The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Two more arrows fizzed past before she was out of range. She struck the path and raced to the broken stone slab, passed through the gap, and splashed across the ford, speeding along the stream to the base of the ridge where she was met by the knights who had seen her approach in haste and had come down armed and ready for battle.

  As soon as she was near enough, she shouted, “Go! Rognvald and Hasan need you!”

  Yngvar was the first to reach her. “Where are they, my lady?”

  “Follow the stream,” she gasped, breathless from her ride. “You will find them beyond the ford. They are attacked. For God’s sake, hurry!”

  Yngvar turned to the others. “Ready arms!” he cried. “Follow me!”

  With a shout, the knights clattered off. The last was Dag, who paused long enough to ask, “Would you have me stay to protect you, my lady?”

  “No. We will be safe here. Go!”

  The knight bounded away. Cait watched as the warriors raced out along the stream; in the near distance, she could see the pool which marked the fording place and, beyond it, the divided slab. Yngvar and Rodrigo reached the tumbled stone, and disappeared through the gap. The others pounded through one after another and were gone. “They will return soon,” she said with more hope than conviction. “You will need a mount, Abu.”

  When he did not answer, she swivelled in the saddle to look behind her. Abu, one hand still holding to her cloak, sat with his head down as if contemplating the tip of the arrow which had passed through his upper back and now protruded between the bloody fingers of his other hand.

  Cait slid from the saddle and caught the wounded youth as he toppled to the ground. She laid him down as gently as she could; forcing calm to her shaking hands, she rolled him onto his side.

  The arrow had found its mark in his back just below the shoulder to emerge on the other side between two upper ribs. The iron arrowhead was small, but it was barbed; pulling it out the way it had gone in would do far worse damage, so she thought it best to break off the fletched end and remove it from the front. Grasping the slender wooden shaft in her hand, she tried to break it; the movement brought a groan of pain from Abu, so she decided to leave it for the moment.

  “Ahh, God forgive,” he gasped, his voice thin and brittle. “I am sorry, sharifah. You were proud of me once. I wanted you to be proud of me again. I failed. I am sorry.”

  “Never say it.” Removing her cloak, she shook it out and draped it over him. “I am proud of you, Abu. If not for your markers, we would never have found our way. Rest here a little while I go and fetch Halhuli. The arrow must come out.”

  She made to move away, but his hand snaked out and snatched hold of her sleeve.

  “You need help, Abu. I will go and quickly return. I will—”

  Abu threw aside the cloak and struggled onto an elbow; the effort sent blood spilling from the wound in a scarlet rush. His face contorted with pain. “Thea,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I must tell you about Thea.”

  “I am listening.” She lowered him back to the ground and replaced the cloak.

  “Thea is not here,” he said, gasping. “She escaped…ran away. I helped her.” He opened his eyes, imploring her to understand.

  “Where, Abu? Where did she go?”

  Before he could answer he was taken with a fit of coughing which left him panting for breath and unable to speak. “Rest easy,” she told him. “I will get some water.”

  She dashed to her mount and untied the small waterskin from beside the saddle, and brought it to him. Kneeling down, she drew the stopper and allowed a little water to flow out onto his lips. “Here,” she said, lifting his head, “drink.”

  He sipped a mouthful of water and then looked at her, his eyes big and bright with pain. “Listen, sharifah, there is a lake…and a village beside the lake. I learned of it from shepherds. She is there.”

  He drank again, swallowing hard, and then laid his head on his arm and closed his eyes.

  “Where is the lake?” Cait asked.

  When he did not reply, she put her lips close to his ear. “Please, Abu, tell me. Where is the lake? I must know if I am to find Thea.”

  His eyelids fluttered open. His dark eyes were no longer as bright as they had been only a moment before. “The lake…”

  “Yes, Abu, where? Where is it?”

  “There…” he said, his voice a breathless whisper. “The mount of gold…”

  “The Mount of Gold? Abu, I do not understand. Tell me, what is the Mount of Gold? Where is it?”

