They proceeded to the monastery where, following prayers, the gates were just being opened for the day. The Grand Commander strode into the cloistered square and called in a loud voice for his men to come forth. They appeared from various doorways—some from the chapel, some from the refectory, some from the dormitory. Marshalling his troops, de Bracineaux ordered them to saddle their horses and arm themselves for battle. This they did without question, although there was no indication of alarm; the town seemed peaceful and quiet.
Within moments this placid repose vanished in the clattering tumult of troops rushing to saddle horses and don armor. They assembled in the street outside the monastery gates and many of the townspeople, hearing the commotion, came out to watch the strange soldiers array themselves for war.
As soon as they were armed and mounted, Master de Bracineaux, with Sergeant Gislebert on one side and Baron d’Anjou on the other, took his place at the head of his company—four ranks of five Knights Templar, each wearing the long coat of fine chain mail and, over it, the distinctive white surcoat with the cross of red upon the chest; armed with lance and sword, and carrying the long-tailed oval shield—painted white and bearing the red cross—they rode out, passing slowly along the streets of Santiago de Compostela and proceeding toward the town’s great square and the building site of the new cathedral. As the mounted troops moved slowly on, they gathered a crowd of curious townspeople along the way so that by the time they reached the unfinished square the onlookers outnumbered knights by more than ten to one.
The laborers were already at work; their fires and iron braziers were scattered around the site at places where they could warm themselves from time to time and cook their meals. The dull morning rang with the sound of heavy hammers on wood and stone, the creak of wooden wheels, and the braying of donkeys as the timber scaffolding and stacks of cut stone rose slowly higher, and ever higher.
Archbishop Bertrano stood at the broad base of the tower, shouting at one of the masons who gazed down at him from the unfinished wall high above. The mason pointed beyond him into the town square, whereupon the churchman turned and beheld the mounted Templars and their entourage of townsfolk. Hands on hips, he waited for the knights to draw near.
“You again,” he growled. “I told you I wanted nothing more to do with you.”
“Good morning to you, too, archbishop,” answered de Bracineaux cordially. “I hope you passed a pleasant night.”
“It is none of your concern,” snapped the archbishop, eyeing the mounted ranks of armed soldiers.
“I myself did not sleep so well,” the commander confessed.
“Guilty conscience, no doubt,” remarked the cleric.
“On the contrary,” said de Bracineaux. “I could not sleep for thinking how I might prove myself to you.”
“Then you have forfeited a good night’s sleep for nothing,” the archbishop told him. “Be gone, and let me return to my work.”
“And then, as I was at my prayers, the answer came to me,” continued the commander, speaking evenly and slowly so any of the many onlookers who understood Latin might understand. “The example of Our Lord Christ himself provided the way to verify the truth of my claims.”
“That I very much doubt, sir,” sniffed the archbishop. “More likely it was the Devil you were listening to.”
“Diligent churchman that you are,” the Templar continued, as if he had not heard a word the archbishop said, “you will certainly recall the incident recorded in the holy text where the Lord Jesu is approached by a centurion of the Roman army.”
Bertrano frowned. Drawn by the crowd and commotion, more people were streaming into the square. “I know the text,” he said. “Do not think to instruct me.”
“This Roman soldier, as you will recall,” continued de Bracineaux blithely, “had a trusted servant for whom he had developed a certain affection.”
“Yes, yes,” snapped the archbishop impatiently. “I know the story.”
“Do you?” remarked the Templar. “I wonder.”
“The servant had fallen ill,” said the archbishop, his irritation growing, “so the Roman sought out the Lord Christ and asked him to heal the man.”
“Indeed, yes,” replied de Bracineaux, smiling, “the Lord said he would come to his house and perform the necessary healing at once.” He paused, his smile becoming fierce. “And do you remember what the soldier replied?”
“Of course!” snapped the archbishop. “Stop this mummery. I see what you are doing.”
