The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “You know better than I the kind of man he was,” said Rognvald with touching conviction.

  “That, sir, is the kind of man he was!” cried the archbishop, his broad face suffused with a ruddy rapture. “Noble through and through.”

  “He told me something else,” Rognvald confided, leaning nearer. “His last days were difficult, as you might expect; talking, however, gave him some peace. It comforted him to unburden his soul.” He leaned closer still, as if he feared he might be overheard. The archbishop bent his head nearer. “This is why we have come.”

  “Indeed?” wondered Bertrano. “Then tell me, my son. If it is a confession, I will hear it.”

  “The matter that most upset him concerned a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “A special letter,” confirmed Rognvald. “From you, Archbishop Bertrano.”

  “From me!” The cleric sat back and gazed at the knight in amazement. “In Heaven’s name, what can it mean? Are you certain this letter was from me?”

  Rognvald nodded in solemn earnest. “He was very agitated about it,” said the knight. “Toward the end he spoke of nothing else. I think it pained him to leave his task undone. And that is why he confided in me. There was no one else, you see. He wanted me to carry on the work that he had begun.”

  Bertrano grew thoughtful; he gazed out toward the unfinished tower. “Did he tell you what he had undertaken?”

  “Alas, no,” answered the knight. “He made me swear upon my life and the life hereafter that if ever I was to receive my freedom, I was to come to you, Archbishop Bertrano, and tell you what had happened. He said that you would explain all I needed to know.” The knight spread his hands, as if humbly offering himself for the churchman’s inspection. “Here I am.”

  “Great God in heaven!” cried the archbishop, leaping to his feet and almost overturning the table in his effort to extricate himself from his chair. “No! No!”

  Both Rognvald and Cait drew back in alarm. Rognvald stood, hands outstretched to calm the suddenly ferocious cleric. Cait, astonished at the abrupt change in the archbishop’s demeanor, jumped up and started after him, furiously trying to think what the Norwegian lord had said to so completely antagonize the archbishop as to send him fleeing from the table.

  “Please,” she called, “wait!”

  Archbishop Bertrano threw her a hasty glance over his shoulder. “No! It is all going wrong!”

  “We meant no offence. Can we not return to our discussion?”

  “Not you,” the archbishop said, “the tower!” He thrust an angry finger before him. Cait looked where he was pointing, and saw an ox-drawn sledge loaded with stone. The driver was tossing the rough blocks onto a heap of fresh-cut stone. “Come to me after vespers. We will dine together and I will tell you everything. I must go!” He raced on, shouting, “You there! Stop! Desist, I say, or I shall excommunicate you at once!”

  FIFTEEN

  “I CONFESS I find it difficult to believe,” Archbishop Bertrano was saying. He looked from Cait to Rognvald, and shook his head. “That a man like de Bracineaux should be cut down so cruelly…I am sorry; it is most untimely, and it saddens me greatly.”

  “Nor are you alone in your grief,” offered Cait sympathetically. “I have only recently lost my father.”

  “Accept my deepest condolences, my child,” said the archbishop. “More wine?”

  He reached for the silver jar and filled all three cups, beginning with his own. He took a long draft and, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, said, “Now then, I have been thinking about this letter you have mentioned. It can only be the letter I wrote and dispatched to the pope some time ago. Did the commander tell you what this letter contained?”

  “Only that it was a matter of highest and utmost importance,” offered Rognvald. “I think he feared revealing too much lest our captors somehow discover the secret.”

  “In that, he showed the wisdom that made him such a formidable leader of men.” The archbishop took another drink, and laid the cup aside. He fixed his visitors with a stern and cautious stare. “Are you certain he said nothing more about the contents of the letter?”

  “By my faith, no, my lord archbishop,” answered Rognvald truthfully. “He breathed not a word to me.”

