Oh, but that was not all, far from it. For, once she had the sacred relic in her possession, she could use it to lure Renaud de Bracineaux to his richly deserved doom. Her thoughts teemed with ways to bring about his demise. Time and again she brought his fleshy, gray-bearded face before her mind’s eye and imagined his astonished expression as the realization broke upon him that he had been bested by the daughter of the man he had so rashly, thoughtlessly, viciously murdered. Just how and where this fateful meeting would take place, she could not determine. But time and again she imagined the moment when cold, implacable justice would find its fulfillment.
Swiftly and without warning, the dagger clasped tight in her hand, she would strike. The narrow blade would enter his gut—just as his own knife had pierced her beloved father’s side—and de Bracineaux’s imposing bulk would crumple to the floor. As he lay dying, she would stand over him and watch the light of recognition come up in his eyes only to fade as his lifeblood spilled out in a slowly deepening crimson pool.
But perhaps this was not punishment enough. Perhaps she would force him to confess his crime and beg for his life. She could see him: stripped of his robes of office, humbled, on his knees, holding up his hands to her, beseeching, wailing, pleading for mercy—before she slit his throat like a hog at the slaughter.
She lay for a while, savoring the sweet, hot tang of revenge. Lord, she prayed, the blood of a good man cries out to be avenged. You, whose judgment against the wicked is everlasting, make me the instrument of your vengeance.
And then, as the gray dawn’s light began seeping in under her door, she decided to wake Rognvald. They could be on the road by sunrise, and back in Iria and under sail by evening. With favorable weather, they could be in Bilbao in a few days, and from there it was an easy ride to Vitoria, where the archbishop had told them they would find Brother Matthias.
“What if the Templars reach this Brother Matthias first?” asked Rognvald once they were on the road again.
“I cannot see how that is possible,” replied Caitríona smugly. “We have the letter, and we know where Matthias is to be found—de Bracineaux does not.”
“No? I wonder,” mused Rognvald. “He must have read the letter. If he read it, then he knows enough to find the monk to lead him to the treasure.”
“Bertrano said the directions were in a secret language,” protested Cait, her confidence beginning to erode.
“Secret to us, perhaps. But not to the pope and perhaps not to the Templars.” Rognvald was silent for a time, then said, “I think we must assume the Templars are searching for the treasure as diligently as we ourselves. They may even find it before we do.”
“They will not find it first,” declared Cait.
“Can you be so certain?”
Thanks to Rognvald, a dark cloud of doubt dogged the return to Iria, and Cait begrudged every moment spent on the trail. By the time they arrived back at the ship, she was anxious to set sail immediately. But those who had remained behind had first to be collected from the town; the knights were easy to locate—a search of the waterfront inns brought them from their cups—but Abu and Alethea were more difficult to find. By the time she spotted them, Cait’s anxiety had long since boiled over into desperation.
She heard a laugh that brought her up short. It was Alethea, no mistake, and Cait glanced quickly around to see her sister strolling across the town square with Abu Sharma at her side. They were talking, and Thea was laughing and swinging a cloth parcel. The mere sight of the two of them together, and Cait’s anger flared to white heat. “What in Heaven’s name are you doing?” she demanded, flying at the two young people.
Alethea, smiling, oblivious to her sister’s rage, glanced at Abu and laughed again. “Oh, Cait, you have to hear this. Tell her, Abu. Tell her about the spitting monkey you saw in Damascus.”
The young man, more mindful of the elder sister’s mood, wisely declined. “Another time, perhaps,” he said, the smile evaporating from his face.
“Oh, please, Abu,” insisted Alethea blithely. “Tell her. You will like it, Cait. It will make you laugh.”
She glared at her sister. “I do not want to hear it,” she replied, her voice flat with menace.
“What’s wrong with you—sit on a bee?” quipped Alethea.
Cait turned on Abu. “Leave us! Get back to the ship.”