  His mouth opened and a small gurgling sound came from his throat as he tried to make the words. “There…” he gasped at last, staring straight out across the crooked valley. Cait saw the tawny glint of reflected light in his eyes and followed his gaze to a snow-topped peak rising in the near distance; bathed in the light of the westering sun, it glowed with a rich golden hue.

  “Is that the mountain?” asked Cait. “Abu, is that the one you mean?”

  She turned and saw that although the reflection of the mountain still filled his eyes with light, sight was already fading. “Oh, Abu,” she said, her voice cracking. She bent her head and placed her hand on his cheek, her tears falling onto his still face. “Go with God, my friend,” she whispered, then gathered him in her arms and held him as deep silence descended over them.

  Halhuli found her that way—crouched beside the trail, shivering with cold, still holding the young man’s corpse. “Lady Ketmia,” he said, hastening to her side. “May I assist?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he lifted the young man from Cait’s grasp and lowered him gently to the ground. He removed the cloak from Abu’s body and put it over Cait’s shoulders, then, taking hold of the arrow below the head, gave a solid tug and pulled it through the wound. He laid the arrow on the ground, and set about straightening Abu’s limbs, placing the knees and feet together and folding the hands over his chest. He closed the young man’s eyes and mouth, and as he worked, Cait became aware that he was praying over the body—his low, murmuring chant had not ceased since he began tending Abu’s ragged corpse.

  Next, he poured some water from the waterskin and washed the young man’s hands, feet, and face. He then washed his own hands, dried them, and kneeling beside the body raised his hands and face to heaven and intoned a prayer in Arabic. When he finished, he bowed and touched his forehead to the ground.

  “Thank you, Halhuli,” said Cait.

  “He will commence his journey with an easier spirit now,” replied the prince’s overseer.

  At that moment a raw, wordless cry sounded across the valley; it was followed by the savage rattle and clash of weapons. Cait and Halhuli rose and stood gazing toward the gap in the broken slab as the sounds of battle waxed and waned, much as the sound of sea waves tumbling rocks on a pebbled shore.

  And then the clamor stopped. Cait held her breath.

  She balled the fabric of her cloak in her fists and watched the gap for warriors to appear. “Lord save us,” she prayed through clenched teeth.

  An instant later, Prince Hasan rode through the cleft. He paused at the ford, and was soon joined by Dag and Svein; Rodrigo was next, carrying Paulo with him across the back of his horse, followed by Yngvar and, lastly, Rognvald.

  They rode to the foot of the ridge trail where Cait and Halhuli waited. The knights, breathing hard from the exertion of their brief but fearsome toil, wiped sweat from their faces, and extolled one another’s skill and bravery.

  “The dogs have abandoned the chase,” Rognvald informed her. “Paulo and Hasan have been wounded. We must get them back to camp at once.”

  “My injury is not so bad,” Hasan said, shaking his head. “But we must not linger here lest Ali Waqqar dares to tempt fate again.”

  Rognvald signalled the knights to ride on. As they clattered past, Cait reached out and put her hand to his knee. “What about Abu?” she asked.

  Rognvald heard the sorrow in her voice, looked past her and saw the body of the
young man lying still on the ground, the fatal arrow beside him. He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. “Did he say anything before he died?”

  “He told me Alethea escaped,” Cait replied.

  “That is something, at least.”

  “And I think I know where she may be found.” She quickly explained what Abu had told her, then looked back over her shoulder at his body. “I do not want him left here.”

  “Nor do I.” Rognvald dismounted, crossed quickly to the corpse, lifted it in his strong arms and carried it back to his mount. Cait held the horse while Rognvald secured the body, and then they rode silently back to camp.

  The sun was dropping below the mountains to the west by the time they reached the top of the ridge; the encircling wall cast the valley into shadow. There were no bandits following them, so they hurried on, making their way along the switchback trail leading down the other side of the ridge. The sun fired the mountain tops, causing the snow-topped peaks to glow like red-hot brands, and Cait watched the colors slowly fade as the short winter day gave way to a misty dusk.

