“A very miracle,” said Rognvald with satisfaction.
“You are a trusting soul,” replied the priest. “I would I were more like you in this regard. Unfortunately, ever since childhood I have suffered the affliction of a suspicious nature. I could not let the matter rest. I saw a stack of kindling wood lying on the floor next to the cave entrance; so I took up a stout chunk of wood in each hand and returned to the altar—thinking to get the object between the two pieces and remove the iron spike that way without burning my hands.”
“Did it work?” asked Alethea, slightly breathless with awe.
“Sister, it was even more wonderful than before. For no matter how hard I tried, I could not move that spike. Though I applied all my strength, the holy relic would not be diverted by so much as a whisker’s breadth. The wood splintered, and my fingers grew raw, but I could not move it.
“The village chief watched me with great amusement. He laughed at my efforts, and then calmly walked to the altar where I was struggling and, bowing before it, took up the spike and placed it once more in my hand as if it were no more than a feather. ‘Were you less holy than you are,’ he told me, ‘you would not be able to lift it, for to the man of evil intent, it contains the weight of the world.’ I replaced the holy relic then, and knelt down before the altar and thanked the Heavenly Father for allowing me to witness this great and powerful sign.
“When I finished my prayers, we departed the cave, and returned to the village, reaching the settlement just as dawn rose over the eastern hills. I thanked the chieftain for showing me the marvelous relic, and vowed I would treasure it always, and tell anyone who cared to listen so that faith might increase. As I said this, a great smile spread over the chieftain’s face, and he said, ‘Do you see that sunrise? Our poor relic is as the darkness of the valley through which you walked compared to the shining glory of the gra’al.’”
The three rapt listeners repeated the strange word.
“Like you, I had never heard of this gra’al, and did not know what it might be,” the priest told them. “I asked what was betokened by this word. My guide made the sign of the cross and said, ‘It is the Lord’s Cup—the Cup of the Communion of Saints, which was blessed by the Christ at the table of the Last Supper.’”
“The Mystic Rose,” whispered Cait.
Brother Matthias nodded. “I thought he meant that the village possessed another secret in the form of this relic, and so I asked if he could show me. But he merely smiled, and said that it was not his to show, for long ago the cup was removed by the will of God, and taken to a refuge where it could be guarded lest the Moors learn of it and seek to steal or destroy it. My excitement made me rash, and in my unthinking haste, I asked him to show me where the Blessed Cup had been taken. I asked him to lead me there at once. My guide recoiled from my unseemly alacrity. It seemed then that he feared he had revealed too much. He quickly bade me farewell, and would say no more.”
“Agh!” cried Alethea in protest. “You should have made him tell you!”
“In the end, I did learn the rest of the tale. A few days later, he came to me after dark. I was at my prayers, and he came into the room where I was staying and said that he could not rest knowing that he had betrayed the Sacred Cup. ‘How betrayed?’ I asked. ‘I am a priest of the church. All things touching the holy are safe in my hands.’
“Even so, I failed to convince him, and so I suggested that the best way out of his dilemma was for me to learn the rest of the tale from someone else. ‘That way,’ I told him, ‘the burden is lifted from your shoulders because you were not the one to tell me.’
“Well, he saw it as his redemption in the matter, and told me that if he was a man wanting to learn secrets of this nature, he knew a place deep in the high Pyrénées where all such questions could be answered. The way he said it gave me to know that this secret place in the mountains was where the cup now sheltered, so I agreed, and he instructed me on how to find this place. I listened with utmost care to all he said, and when he left, I quickly prepared a pen and wrote down all he had told me. I wrote the directions in the margin of the gospel text I always carry with me so that I would not forget them, and a few days later I concluded my work and set off to find the Sanctuary of the Cup.”
“Did you find it?” asked Cait.
“I did, my lady,” answered Matthias. “I found it just as he said I would.”
“And did you see the cup?” asked Rognvald.
