At the sound of the door closing, Commander de Bracineaux called, “Here, girl.”
Steadying the tray, she moved through the darkened room toward the balcony. De Bracineaux’s back was to her, and the other man—a younger fellow with a large, beak-like nose, fair, straight hair and a fine, silky wisp of a beard—was leaning on the table with his arms crossed. Neither man was armed, and both were deep in conversation. A quick strike from behind, and she would be gone again before the Templar knew what had happened.
“Think what it is worth,” de Bracineaux was saying.
“More than I can imagine,” the fair-haired one replied. “I should think the pope will give you anything you want. The reward will be yours to name.”
“Ha!” de Bracineaux sneered. “If you think that conniving old lecher is going to get his poxy hands on it, then you, my friend, are an even bigger ass than his high holiness.”
One step, and another, and she would be in position. Before she could reach the table, however, the second man looked up. “I have not seen you before,” he said, rising abruptly.
Cait halted.
“Let me help you with that heavy thing.” He grinned and stepped toward her, but the Templar grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his chair. “Sit down, d’Anjou,” he growled. “Plenty of time for that later.”
The younger man lowered himself to his seat again, and Cait proceeded to the table, remaining behind de Bracineaux and out of his sight. She placed the tray on the table, and made to step away, her right hand reaching for the hilt of the slender dagger at her back.
As her fingers tightened on the braided grip, the Templar cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. She saw his lowered brow and the set of his jaw, and feared the worst.
Silently, she slipped the dagger from its sheath, ready to strike. But the light of recognition failed to illumine his eyes. “Well?” he demanded. “Get to your work, now. Light the lamps and leave us.”
Cait hesitated, waiting for him to settle back in his chair. When she did not move, the Templar turned on her. “Do as I say, girl, and be quick about it!”
Startled, Cait stepped back a pace, almost losing her grip on the weapon.
“Peace, Renaud,” said his companion. Reaching out, he took the Templar’s sleeve and tugged him around. “Come, I have poured the wine.” He raised his cup and took a long, deep draft.
De Bracineaux swung back to the table, picked up his cup and, tilting his head back, let the wine run down his gullet. Now! thought Cait, rising onto the balls of her feet. Do it now!
Her hand freed the knife and she moved forward. At that instant, without warning, the door burst open and a thick-set, bull-necked Templar strode into the room behind her. Cait whipped the dagger out of sight, and backed away.
“Ah, here is Gislebert now!” said d’Anjou loudly.
The Templar paused as he passed, regarding Cait with dull suspicion. She ducked her head humbly, and quickly retreated into the darkened room.
“Come, sergeant,” called the fair-haired man, “raise a cup and give us the good news. Are we away to Jerusalem at last?”
“My lord, baron,” said Gislebert, turning his attention to the others. “Good to see you, sir. You had a pleasant journey, I trust.”
As the men began talking once more, Cait was forgotten—her chance ruined. She might cut one or even two men before they could react, but never three. And the sergeant was armed.
Still, she was close. The opportunity might never come again.
Reluctant to give up, she busied herself in the adjoining room, steeling herself for another attempt. Fetching some straw from the corner of the hearth, she stooped and lit it from the pile of embers. There was a lamp on the table, two candles in a double sconce on the wall by the bed, and a candletree in the corner. She lit the candles first, taking her time, hoping that Gislebert would leave.
She moved to the table and, as she touched the last of the straw to the lamp wick, became aware that someone was watching her from the doorway. Fearing she had been discovered at last, she took a deep breath, steadied herself and cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.
She did not see him at first. Her eyes went to the men who were still at the table on the balcony, cups in hand, their voices a murmur of intimate conversation. They were no longer heeding her. But, as she bent once more to the task at hand, she caught a movement in a darkened corner of the room and turned just as a man stepped from the shadows.
She stifled a gasp.
Dressed in the long white robe of a priest, he held up his hand, palm outward in an attitude of blessing—or to hold her in her place. Perhaps both, she thought. A man of youthful appearance, his hair and beard were black without a trace of gray and the curls clipped like the shorn pelt of a sheep. His eyes, though set deep beneath a dark and heavy brow, were bright and his glance was keen. He stepped forward into the doorway, placing himself between Cait and the men.
When he moved she felt a shudder in the air, as if a gust of wind had swept in through the open door; but the candles did not so much as quiver. At the same time, she smelled the fresh, clean scent of the heathered hills after a storm has passed.
“Do not be afraid,” said the man, his voice calm and low. “I merely wish to speak to you.”
Cait glanced nervously beyond him to where the Templar and his companions sat at their wine.
“Blind guides,” he said, indicating the men. “They have neither eyes to see, nor ears to hear.”
“Who are you?” As she asked the question, she glanced again at de Bracineaux and his companions; now laughing heartily, they appeared oblivious to both her and the stranger.
“Call me Brother Andrew,” he said.
At the name, Cait felt her throat tighten. She gulped down a breath of air. “I know about you,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “My father told me.”
“Your family has been in my service for a long time. That is why I have come—to ask if you will renew the vow of your father and grandfather.”