  The table around which the three were gathered was large, round and splendidly made of polished oak; it nearly filled the chamber. Before them was sweetened wine in a large silver flagon, and a platter of ripe figs. Although modest, the room bordered a walled garden, and for this reason the archbishop often used it to welcome his more intimate guests. Sparrows returning to the roost twitched and twittered in the branches of the orange trees outside, adding to the heightened anticipation for Cait.

  “Well, you have said it. For it is indeed a matter of utmost and highest importance,” the churchman continued. “And now that I know my message has gone astray, as it were, I shall send to the pope to inform him of the tragedy.”

  Cait swallowed hard. Did he mean to tell them nothing after all? Before she could think how best to proceed, Rognvald, nodding sympathetically, said, “No doubt that would be best.”

  It was all Cait could do to stifle a scream of frustration. She took a drink from her cup to hide her aggravation.

  “Then it is settled,” Bertrano concluded happily. “I shall write to the pope at once and send it by swift courier.”

  Rognvald smiled diffidently, and Cait narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her cup, silently urging him to speak up before it was too late.

  “The Templars will be choosing a new Master of Jerusalem soon enough, I expect,” the knight replied. “We can but pray it will be someone who shares de Bracineaux’s integrity and zeal.” He paused, then added, “I tremble to think what would happen if the reward of your hard work was to be usurped by an emperor-loving Judas.”

  “But what do you mean?” wondered the archbishop, a crease of worry appearing on his brow.

  “Just that,” said Rognvald. “Nothing more.”

  “Do you think there might be a chance that could happen?”

  Rognvald shrugged. “I should not like to say.”

  “Come now, sir,” stormed the archbishop, striking the tabletop with a fist. “If you know something, you must tell me.”

  “I fear I have said too much already.” Rognvald raised his hands in surrender. “I beg you do not force me, for I would not like it to be thought that I slandered another man’s name. In truth, it is none of my concern, and I will say no more.”

  “No, sir!” blurted Bertrano, growing agitated. “That will not do at all. I must know if my purpose is likely to go astray.”

  “I assure you, my lord archbishop,” answered Rognvald a little stiffly, “I have told you all that can be said.” He appeared about to say something further, but thought better of it, and closed his mouth instead.

  The archbishop saw his hesitation and pounced on it. “Ah, you do know something!” he crowed. “Tell me, my son; keep nothing back. I am a priest, remember; with me, all confessions are sacred.”

  “It was only a thought,” began Rognvald. He turned to Cait, as if seeking her approval.

  “Go on, my darling,” she urged him sweetly. “Let us hold nothing secret from this honest and upright churchman.”

  The archbishop gazed at him benevolently; his features, warmed by the wine to a fine mellow glow, arranged themselves in an expression of compassionate understanding. “It is for the good of all,” the archbishop intoned in his best confessional voice. “Allow me to hear your thoughts and we will decide what to do.”

  “Let it be as you say,” said Rognvald, as if relieved to have the thorny decision behind him. “Here is the nub: it occurred to me that there might be a way to ensure the harmony and, shall we say, the original integrity of the enterprise so cruelly curtailed by the Saracens.”

  “Yes? Go on,” urged Bertrano, “I am listening.”

  “If you agree, I might fulfill that certain task which troubled his las
t days, and which death forced him to abandon.” The archbishop shook his head in sorrow over the sad plight of the suffering Templar’s trouble-filled last days. “In short,” Rognvald continued, “I could serve in de Bracineaux’s place.”

  Before the churchman could respond to this, Rognvald turned to Cait, stretched out his hand and took hers, saying, “I am sorry, my love. I know I should have discussed it with you, but the notion just occurred to me.”

  The cleric gazed at the knight thoughtfully, and then, with a clap of his hands, declared, “I am liking this. Continue.”

  “It seemed to me that a letter, even by swiftest courier, would take several months to reach the Templars—if it should reach Jerusalem at all. It could so easily go astray and fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Too true,” agreed Archbishop Bertrano. “I feared as much with the first epistle. But if you were to act for me in this, it would hasten our undertaking to a favorable outcome.”