“I did,” replied the priest, his voice falling to a whisper. “I saw it in all its manifold splendor, and I worshiped it. I fell on my face before the sacred object, and when I arose three days had passed.”
“Three whole days!” challenged Alethea, disbelief edging into her tone.
“In the mere blink of an eye,” affirmed the monk. “And then I rose and went out, healed and satisfied in heart and mind and soul. I rose as a man renewed and reborn, and with a holy fire burning in my belly. Since then, I have traveled the land, preaching wherever I am welcomed, and building churches for those who have none.”
He spread his hands humbly. “I am as you find me, a much-changed and chastened man.” He drank again, allowing the others to ponder what he had told them.
“Why did you write to the archbishop?” asked Cait after a moment’s reflection.
“Ah, that—that has vexed me greatly,” Matthias confessed. “Following my rebirth, the zeal burned so great within me that I could not rest but that I should begin straight away to preach to the poor and build churches for them, and thus bring them to knowledge of the Loving Creator.
“Naturally, I could not set about this new work without the permission of my superior. So, I composed a thoughtful letter and sent it to Archbishop Bertrano, asking for his permission and seeking his blessing. In my rapture, I told him about the Mystic Rose of Virtue—that I had seen it, and been changed by it. In short, I told him everything—and more, for I was enraptured and unable to keep this glorious news to myself, and he is my superior, after all.
“Well, after I sent the letter—not at first, but some time later—I began to fear that I had said too much. What if the letter went astray? What if the news of the Sacred Cup should become known to men of evil intent, low thieves who would steal or destroy? But the deed was done, and I could but trust God to make it right.”
Cait lowered her eyes modestly, hoping the priest would not see the waves of guilt washing over her. They had come, like low thieves, to steal the cup for themselves. The simple, trusting faith of Brother Matthias put her to shame, and she was on the brink of admitting it to the priest, confessing her sin and asking for absolution when her sister spoke up.
“God has sent us to you,” declared Alethea with quiet but undeniable conviction.
Cait glanced at her in furtive amazement, only to see that the young woman was in utter and solemn earnest—and this astonished her even more. Mouthing untruth with such brazen audacity must be the worst kind of blasphemy, certainly. She was still trying to take in the enormity of Alethea’s sacrilege when Lord Rognvald said, “Archbishop Bertrano also feared for the safety of the cup. He told us that, owing to the reconquest of the land, he considered it only a matter of time before the Holy Cup fell into the hands of the Moors.” The knight smiled, his broad countenance shining with the light of a golden day, and the joy of blessed assurance. “That is why he sent us. With God’s help, we will rescue the cup and bear it away to safety before any ill can befall it.”
Grinning, Brother Matthias leaned forward and embraced his visitors—first Alethea, then Rognvald, and then Cait. “I, too, believe God has sent you,” he said. “I have often worried that I had done wrong by sending word to the archbishop; and as often as I worried I prayed God would grant me his peace in the matter. In you, my friends, this peace has finally come. I thank God for it, and for you.”
Unable to bear seeing the unsuspecting priest deceived and deluded still further, Cait made bold to lay bare the fraud that she and the others
had perpetrated. “Please, it is not what you think,” she began.
“Nothing ever is, sister,” replied the monk cheerfully. “Where God is concerned, surprise abounds. Our Heavenly Father delights in the unexpected, the unforeseen, serendipitous circumstance and happy accident.”
“Ours is a God of surprises,” Alethea affirmed.
Cait stared at the others, unable to speak.
“My friends, I am convinced the Lord has sent you. What is more, I feel he is sending me, too.” The monk’s grin widened still further. “I will lead you to the Mystic Rose.”
TWENTY-TWO
WHEN THE PARTY departed Palencia four days later, they were mere travelers no longer; they had become pilgrims, destined for a holy place. And, for at least two of their number, the journey had taken on profound spiritual significance.