“The Roman soldier stood before Jesu and said, ‘My lord, I would not presume to have you set foot in my house. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed.’ The Lord marveled at the man’s faith, and the centurion explained; he said, ‘I myself am—’”
Not to be outdone before his own flock, the archbishop took up the recitation, “He said, ‘For I myself am a man under authority, with many soldiers under me. I tell this one “Go!” and he goes. To another, I say, “Come here,” and he comes to me. To my servant, I say, “Do this!” and he does it.’” He regarded the Templar shrewdly. “Am I supposed to be impressed by a small recital of holy writ? Well, then, I am not impressed in the least. Even the Devil can quote scripture—as we all know.”
“My dear archbishop,” coaxed de Bracineaux, “you miss the point of the lesson. You see, like that centurion, I am a man under authority, with many soldiers under me. Arrayed behind me are but a few of them. I say to this one: come—” he turned and summoned the first soldier from his place behind him, “and, behold!—He comes.”
The soldier dismounted and ran to the commander’s side. “I say to him: stretch forth your hand!”
The Templar lifted his arm shoulder-high and stretched out his hand. De Bracineaux drew his sword and touched the keen-edged blade to the man’s wrist. He then raised the sword high overhead and prepared to strike off the soldier’s hand. Without a quiver of fear, the Templar gazed impassively at the archbishop.
“Do you think maiming this unfortunate soldier will sway my opinion in any way?” said Bertrano coldly. “I tell you it will not.”
The commander slowly lowered the blade. “Perhaps you are right,” he conceded. “What is a man’s hand when the fate of the most valuable relic in all Christendom even now hangs in the balance?”
Handing the naked blade to Gislebert, he dismounted and stepped before the waiting Templar. “Have you been shriven?” he asked simply. The man nodded once. “Then, as your superior in Christ, I command you to kneel before me and stretch out your neck.”
Without hesitation the Templar dropped to his knees and, placing his hands behind him, he lowered his head and stretched out his neck before the commander. Meanwhile, Gislebert, having dismounted, brought his commander’s sword; taking his place beside the commander, he held the sword across his palms.
A body of monks from the nearby monastery arrived in the square just then and, seeing what was happening, raced to prevent the impending slaughter. “Keep them back,” the commander ordered, and six mounted Templars broke ranks and rode to head off the onrushing monks.
Indicating the man kneeling before him, de Bracineaux said, “As you, a prince of the church, wield power over the priests beneath you, likewise does the commander wield power over those who serve under him. For, I ask you, my lord archbishop: who but the rightful lord holds the power of life and death for those beneath his authority?”
The archbishop glared furiously at the Templar, but held his tongue.
“Very well,” concluded de Bracineaux. “What I do before you now, I do to prove my authority.”
Taking the sword from Gislebert, he grasped it in both hands and made an elaborate sign of the cross above the kneeling soldier. Then, slowly raising the blade above his head, he cried, “For the glory of God and his Kingdom!”
The blade hovered in the air, and the archbishop rushed forward like an attacking bull. “Your authority!” charged the archbishop, his voice ringing in the restless silence
of the square. “Your authority! You wicked and perverse whoreson!”
The blade faltered and halted in its downward stroke. The Templar turned to face the oncoming archbishop.
“For the glory of God?” roared the angry cleric. “Get thee behind me, thou Satan! It is for your glory, not God’s, and I will not stand aside and watch you spill the blood of the innocent for your vain amusement.”
Genuinely taken aback by the indictment, de Bracineaux lowered the sword. “You accuse me of vanity, priest,” he growled. “How many men have you killed in the raising of this monument to your vanity?” He waved a hand airily at the curtain wall and tower of the unfinished cathedral.
“It is a temple to the Everlasting God, sir,” replied the archbishop. “Four men have died, and five hundred have labored long to establish an altar which will last forever—their lives and labor an honorable sacrifice to the Author and Redeemer of Life.”