“At once, sharifah.” He ducked his head in a hurried bow and swiftly removed himself from the vicinity.
Taking her sister’s arm, Cait marched the complaining Alethea to a deserted corner of the near-empty square. “Must you always humiliate us?”
“Me!” gasped Alethea. “What did I do? Anyway, you are the one always causing trouble all the time.”
“He is an infidel!” Cait hissed. “Can you understand that?”
“Who?” demanded the younger woman. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Abu!” spat Cait. “You cannot be seen going around with him like that. It is disgraceful. I forbid you to be seen with him.”
“You forbid me!” Thea charged, her voice going shrill with indignation. “You are not my mother and father.”
“No,” snapped Cait. “Father is dead and your mother is a world away. Like it or not, you answer to me. I will not have you behaving like a lowborn slut.”
“Abu is friendly,” countered Thea weakly; she was beginning to wither under the lash of her sister’s fury. “I like him. He is kind to me, and he makes me laugh.”
“He is a Muhammedan!” Cait’s voice was a stinging slap in her sister’s face. “He is also a servant, and I will not have you consorting with him in public.”
“Who else have I to talk to?” Thea moaned, tears starting to her eyes. “You are always rushing about, and the knights only care about drinking and fighting.”
“They do not,” said Cait, “and anyway what they do is none of your concern.” She took Alethea’s arm and squeezed hard. “Now you listen to me. You are a lady of a noble family, and you are to keep yourself chaste and above reproach. Abu is impertinent and brazen enough as it is without you encouraging him.”
“He is not a Muhammedan,” Alethea insisted, her lip beginning to tremble as the tears started. “He is a Druze—which is a kind of Christian. He told me.”
“He could be the Patriarch of Constantinople for all I care,” Cait snarled. “He is still a servant, and you are not to have anything more to do with him.” She glared hard at the sniffing, unhappy Alethea. “Do you understand?”
Her sister nodded and pushed the tears away with the heels of her hands.
“Very well,” said Cait, softening at last. “You have made a poor beginning, but that is no reason you cannot amend your manner and conduct. See that you do.”
They walked back to the waterfront and boarded the ship. Owing to the delay, it was well after midday when Persephone slid from her mooring and out into the river. With Ginés’ help, however, they reached the headlands as the sun began its downward plunge to the sea. Rather than look for a place to berth for the night, Cait ordered Haemur to sail on, and they reached deep water as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“We dare not go further, my lady,” Haemur said. “It will be dark soon.”
“Ginés says there will be a full moon tonight,” Cait countered.
“That is as may be,” allowed the pilot. “But the waters hereabouts are dangerous. We should drop anchor in the next cove and start as soon as it is light.”
Cait hesitated. The wind was fair and the weather mild, with a good moon they could be well up the coast by morning.
“Haemur is right,” said Rognvald, who had been listening to the exchange. “Full moon or no, it would be foolhardy to try the rocks at night. Pay the fisherman to stay on, and he can show us the fastest way to Bilbao.”
Much to Haemur’s relief, Cait relented and gave orders to drop anchor for the night. With a promise of double payment, she induced Ginés to stay aboard and lead them to Bilbao, and at first lig
ht next morning he and Haemur began the long and tedious process of picking their way among the great rocks and tiny islands strung out along the Galician coast like so many shards of broken crockery.
Two days later, they rounded the protruding northwestern hump of the Iberian Peninsula and entered the great, sweeping expanse of the Bay of Vizcaya. Each day they watched the tiny fishing villages of the coast passing one by one in slow and stately procession, glistening white against the earthy greens and browns of the Cantabrian mountains rising behind them like a dull swath of wrinkled cloth.
The sea remained calm, allowing Haemur to sail by night. Once Cait awoke at midnight and, wanting some air, went up on deck to find Lord Rognvald at the helm taking a turn to rest the old pilot, who was asleep on a nearby bench. She watched the tall knight for a moment, before going back to her bed without a word.