  They halted at the edge of the clearing, and Rognvald lifted Abu’s body down from the horse and laid it on the ground. He straightened, crossed himself, then turned to find Cait watching him. “We will bury him soon,” he told her.

  “You are wounded,” she said, regarding the ragged rent in his sleeve above the elbow.

  He saw her glance and said, “A small cut. It is nothing.”

  She reached out to take his arm for a better look, but he held it away from her grasp. “A scratch only,” he insisted. “Leave it be.”

  They walked to the camp to find the knights standing around the outstretched body of Paulo while Halhuli examined his wound and the prince’s servants scurried for supplies. Cait pushed in beside Svein and watched as Halhuli probed the unconscious Spanish knight’s wound, then looked up. “The cut is deep,” he said, “but clean. With rest and care, I think he may recover.”

  Satisfied, the knights nodded and moved off to other tasks. While Rognvald and Halhuli made Paulo comfortable in one of the tents, Dag, Svein, and Yngvar found a place at the edge of the camp and dug a deep grave. Then, as the first stars began burning in the east, the knights buried the Syrian servant. While Cait and the wounded Hasan stood looking on, they pressed crude wooden crosses into the mound of soft earth, and prayed over the grave, commending the soul of the slender youth to the Almighty Giver and Receiver of Life.

  By the time they finished, the prince’s servants had a hot supper prepared, so they all sat down around the fire to warm themselves and eat a simple meal. Cait related what Abu had told her about Alethea’s escape and where to look for her. “Then something good has come of this, at least,” Hasan observed. “Allah is wise and merciful.”

  They finished their supper in silence, each wrapped in private thoughts which none cared to disturb. When they had finished, Hasan, his face pale with fatigue, rose. “The excitement of the day has given me a headache,” he said, “and I am tired. May Allah grant you a peaceful repose.” He bade them a good night and retreated to his tent.

  After he had gone, Rognvald called the knights to attend him; they moved a few paces away from the fire. “It may be that darkness will inspire the thieves to boldness,” he said.

  “Let them come,” said Yngvar. “We will make the wolves a feast they will not soon forget.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Rognvald, “we will take no risks. Rodrigo and Dag will take the first watch. Yngvar, you and Svein take the second watch, and I will take the third.”

  Thus prepared for the night, the rest of the party retired to their tents to sleep—except Cait, who noticed the way the tall knight had begun favoring his arm as he ate his supper. “A moment, my lord,” she said as he came into the light of the fire, “I would examine your wound.”

  “A scratch,” he insisted, “is scarcely a wound.”

  Not to be put off, she stepped before him. “Then it will scarcely matter if I have a look at it.” She took his arm, and led him to the fire where she had prepared a bowl of hot water and some strips of clean cloth. “Sit you down, and remove your shirt.”

  “Lady, it is cold. I will certainly freeze.”

  “Listen to you now,” she chided, undoing the laces at his throat. “And you, a True Son of the North, crying about a little cold.”

  “God preserve us,” he sighed. Shrugging off his cloak, he pulled open his shirt, and drew it over his head.

  It was the first time she had seen him without his shirt and the broad sweep of his muscled shoulders and the pale curly hair on his chest pleased her. She found herself gazing raptly at him in the wavering glow of the fire.

  “Well?” he said, stirring her to action. “Get on with it then.”

  Kneeling beside Rognvald, Cait took his arm, lifted it and stretched it out. The errant blade had caught him on the back of the arm, poked a hole through his shirt and produced a small ragged-looking gash. The edges of the cut were puckered and inflamed; there had not been much bleeding, but some of the fabric of the shirt had been driven into the wound. She could see several discolored threads sticking out, but all in all, it was as Rognvald maintained, little more than a nasty scratch.

  Cait set to work, dampening a square of cloth in the bowl and applying it to the wound. She put the hot cloth against the cut and held it there to soften the dried blood. Rognvald, adopting the pained expression of a man who is being made to endure humiliation at the hands of an inscrutable higher power, stared at the fire, avoiding Cait’s eyes.