  “Am I to have nothing to say in this matter?” Cait said, adopting the manner of a neglected and much-put-upon wife. Turning to the churchman, she said, “You must forgive me, archbishop, if I find the prospect of losing my husband less than agreeable. He was three years in prison,” she lowered her eyes modestly, “and I have only just got him back.”

  “I can but apologize, my love,” answered Rognvald, “and beg your pardon.” To the archbishop he said, “My wife is right. I pray you will excuse me, and release me from the duty I have so rashly proposed.”

  The trusting cleric, distressed to see the perfect solution to his dilemma receding as swiftly as it had presented itself, raised his hands in a fatherly gesture of mediation. “Peace, dear friends. Let us not make any hasty decisions we will soon regret. I am certain there is nothing to prevent us proceeding along a harmonious and, dare I say, mutually beneficial path.”

  To Cait he said, “My dear, I can well understand your reluctance in this regard. But once you learn the nature of the prize before us, you will understand. Moreover, you will embrace our purpose with a zeal you cannot now imagine.”

  Cait regarded the cleric doubtfully. “Since you put it that way,” she allowed, none too certainly, “perhaps you had better tell me about this prize, whatever it might be.”

  “Oh, my lady, it is not to be spoken of lightly,” said Bertrano, growing earnest. “For it is a wonder long concealed from the world, but pleasing God to reveal in our time to further the glorious conquest of his Blessed Son over the heathen infidel.”

  He raised his cup and gulped down more wine, as if fortifying himself for what he was about to divulge. Delicately wiping his mouth on his sleeve once more, he leaned forward in an attitude of clandestine solemnity. Cait and Rognvald drew nearer, too.

  “The Rose of Mystic Virtue,” he announced, savoring the words. Eyes shining with excitement, he looked from one to the other of his guests, and seeing the uncomprehending expressions, exclaimed, “Here! Does the name mean nothing to you?”

  “Upon my word, it does not,” Cait confessed, beguiling in her innocence. “What does it betoken?”

  “The holiest, most worshipful object that ever was known,” declared the archbishop. “It is nothing less than the very cup used by our Lord and Savior in the holy communion of the Last Supper.”

  Yes! Cait’s heart quickened. At last! Oh, and what a rare treasure indeed. Beyond price, to be sure. The treasure of the ages, she thought, remembering the description on the parchment, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come.

  It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud for the sheer joy of having discovered the secret. Oh, yes! she thought, this is what I have been called to do. Like my father and grandfather before me, I am to seek a prize worth kingdoms!

  Adopting a more solemn tone, she said, “But how do you know? I mean no disrespect, my lord archbishop, but it has been lost a very long time, as you have said. Forgive my asking, but how does anyone know it is the selfsame cup?”

  “It is a fair question,” allowed Bertrano, “and one I did not hesitate to ask myself. But the good brother who brought this discovery to my attention is stalwart and trustworthy. I have known him for many years as a priest of unquestionable faith and character. Furthermore, he is most adamant about the provenance of the holy relic. In fact, it was his revelation that prompted my letter to the pope.

  “You see, ever since the reconquest began, the Moors have been pushed slowly but steadily further and further south and east. Many of the Moors who used to live on the plains and in the valleys have fled to the hills and mountains to escape the king’s relentless pursuit. Thus, unless its loss can be prevented, it is only a matter of time before the most sacred and holy relic ever known falls into the hands of the infidel.”

  “I understand,” replied Rognvald thoughtfully. “Then the pope must have passed the letter on to Master de Bracineaux.”

  “Who else?” asked the archbishop. “No doubt the pope entrusted the task of recovering the holy relic to the Templars. It follows, since the commander would be charged with guarding this inestimable treasure once it has been returned to its proper position as the centerpiece of our faith. Indeed, that, to my mind, will be the most difficult part—protecting it from the Saracens, heathens, pagans, and Greeks who would undoubtedly try to steal it so as to mock our glorious salvation.”

  “Do you know where it is?” Cait asked, unable to keep the tremble of excitement out of her voice.