Seven days after leaving Iria, they came in sight of the port. “There it is,” Ginés informed them. “That is Bilbao.”
Cait and Alethea looked where the old seaman was pointing; beyond the clusters of crude fishing huts scattered along the coast, they saw a dark smudge of smoke hanging above the low hills divided by the deep-channeled river.
“Not much of a city,” concluded Alethea, dismissing it with a disdainful sniff.
“Perhaps not,” allowed the Galician, “but it is the gate through which you must pass.”
A short time later, they sailed into the cup-shaped bay of the Nervión river estuary and proceeded to work their way along the wide, slow-flowing channel to Bilbao. As at Iria, they hired horses for the ride to Vitoria. This time, Cait paid for enough mounts for all to go, save the four sailors who stayed behind to watch the ship. It cost a great deal for so many horses, but Alethea obviously needed watching, and she did not like the idea of leaving the knights behind to waste their days in the alehouses of Bilbao. And Abu’s usefulness as a translator, along with whatever rudimentary skills as a physician he possessed, argued for his inclusion.
“I do not know how long we shall be away,” Cait told Haemur. “God willing, it will only be a few days or so. But it may be longer.”
“Take all the time you need,” the old pilot told her. “It matters not a whit to me. As I told your father, my lady, never fear: though the Lord return and sound the heavenly trumpet to call the faithful home to paradise, you will find old Haemur here and waiting still.”
“Thank you, Haemur,” Cait replied. “Even so, should we be gone longer than I expect, I am leaving enough money to keep the ship in harborage and for any provisions you will need. And,” she added, “you know where Duncan’s sea chest is kept if ill befalls and you need more.”
“Worry not,” the old seaman replied. “In a lively harbor such as this, there are always nets to be mended and hulls to caulk. If our hands keep busy, we should not want for anything. There is just one small matter, however…”
“Yes?”
“Ginés was hoping to stay on with us awhile, if you have no objection.”
“I have no objection whatsoever. He has given us good service, and I am grateful.” She nodded to the Galician fisherman, who was standing quietly aside, looking on. “If he wishes to stay, so be it.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said the pilot with some relief. “In a place like this it helps to have a friend who can speak the tongue of his countrymen, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand. He can also help you keep the young men out of trouble.”
“That he can, my lady.”
Caitríona bade him farewell, and then took her leave of Olvir and Otti—the latter of whom was not at all happy to be left cooling his heels in port while the others rode away. “Otti,” Cait said, “who will guard the ship, if not you?”
He tried to think of some way to dispute this fact, but could not rise to the challenge. “But you will need me, too,” he insisted.
“I do need you, it is true,” she said gently. “I need you here, Otti.” She rested her hand lightly on his arm in confidence. “The others are not as strong as you, and if any trouble should arise, you must protect them and guard the ship.”
Feeling that he was failing to persuade her, he lowered his head in sullen defeat.
“Listen to me, Otti,” she said, “I am counting on you to look after the others.” When she saw that he understood, she added, “Now then, I have left Haemur a little money for ale for you and Olvir. If you do well, he will give it to you.”
At the realization that she had made provision for him and Olvir, that they were not to be forgotten in her absence, Otti’s face lit with simple pleasure. He accepted this compromise happily and Cait joined the others at the end of the wharf to begin the ride to Vitoria—accompanied by the hostler who, for a small additional fee, had agreed to be their guide.