  After a while, she asked, “How long do you think Alethea could survive out here—alone in the cold?”

  “It is difficult to say,” Rognvald replied. “Water is good and abundant. The days are not so cold in the valleys, and there is shelter to be found. If she kept her wits about her, she would not be much worse off than she was before.”

  “What about the wolves?”

  He shook his head. “Yngvar thinks every forest abounds with wolves. Have you heard any wolves since coming to these mountains? Have you seen even so much as a wolfish footprint in the mud or snow?”

  “No, but—”

  “If there were any wolves hereabouts, we would have known about them long since.”

  She accepted his judgment, and continued dabbing at the cut, washing it gently. When she had cleaned it, she turned his arm toward the firelight, and proceeded to pull the embedded shreds of his shirt from the wound. The first threads came free dragging clots of blood, and drawing a wince from Rognvald.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No,” he said. “It is just a little cold, that’s all.”

  “Here.” She picked up his cloak and made to pull it up around his shoulders. As she did so she saw that his back was a lumpen mass of welted scars, poorly healed, and livid still. The sight caught her by surprise. “Your back!” she gasped. “What happened to you?”

  “The Saracens,” he muttered.

  “In battle?”

  “After,” he told her, pulling the cloak around him. “They thought I might tell them the strength of the garrison at Tripoli—” he paused, “—among other things.”

  “But you refused to tell them so they tortured you,” she guessed.

  He looked at her sideways, and then shook his head with reluctant resignation.

  “You told them?” said Cait, mildly appalled by this revelation.

  “Aye,” he confessed, “I told them. I am not proud of it, mind. But it was no secret anyway. The city was not under siege; travelers came and went as freely as birds. The next merchant through the gates would have told them if I did not—they had only to ask.”

  “Then why did they torture you?”

  “Because,” he replied, as if the subject wearied him, “Prince Mujir ed-Din had just come to the throne, and the wazir hoped to impress him with his skill in dealing with Christian prisoners. When I answered him outright, I made the wazir look foolish. So, he had me beaten
in revenge.”

  “I see,” replied Cait. Pulling two more scraps of cloth from the wound, she flipped the bloody threads into the fire, then washed the cut again before binding it with strips of clean linen cloth. “Had I a little unguent,” she said when she finished, “it would heal more quickly.”

  “All the same, I am much obliged, my lady,” Rognvald said, flexing his bandaged arm. “I thank you.”

  He drew his shirt back on and sat for a moment, regarding her in the firelight. He lifted his hand as if to touch her, hesitated, then stood abruptly. “If you have no further need of me, I will sleep a little before I take my watch.”

  Cait bade him good night and watched him walk away, then went to her own tent, but found she could not sleep for thinking about Alethea. The thought of the young woman—unprepared in so many ways—wandering lost and alone in the high mountain wilderness kept her awake long into the night. She kept seeing her sister struggling through the snow, shivering, freezing, gasping out her last breath on a lonely mountainside, her pitiful cries for help unheard and unheeded.

  Pangs of guilty remorse assailed her. She stared into the dwindling fire and heard again her father’s dying words: Promise you will not avenge me…Let it end here.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE SUN ROSE as a pale red blot in a darkly ominous sky, and Cait rose, too. A servant brought her a bowl of warm water, and she washed, then held the basin for a time letting the heat seep into her fingers. The rest of the camp was stirring and she heard the voices of the knights as they commenced the morning ritual of feeding, watering, and grooming the horses.

  She sat clutching the bowl and listening to the knights, and her heart quailed within her. Dread, thick as the wintry mist shrouding the mountainside, swept over her. Closing her eyes, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, all the while telling herself that her distress was born of agitation and frustration, and that her spirits would improve as soon as they were on the trail once more. But, as her thoughts turned to renewing the search, she remembered those they would be leaving behind, and the stifling black desolation of the previous day descended upon her once more.