The archbishop bent down, raised the kneeling soldier to his feet, and pushed him out of the way before turning on the Templar once more. “Do not presume to elevate your wicked exercise by comparing it to the exalted and holy obedience of my faithful laborers. I know you for what you are, sir, and I condemn your arrogance and pride.”
De Bracineaux bristled at the cleric’s heated accusations. “Why you bloated old goat,” he said, his voice strangled with rage, “no man talks to me this way. I am the Master of Jerusalem! Do you hear?”
“Were you the very emperor himself, I would speak,” declared the irate archbishop. “For when vile pride usurps a man’s humility and true affection it is the duty of a priest to speak, to name the sin and call the sinner to account.”
The Templar’s eyes narrowed dangerously; his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “I came before you in friendship and humility,” he said, forcing the words between clenched teeth, “and I was shunned. Now, as I stand before this crowd of witnesses, I am reviled.”
His jaw muscles worked, grinding his teeth with suppressed rage. “I command armies and ships, fortresses and cities; I have but to lift my hand and kingdoms are overthrown; I speak and heathen nations tremble. And I swear before Almighty God, were it not for the sake of the Holy Cup, you would be kneeling before the Throne of Heaven even now, proud priest.”
Archbishop Bertrano raised a triumphant finger. “Now do I truly believe you are the Master and Commander of the Knights of the Temple. For who else but a man long accustomed to the wicked conceits of high position could stand in the presence of God and boast as you do? Your pride, sir, is a stink in the nostrils of God Almighty, and unless you repent on bended knee, it will drag you down to hell.”
De Bracineaux, livid and shaking, reached out and snatched hold of the archbishop’s robe and pulled him close. “Tell me where the Mystic Rose is to be found, or I swear by my right hand that before you draw another breath I will carve that devious tongue from your lying mouth.”
The archbishop, his lips pressed into a firm, defiant frown, glowered at the Templar with smoldering indignation.
“Well, priest?” de Bracineaux said, his breath hot in the cleric’s face. “It was your letter that brought me here, and I have not come this far to fail. I ask but once more.” He tightened his grip on the archbishop’s robe. “Where is the Holy Cup?”
“As God is my witness, I tell you I do not know where the relic is to be found,” answered the archbishop. “That knowledge resides with the monk Matthias; he alone knows the whereabouts of the Sacred Vessel, and he is not here. He is in Aragon.”
“Then you will tell me where this brother is to be found,” the commander said. Even as he spoke, his eyes took on a sly gleam. “Better still, so that no further misunderstandings threaten the harmony between us, you will show me the way. Considering that this singular opportunity has come about through your interfering offices, I think it is the least you can do.”
Releasing the cleric, he called to Gislebert. “Ready a horse for our friend. His highness the archbishop is joining our pilgrimage.”
“You cannot command me,” the archbishop spluttered. “I have work to do.”
“Then I suggest you make haste to discharge your obligations without delay.” He turned on his heel, and gestured to the Templars looking on. “Bring him.”
One of the pack mules was hastily saddled and made ready for the archbishop, who, protesting the outrage being practiced upon him, was forcibly manhandled onto the back of the beast. Then, at the sergeant’s signal, the ranks of Templars moved slowly off.
The monks gave out a loud cry of dismay, pushed past the mounted soldiers and ran after their beloved archbishop, clamoring for his release. The soldiers paid them no heed—until some of them ran up to the churchman’s mule and tried to haul him from the saddle. At a word from the Master, Gislebert called a command and the last rank of Templars wheeled their horses, raised their shields and lowered their lances, instantly blocking the street and preventing the townsfolk and monks from impeding their retreat.
Meanwhile, the rest of the cavalcade rode on. Archbishop Bertrano, realizing there was no rescue forthcoming, called to his monks for building work to continue in his absence. He was still shouting instructions when his listeners disappeared from sight.
TWENTY
“IMPOSSIBLE!” CRIED CARLO de la Coruña. “Holy Mother of God, bear witness! I cannot allow it.”