So, as she climbed into the saddle, Cait took a quick mental inventory of her company. First came the hostler, a short, stocky man named Miguel, a pleasant fellow with a ready, if somewhat toothless, smile—he had been kicked by a horse and was missing both upper and lower front teeth; he rode a hinny and led a pack mule bearing equipment and supplies for the camp. Following the hostler were Yngvar and Svein who had tied long strips of blue cloth to the heads of the lances they carried; the improvised pennons fluttered in the light breeze. Alethea, hair gathered beneath a low-crowned green hat with a veil to keep the sun from her face, had managed to make her place beside Dag, who, Cait noticed, had lately begun to reciprocate her sister’s undisguised interest. Next came Rognvald, tall and upright in the saddle, a wide-brimmed leather hat high on his head, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows. The knights all had shields slung upon their backs, and swords at their sides; Cait, dressed in a simple red shift and mantle, her dark hair swept back and held in place by small silver combs beneath her hat, carried the sword Rognvald had given her, its gleaming slender length sheathed for protection of blade and rider. Both Svein and Dag led pack animals carrying the rest of the armor and weapons; and Abu, his face all but hidden beneath a large straw hat, brought up the rear, leading two more mules laden with provisions, provender, and drinking water for the journey.
Freshly shaved and dressed in the clothes she had bought for them in Cyprus, their weapons gleaming in the strong sunlight, Cait thought her knights a fine and handsome sight. As she took her place beside Rognvald, she was filled with a sudden and unanticipated joy, and a sense of righteous certainty, almost inevitability—that her feet were established on a path which had been prepared for her long ago. She was where she was meant to be, and doing what she had been born to do. Tightening the scarf holding her pale yellow, wide-brimmed hat, she raised a hand to show that she was ready. The hostler cracked his whip, and the company set off.
SEVENTEEN
THE ROAD WAS good and the sun hot; the company traveled quickly, passing through numerous settlements of the deep river valley. At several of these, the sky darkened and they smelled the sharp stench of sulphurous smoke; black ash rained out of the air, and they saw heaps of spent slag darkening the hillsides. The river turned an ugly rusty color and barges loaded with pigs of rough iron floated slowly toward the harbor.
They soon left the last of the iron-working settlements behind, and the sky became clear and the air clean once more. Despite their long absence from the saddle, the knights rode easily and lightly, talking and joking as they went along, and making the hills echo with the sound of their banter. Cait liked hearing them; it confirmed in her the feeling that she had done well to save them and give them back their lives.
That first day, they rode as long into the evening as they could and then made a simple camp: grass sleeping-mats arranged around a stone-ringed fire with the star-flecked sky for a roof over their heads. They were on the move again as soon as light permitted the next morning, and the second day passed like the first; the only difference they noticed was that the settlements were smaller and further apart. On the third day, the hostler pointed out a tiny projection rising like a dark slive
r from a distant hill. “That is the bell tower of the church of Vitoria,” he told them.
The rest of the day they watched the tower slowly grow as they came nearer. They also began to smell a foul odor as they approached, for the town was supplied with no fewer than three tanneries which used water from the streams to wash the hides, and dumped the scraped offal and waste in the water to be carried away downstream. The heat of the sun raised a stink that could be smelled for a great distance around, which the party did its best to ignore.
It was only when they reached the town square that they gained some respite from the smell. The tower stood on one side of the square; attached to it was a church, which was connected to a monastery where, according to Archbishop Bertrano, they would find Brother Matthias. Cait slid down from the saddle, and dropped the reins on the dusty ground. “Rognvald, come with me. The rest of you wait here,” she said, and went straight to the monastery gate and presented herself to the porter. He listened politely, and then conducted her and Rognvald to the friar.
“Brother Matthias is not here,” said the clean-shaven friar who met them outside the chapel. “He was here—earlier this spring, for a time—but he is gone now.”
“Gone?” wondered Cait, as if trying to think what the word could mean. Frustration sharp as despair arrowed through her.
“Gone,” the friar confirmed. “I am sorry. Good day to you.”
Caitríona stared at the insipid smiling cleric and thought of all the time and effort—not to mention expense!—she had employed just to get this far…only to be told by some fool of a priest that her pains had been for nothing.
It took a moment before she could trust her voice to speak. “I would thank you to tell me where we might find him,” she said, masking her acute disappointment with a smile. “We have journeyed a very long way to see him.”
The Mystic Rose Page 17