Rognvald and Alethea maintained that the sudden stirring of reverence and devotion was a genuine awakening. “I see it so clearly now,” Alethea insisted. It was the night before they were to leave, and the three were talking alone in the magistrate’s walled courtyard. “We have been chosen to save the Holy Cup and deliver it to safety.”
“How can you say that?” demanded Cait, “when you know I was the one who took the letter from the Templars?”
“As the Holy Word says: What you intended for evil,” Rognvald intoned, “God has destined for good. So be it.”
“And you!” Cait charged. “I bought your release, not the angels, and that for one purpose only—to help me steal the relic.”
“God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform,” replied the knight placidly. “As for myself, I never doubted that Our Great Redeemer had a hand in your scheme. Surely, it is the divine will that we should rescue the Sacred Vessel from the iniquity of desecration.”
Cait shook her head in disbelief at what she was hearing. “You sound more like a priest every day, my lord,” she grumbled. “Perhaps you should join a monastery where your preaching would be more appreciated.”
“Only a fool mocks what he does not understand,” the knight replied, unperturbed by Cait’s outburst. “Is it so difficult to believe that, in spite of your intentions, Our Great Lord has ordained us to this task, and even now guides us to our destination?”
It was no use talking sense to them, Cait decided, they were so full of holy foolishness that they could not see the blunt, obvious, mud-ugly fact that the whole enterprise was founded on a mass of lies, half-truths, and deceptions, large and small, and all of them growing out of a theft, which itself originated in an act of revenge.
While it might be true that the theft of the letter was instigated by the White Priest—a fact Cait preferred not to mention to anyone—the naked, shabby truth was that she hoped from the first, and hoped still, to employ the Sacred Cup to aid in avenging her father’s murder at the hands of de Bracineaux. As she had come to see it, the White Priest’s commission provided her with the means to an end she had desired from the first.
Yet, she puzzled over the others’ peculiar insistence that their venal and self-serving journey had in some way transmuted itself into a true pilgrimage. In Alethea’s case, she suspected the girl was simply enamored with the handsome young monk and his simple, almost childlike ways. Rognvald was a different matter; she could see no reason for his conversion from cunning accomplice to pious pilgrim. She had assumed it was part of his guise—much the same as that which he had adopted to win Archbishop Bertrano’s confidence. The knight, however, remained adamant that his manner was in no way calculated to deceive; and in this he appeared sincere. Indeed, he bristled at the suggestion that his virtue had ever been a sham. “Lady, you do wrong to doubt me in this,” he had told her—again, in all sincerity.
With her fellow-conspirators stricken by this inexplicable saintliness, Cait could find no reasonable way to discourage the zealous Brother Matthias from joining the company; and, as the prudent monk seemed wholly disinclined to reveal any details pertaining to the Holy Cup’s whereabouts, she had no choice but to welcome him with as good a grace as she could muster.
Nor was the priest the only newcomer to the group. By the time they were ready to depart, thanks to the Norwegian knights’ innate friendliness and Magistrate Carlo’s well-intentioned efforts, the party had acquired an escort of six additional knights who happily agreed to accompany the travelers as far as their next stop.
“Four warriors—what is that?” he told her. “It is enough to get you into trouble, but not enough to get you out.” Before she could protest, he surged on. “No, do not thank me. Since you will not listen to sense and reason, sending these additional men is the least I can do. I could not in good conscience allow you to continue your journey otherwise.”
Thus, owing to her growing entourage, Cait had become the reluctant owner of three additional pack mules and a converted hay wain to carry all the extra provender and provisions needed to feed the increased numbers of men and animals. She had also taken to heart Magistrate Carlo Coruña’s counsel that she should purchase tents. After Logroño, the next town on the way, he told her, settlements of even modest wealth and substance were few and very far between.
“The weather will not stay fair forever,” he warned. “Sooner or later, the autumn rains must come. Sleeping under a leaking sky is not for a noble lady, Heaven forbid! But you are indeed fortunate, for I know a man who makes the most wonderful tents—a cousin of mine, as it happens, but a tentmaker without peer. I will take you to meet him, and you will see for yourself.”