“What vow is that?”
“I asked young Murdo to build me a kingdom where my sheep could safely graze…”
“Build it far, far away from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving,” Cait said, repeating the words she had learned as a child on her grandfather’s knee. “Make it a kingdom where the True Path can be followed in peace and the Holy Light can shine as a beacon flame in the night.”
He smiled. “There, you see? You do know it.”
“He did that. He built you a kingdom,” she said bluntly, “and died an old man—waiting for you to come as you promised.”
“Truly, his faith has been rewarded a thousandfold,” the White Priest told her. “But now it is your turn. In each generation the vow must be renewed. I ask you, sister, will you serve me?”
At the question, Cait felt a hardness rise up in her, like a rock in her chest. She hesitated and looked away, not daring to meet the White Priest’s commanding gaze.
“Caitríona,” chided Brother Andrew gently, “I know what is in your heart.”
When she did not answer, the monk shook his head sadly and moved a step closer. “Thus says the Lord of Hosts: ‘As surely as I live forever, when I sharpen my fiery sword and my hand grasps it in judgment, I will take vengeance on my enemies and repay those who hate me.’”
She set her jaw and clung to her silence.
“I ask you, sister, do you believe that the Great King is able to perform justice for his servants?”
Her answer was quick and biting. “If his justice is as ready as his protection, his servants had better sleep with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other.”
“His ways are not our ways. Whatever misfortune befalls one of his own, the Allwise Creator is able to bend it to his will. He will not suffer evil to prevail,” he replied.
She could feel his eyes on her, but she was determined not to be swayed by anything he said. “And yet it does prevail.”
“Look at me, Caitríona,” the monk commanded. She raised her eyes slowly. He was watching her with an intensity which burned across the distance between them. “I ask but once more: will you serve me?”
Both her father and her grandfather had stood before the White Priest, and both had answered his call. How could she do less?
“I will,” she replied at last.
“Then put aside your wrath, and believe. For it is written: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, says the Lord. In due time their foot will slip; the day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.’ Behold,” he said, pointing to the table behind her, “this is the work I am giving you. When it is finished, you shall receive the desires of your heart.”
She turned to look where he was pointing and saw a parchment document—a formal-looking communication in Latin. The image on the broken seal looked regal, and the signature at the bottom of the document was in red ink—as were the words Rosa Mystica.
Cait picked up the letter and turned to ask what it was the White Priest wanted her to do. But he was gone, and she was alone once more. She looked at the letter in her hand, but before she could read any of it, de Bracineaux shouted from the other room. “Here! You! Get away from there!”
“For the love of God, de Bracineaux, leave the wench be,” said d’Anjou.
“I will see her off,” said Gislebert. He rose from the table and lumbered in from the balcony.
Taking up the tray once more, Cait whipped the folded parchment out of sight beneath it. She turned and made a slight bow toward the men, then bolted from the room. Gislebert watched her go, and then moved to the door, closing it firmly after her.
She stepped out into the corridor once more. Alethea was hovering in the passageway, wringing her hands and looking as if she had swallowed a mouse. “Are you all right?” she asked as Cait emerged from the chamber.
“No thanks to you,” snapped Cait. “You were supposed to warn me.”
“He surprised me.”
“Yes, he surprised me too.”
“Now you are angry,” pouted Alethea. “He came up behind me and caught me lingering by the door and told me to get about my business. What could I do?”
They moved quickly off along the corridor. Returning to the vestibule, Cait laid the tray aside and, while Thea kept watch, drew on her mantle once more and tucked the parchment away; then the two women descended the stairs and retraced their steps outside where, as arranged, the chair and bearers were still waiting. They climbed into the chair, and Cait instructed Philippianous to take them to the Bucoleon Harbor.
“Well?” demanded Alethea, as they passed through the gate and back into the street once more. “What happened? Did you see him?”
“I saw him,” muttered Cait.
“Well, what did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“You were in there a long time. He must have said something,” insisted Alethea.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cait caught Philippianous leaning toward them so as to overhear their discussion. “Not now,” Cait told her sister. “Later.”
“I want to hear it now.”
“Shut up, you stupid girl,” Cait blurted, changing to Gaelic. “They are listening to us.”
“All very well for you,” squeaked Alethea indignantly, “Lady Caitríona gets to do whatever she likes, while I have to be her dutiful slave.”
Cait turned away from her sister and watched the activity in the streets instead. Fires bright in iron braziers and countless oil lamps illumined the night with a garish glow. In some of the broader avenues, musicians played—pipe and lute, tambor and lyre—and people danced, hands upraised, stepping lightly as they spun and turned. Occasionally, an enterprising merchant would approach the passing chair and offer his wares: bangles and necklaces of colored glass beads, pots of perfumed unguent, satin ribbons, and tiny bunches of dried flowers for the ladies’ hair.
The variety and charm of the baubles distracted Alethea from her sister’s stinging rebuke, and she would have stopped and bought trinkets from them all, but Cait instructed Philippianous and his bearers to move on. As they neared the seafront, the streets became quieter and darker—the houses meaner, the people more furtive, sinister. Arriving at the harbor, however, the seamen and sailors drinking wine and playing dice on the wharf gave the quayside a less threatening atmosphere.
