald was already hailing the priest, who turned to regard his visitors with a scowl that would have curdled milk in a bucket.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'Pax vobiscum!' called Rognvald, cupping a hand to his mouth. With the creaking of windlass and wagon, the groaning of the ropes, the lowing of oxen, braying of mules, and the dull continuous clatter of hammer and chisel on stone, the Norseman had to shout to make himself heard above the din. 'We are looking for Bertrano, Lord of this Holy See.'
'God be good to you, my friend. You have found him.' Turning from his visitors, he cried, 'Not there! Not there!' Bertrano waved his hands at a group of workmen shovelling white powdered lime into a pile beside the half-raised bell tower. Despite his rank, the archbishop appeared perfectly at ease amidst the clamour and dust of the building site. Indeed, the only thing that set him apart from one of his many labourers was the wooden cross swinging by a beaded loop from his wide leather belt. 'On the other side! It goes there -' Bertrano pointed to a heap of sand, 'there-on the other side, you see?'
'I commend you, archbishop,' offered Cait politely when they had succeeded in gaining his attention once more and finished introducing themselves. 'Your monastery will be a marvel of the builder's art.'
'A very marvel, indeed, good lady,' agreed the archbishop sourly, 'if, by some miracle, it is ever finished.' Red-faced, puffing, and sweating – for all the sun had only just risen-the fat man wiped his forehead with a damp sleeve and shouted a terse order to a mule driver who was just trundling past, dragging a length of timber with a chain.
'Why should it not be finished?' she asked.
'Ask the king!' cried Archbishop Bertrano. 'It is his interminable campaigns that keep us limping along like lame lepers when we should be racing like champions to achieve God's glory.'
'If not for the king,' suggested Rognvald, 'the Muhammedans would still rule this part of the world, no?'
The harried archbishop threw him a withering glance. 'What do you know about it?' He cast a disdainful eye on the tall knight's sword. 'There is more to life than brawling, battling, and wenching.'
Before the knight could beg his pardon, the archbishop softened. 'Forgive me, son, I have allowed my temper to get the better of me. God's truth, I am a tyrant until I've broken fast; afterwards, I am mild as a lamb.'
'We would not think of keeping you,' Cait began. 'Perhaps we might return later when -'
'Nonsense,' replied the archbishop, striding away. 'Come, we will break bread together and you can tell me the news of-where did you say you have been?'
'The Holy Land,' said Rognvald confidently.
'Ah, yes, the Holy Land.' Bertrano led them to a small wattle and thatch hut across the way, in the centre of what would one day become the monastery's cloisters; there three monks had prepared a table for the archbishop. At his approach, the monks hastened to fetch the archbishop's throne-like ecclesiastical chair from inside the hut; this they placed at the head of the table. The chair was high-backed and bore the image of an eagle on each armrest; a fine cross was carved into the massive top rail; gilded and surrounded by hemispheres of cut and polished jet, the golden
cross looked as if it were encircled by a string of shiny black pearls.
'I had the workmen put up this hut so I might oversee the work,' Archbishop Bertrano said, indicating the sturdy little house. He gathered his robes and settled his bulk in the chair; the monks drew the table up to his stomach, and then darted back inside to begin serving the food. 'You simply would not believe the morass of problems that require my attention.' He waved his guests to places on stools either side of the table, rinsed his hands in a bowl of water offered by one of the monks, and then wiped them on his robe. 'Eternal vigilance, my friends, is all that separates us from everlasting chaos.'
'I imagine it can be very taxing,' replied Cait sympathetically.
'Just you try building a bell tower,' growled Bertrano, 'and then come and teach me about taxing.'
Cait, stung by the remark, felt her face growing red. The archbishop gulped and smacked his forehead with his hand.
'God help me, I have done it again! I beg your kind indulgence, my lady. Please, let us sit in contemplative silence, I pray you, until we've got something in us to dull hunger's sharp edge.'
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