In the end, the tentmaking cousin had only two completed tents to sell. The number of pilgrims traveling through Palencia on their way to or from Santiago had so declined since the king’s ban, that he had not made any new tents for some time and was seriously considering giving up the business altogether. He was overjoyed to sell his last tents to Cait and her company, and explained that if she could wait but a month longer, he could have more ready for her. She declined politely, but purchased the remaining two for a generous price and added them to the growing mountain of equipment and supplies.
The tents were fashioned in a sturdy, rustic way: tall, peaked leather roofs stretched between two stout poles and anchored on all sides with tight-braided ropes; side pieces of heavy wool cloth were then attached to the upper portion by way of eyes and ties, so that the interior might be opened or closed to the outside depending on the desires of the inhabitants. Whatever the structures may have lacked in elegance, they more than made up in durability; the roof portions were good Spanish leather, and the cloth was tough and impervious to wind or rain. Cait and Alethea took one tent for themselves and were pleasantly surprised by the additional comfort provided. The other tent was given to the men, who took it in turn to use it, five sleepers sharing each night.
Equipped, provisioned, and rested, they set off the next day. At first, the wilful defiance of the king’s decree made the ride seem daring and eventful. But as the days passed, the continual vigilance and stealth began to pale—much like the sun-struck wilderness through which they journeyed: a dust-dulled aridity of empty hills and parched valleys filled with tinder-dry plants in subdued shades of ochre and tan and brown.
Because of their greater numbers, the company traveled more slowly than before. The Spanish knights knew many songs and games, and enjoyed teaching them to their Norse swordbrothers. They told stories about the people and places of old Galicia, often vying with one another to see who could tell the most outrageous lies about their homeland. The weather remained warm and dry, the fiery heat of summer slowly giving way to the fresh, cool days of autumn.
As before, they met neither bandits nor pilgrims, and had the road to themselves from dawn’s first gleam to twilight’s last glimmer. Thus, the days passed pleasantly, if not as swiftly as Cait would have liked. If not for the fact that the cost of provisions threatened to overwhelm her ready resources, Cait would have enjoyed the journey far more.
Keeping everyone fed and watered became the occupying conce
rn of each and every day. The supplies disappeared at a shocking rate, and Cait began to feel she had made a grave mistake taking on the extra men and horses.
Fortunately, finding good water for so many thirsty throats posed no difficulty; the road was rarely out of sight of a stream or river. Although most had dwindled to little more than a trickle awaiting the autumn rains, at least the animals could be easily watered and the knights were not forced to spend the greater part of every day searching for wells, springs, or drinking holes.
Likewise, once they entered the Ebro valley they could follow the substantial Río Ebro to Logroño—another once-magnificent Roman town which had decayed under the long years of Muhammedan dominion. Upon reaching Logroño they stopped to bathe, wash their clothes, rest, and replenish provisions. As at Palencia, the travelers were welcomed with genuine warmth by the local citizenry who had not seen any travelers for many months and were eager for news of the wider world. During their brief stay, Cait followed Brother Matthias’ advice to consult the abbot at the local monastery about the road ahead. The trails beyond Logroño into the lower valley, and eastward into the mountains, were not so well traveled as those they had used so far, and Cait was grateful for any knowledge of the most likely stopping-places along the way.
Because the abbot was not receptive to the idea of women visiting his scriptorium and holding converse with the monks under his charge, he declined to allow Cait to join the visiting party, so Rognvald and Matthias went in her stead.
“They say we can get meat and meal at Milagro on the Río Aragon,” Rognvald told her on the eve of their departure. He and Matthias had spent most of the day studying the monastery’s maps and charts of the region. “And then again at Carcastillo.”
“It is four days to Milagro,” Matthias said, “and Carcastillo is two or three days beyond that.”
The Mystic Rose Page 22