  “No.” Archbishop Bertrano shook his head. “And I do not wish to know. Owing to Brother Matthias’ careful directions, however, it should be easy enough to find.”

  “The directions—were they in the letter?” said Cait, thinking of the obscure text she had not been able to read.

  Again, the archbishop shook his head; he reached for the flagon and refilled his cup. “No,” he said, between gulps of wine, “I did not think it wise to trust information of such importance to a mere letter.” He lowered his cup, and smiled with sly satisfaction. “Instead, I told the pope where to find Brother Matthias; the good brother knows where the cup is to be found. And I wrote the directions in a secret language.”

  Cait was about to ask the nature of this secret language, but Rognvald spoke first. “Very wise,” he agreed. “You seem to have thought of everything.” He poured himself more wine, and filled Caitríona’s cup as well. “But now, everything has changed. If we are to help protect the Mystic Rose, then we will need to know where to find Brother Matthias.”

  “In time, my impatient friend,” replied the churchman. “All in good time. First, you must find fearless and trustworthy men to help you. From the little Matthias has related, I believe the Sacred Cup resides in Aragon far away—in the mountains somewhere, if I am not mistaken—and there are a great many Saracens between here and there. You will need troops.”

  Rognvald slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “Ask and it shall be given,” he declared jubilantly. “As it happens, I have men with me—countrymen who were imprisoned with me in Damascus. They are sworn liegemen, tried and true; I trust them with my life.”

  The archbishop raised his hands in benedictory praise. “Truly, you have been sent by God himself for this very purpose.” Turning to Cait, he said, “My lady, you can no longer have any objection to your noble husband pursuing this enterprise. It is blessed and ordained by the Lord God himself, and Heaven stands ready to pour out grace and honor and glory upon any who undertake this service.”

  Rognvald regarded Cait with the look of a loving husband. “What say you, dear heart? Will you allow it?”

  At the knight’s use of the intimate term—the one her father had so often used in their talk together—her throat tightened and it was a moment before she could answer. “Yes,” she replied at last, gazing at Rognvald with genuine admiration, “I will allow it. How could I, a mere woman, stand against Heaven’s decree?”

  SIXTEEN

  HAVING TAKEN THEIR leave of Archbishop Bertrano, C
ait and Rognvald stood up from the table and walked through the dark and quiet streets of Compostela alone. Save for occasional roisterers, whose loud singing echoed from the walls and galleries round about, they had the city to themselves; respectable townsfolk were asleep in their beds.

  “Lying to an archbishop, now,” Rognvald said, shaking his head in mock remorse, “that is a very low thing.”

  “De Bracineaux dead in prison,” remarked Cait. “If I had my way he would be.” She regarded the tall knight with a new appreciation. “Wherever did you think of that? I confess, when I heard you say it, I thought you had taken leave of your senses.”

  “I know we agreed that we should pretend the pope had commissioned us to look into the matter on his behalf, but that did not sit well with me. It raised more questions than it answered.”

  “You might have warned me,” she said, her tone more irritable than she felt.

  “In truth, I did not think of it until I said it.”

  “Well, it all came right in the end,” she allowed. “What is more, it was a better tale by far. Indeed, you told it with such conviction, I began to believe it myself.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Rognvald, pleased to have earned her guarded praise.

  “God willing,” she added, “we will be far away from here before anyone learns otherwise.”

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, listening to the roisterers and the crickets chirruping in the long grass beside the walls. Upon reaching the inn they found the doors barred and locked, but Rognvald’s insistent rapping on the door eventually roused the disgruntled landlord who took his time letting them in. Caitríona, enraptured with their triumph and exhilarated by Bertrano’s revelations, lay down on her bed and tried to compose her mind. It was no use. Her thoughts whirled with gleaming images of the wonderful treasure waiting for her, the Mystic Rose, Chalice of Christ—even the sound of the words on her lips made her feel quivery inside with an almost unbearable excitement. The most holy object in the world and she, herself alone, had been given the task of finding it, and protecting it.