More than one lonely seafarer licked his lips hopefully as the two women stepped from the chair. One or two of the younger men called to them, offering wine and an evening’s entertainment. “As agreed,” said Cait, dropping a stack of small silver coins into Philippianous’ outstretched hand. “And, as promised, a little extra for your trouble.” She dropped a few more coins into his hand.
“This,” she said, taking out a single gold solidus, “is for forgetting you ever saw us. Do you think you can do that?”
“Most certainly, gracious lady.” He reached for the coin eagerly.
She snatched it back. “I beg your pardon?”
A sly smile appeared on his face. “Is someone speaking? I see no one here.”
She let the coin slip through her fingers. “Excuse me, I think you must have dropped something.”
“How clumsy of me,” replied Philippianous, bending to retrieve the coin. When he straightened, the two women were already hurrying away.
Cait and Alethea moved quickly toward the ship Persephone at the end of the wharf, ignoring the shouted pleas and propositions their presence provoked. Once aboard, they were met by Haemur. “Thank God you are safe,” he said, hurrying from his place at the stern. “It grew dark, and when you did not return, I feared something ill had befallen you.”
Cait thanked the pilot for his concern, and said, “We are perfectly well, as you see. But now, I want you to wake Otti and Olvir, and move the ship away from the wharf and into the bay.”
“Now?” Haemur thrust out his hands. “But, my lady, it is too dark. We cannot—”
“Enough, Haemur.” Cait stopped him with an upraised hand. “I would not insist if it was not important.”
With that, she went to the brass lamp hanging from a hook on the mast, lit a candle from the basket on the deck, and proceeded to her quarters below, leaving an unhappy pilot staring after her.
“I am sorry, Haemur,” Alethea offered sympathetically. “You had best do as she says, or there will be the devil to pay.”
“Very well,” replied the seaman. He hurried off to rouse his crew, and Alethea joined her sister in their quarters.
“You could try to be a little more—” she began, and then stopped as she saw Cait bring out the folded parchment from beneath her girdle. “Where did you get that?” she asked, then guessed. “You stole it!”
“Hush!” Cait snapped. Opening the letter, she sat down on the edge of the box bed to read it.
Alethea watched her sister for a moment; then, indignation overcome by curiosity, she joined her on the bed. “What is it? What does it say?”
Cait ignored her and continued to read silently to herself. When she finished, she looked up from the page. “Thea, do you know what this is?”
“How can I? You tell me nothing.”
Cait made no reply. She was reading the document again.
“Well?” demanded Thea after a moment. “What does it say?”
“They have found a very great treasure—”
“Who?”
“The greatest treasure in the world—that is what he says.”
“Who says? Who wrote it?”
“A cleric called Bertrano. He calls it the Rosa Mystica.”
“The Mystic Rose?” mused Thea, none the wiser. “What does that mean?”
Cait shook her head, scanning the document again. “He says only that it is beyond price—see?” She pointed to the letters in the tight Latin uncials of the scriptorium, and read out the words: “…that which is beyond all price, the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the
kingdom to come, the Mystic Rose.”
Thea shrugged.
“Obviously, it is a name employed to conceal the true nature of the treasure.”
“And this letter tells where to find it?”
“It does—I think.” She pointed to the portion of the document written in a different language. “I cannot read the rest, but I think it must tell where the treasure is to be found.”
The younger woman regarded her sister suspiciously. “Why did we go to the palace tonight? And do not say it was to steal this letter, because you did not even know it was there.”
Cait stood and began folding the letter carefully.
“You are going to have to tell me sooner or later,” Thea pointed out. “You might as well tell me now.”
“We must hide this where no one can find it.”
“Cait,” said Alethea, adopting a disagreeable whine, “tell me—why did we go to the palace?”
Cait sat down again. Placing the parchment square on her knees, she held it in both hands as if she was afraid it might unfold itself and fly away. “Listen carefully. I will say this but once. We went there to confront Father’s murderer and hold him to justice.” She gazed steadily at Alethea and added, “I was going to kill him.”
Alethea gaped in amazement at her sister’s audacity. “The knife…It is true—you were going to stab him…” Her voice trailed off as the full impact of her sister’s ruthlessness broke upon her. “Oh, Cait—”
“Renaud de Bracineaux murdered our father,” she continued. “Papa named him before he died. The magistrate refused to accept the word of a woman; he refused to do anything—so I had to do it myself.”
“Oh, Cait,” Thea whispered, her voice made small by the magnitude of her sister’s cold-blooded confession. “God help us.”
Caitríona gazed down at the document she held in her lap. “I think,” she said, “he already has.”
FIVE
“IS THAT THE one?” demanded Renaud de Bracineaux, squinting at the rank of hire chairs across the square.
“It is, my lord commander,” answered the porter of Blachernae Palace. “He comes to the palace sometimes.”
The Mystic Rose Page 5