Surprised by the magistrate’s sudden vehemence, Cait glanced at Thea, who rolled her shoulders in a shrug of perplexed resignation. “Why ever not?” wondered Cait, somewhat more innocently than she felt.
“You will certainly be killed, all of you. The bandits are very fierce. They are brigands. Cut-throats!” Carlo’s wicker chair creaked as he squirmed with agitation. “No, it is impossible. My conscience would give me not a moment’s peace if I let you go. I would never forgive myself. Indeed, God himself,” he said, thrusting a finger heavenward and crossing himself solemnly, “would never forgive me.”
“The road is safe enough,” Cait pointed out. “We saw no sign of anyone all the way from Bilbao—neither bandits, traders, nor anyone else.”
“You see? The king’s ban is working. We are starving the bandits into submission.”
“No doubt,” said Alethea, stirring herself from her listlessness, “the thieves have already moved on to more profitable pickings elsewhere.” She yawned. “Otherwise we would have seen them.”
The little man shook his head from side to side. “No, no, no, no, no. It is too dangerous. I cannot allow it. You must stay here at Palencia until the Knights of Calatrava can escort you and your lovely sister properly and in all comfort and safety.”
“May I remind you, magistrate, we already possess such an escort,” Cait insisted gently. “And if you agree to allow us to buy the supplies we need, then we will be as well provided on the road as we would be here behind the walls of your excellent city.” She displayed her most winsome and beguiling smile. “You are very kind, Carlo, and your concern shows a generous and compassionate heart.” She reached out and pressed his hand warmly. “But, you see, there is really no cause to be fearful on our account.”
“Madre mía,” sighed the magistrate. “The king would boil me alive in hot oil if he found out.”
“The king,” Alethea replied blithely, “is only three years old.”
They feasted that night in the banqueting hall of the old palace; Palencia had been a favorite royal residence many years ago—from the time when Alfonso III expelled the Moors and took over the amir’s house for his own. Rognvald and the knights had spent the day roistering with some of the higher-ranking townspeople and had made a fair few acquaintances among Palencia’s knighted nobility—a small but ferociously loyal brotherhood. Most of these had been invited to the feast, and so the warriors carried on their revel late into the night.
In all it was a grand repast, and when the celebrants arose from the crumb-and bone-strewn tables and staggered out into the darkened streets of Palencia, new friendships h
ad been forged and vows of eternal brotherhood pledged. The next morning, Caitríona, Alethea, Rognvald, and Dag rode out to an estate a short distance south of the city where, as Rognvald had learned from one of the local noblemen, Brother Matthias was reported to be building a church for the vassals.
The estate was not far, and Magistrate Carlo offered to ride with them and show them the way; Cait was desperately trying to find a way to politely, but gently, discourage him from this course, when he was called away on urgent business to settle a dispute between a pair of brothers over the use of a cow which they had bought. “Let us go quickly now,” Thea said as the officious governor hurried off, “before he comes back.”
The way was well marked, and they had no difficulty finding the church, for, but a short distance from the trail, they observed a heap of rubble and several piles of rough lumber. In the midst of these heaps, a ragged curtain of laid stone was being raised.
Leaving Dag on a nearby hilltop to keep watch on the trail and warn them should any trouble approach, they rode onto the building site where, on a plank balanced between two sections of wall, stood a young man wrapped in the brown robe of a priest. The hem of the robe was drawn up and tucked into his wide leather belt, revealing a pair of muscular, but dirty, legs and equally filthy bare feet. The day being warm, he had withdrawn his arms so the upper half of the wool garment hung down around his trim waist.
“Pax vobiscum,” called Rognvald as they reined up.
The monk straightened from his work and turned to greet his visitors, holding in his hands the stone he was about to lay. “Pax vobiscum,” he replied, glancing from the knight to the two women. His dark hair and wispy beard had been lightened by long hours in the sun.
“We are searching for a priest called Brother Matthias,” said Rognvald. “I am wondering if you could help us find him.”
The Mystic Rose Page 20