The Mystic Rose

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  At Cait’s appearance, the priest lowered his hands. He spoke a few words in a language Cait did not know. “Pax vobiscum,” she offered by way of reply. Stepping forward, she quickly searched the congregation for her sister, but did not see her and realized, with a pang of disappointment, that if Alethea were here, she would have made herself known by now.

  “Pax vobiscum,” the priest answered excitedly. “Pax vobiscum! Gloria in excelsis Deo!” He moved quickly around the burning bowl and came to stand before Cait. “Lady of the Blessed Night,” he said in curiously accented Latin, “I greet you with a holy kiss.” Seizing both her hands in his, he raised them to his lips and kissed them, then led her by the hand into the center of the round chapel.

  This caused a hushed sensation among the villagers—a group of fewer than seventy souls, young and old; the people gawked and murmured over their priest and the strange woman. Cait glanced around at the ring of watching faces once more in the forlorn hope that Alethea might yet be found among them—perhaps overcome by the sudden appearance of her sister and unable to step forward.

  Meanwhile, the priest turned to the knights. “Welcome, friends,” he exclaimed, pulling Cait with him to the bright burning bowl. “Come in! Come in! Close the door and warm yourselves by the fire.”

  “Please,” Cait said, turning to the priest at last, “we had no wish to disturb your service. We heard the singing, and thought merely to join you in your observance.”

  “But you have disturbed us,” replied the priest. “Even so, we welcome the disturbance, for it is an honor to entertain visitors on this most holy of all nights.”

  “Is it the Christ Mass?”

  “It is, daughter,” answered the priest. He regarded her with a bemused expression. Now that she saw him better, Cait decided the priest was not so young as she had first thought him. Indeed, he was, she surmised, as old as Abbot Padraig—if not older. Yet his deportment and demeanor were those of a man half his age.

  “Then, by all means, continue with your songs and prayers,” she said. “We would be pleased to listen.”

  The priest assented, and turning to his congregation, raised his hands once more. He called them to attention, and began singing again; gradually, the people resumed their songs and prayers—if somewhat self-consciously now for the presence of the strangers in their midst.

  They were, Cait observed, a small, sturdy people, short-limbed and thick-set, with broad, handsome faces. It was the eyes, she decided, that gave them such an unusual appearance—large and dark, set deep above prominent cheekbones either side of their fine straight noses, and each and every one gleaming with quick curiosity and humor. The old Orkneyingar told of the little dark people who had inhabited the islands long before the coming of the tall-folk. She wondered if the people of this strange, hidden place could belong to a similar race.

  As the Christ Mass followed its hallowed sequence, Cait was moved by the extraordinary peculiarity of what she was hearing—to be so far from home, yet listening to people sing the old familiar songs in the same familiar accents. She closed her eyes; with the voices filling her ears, she was once again back in Caithness—as she remembered it a long time ago. She was sitting in her grandmother Ragna’s lap in the church her grandfather Murdo had built, surrounded by men and women of the settlement, and important guests and visitors. The monks of the nearby monastery were singing, their voices creating dizzying patterns as they rose, swirling and soaring up to the cold, clear star-dusted heaven on the holiest night of the year.

  Before the gathered listeners stood her Uncle Eirik; only, tonight he was not her special friend, he was the abbot, straight and tall in his fine robes as he led the good brothers in their song. And beside her, his rough hand gently patting out the rhythm of the music on his knee, her dear old grandfather Murdo, his hair white as the snow on the hills and rooftops of Banvar, his beard a grizzled frost on his cheeks and chin.

  She saw it all so clearly, and the memory made her heart catch in her throat. The most potent yearning she had ever known rushed over her in a flood of longing so powerful it took her breath away. She had no doubt this was the hiraeth old Padraig had often spoken of: the home-yearning—an affliction of the traveler which produces a craving of such unrivalled magnitude that some poor wayfarers had been known to waste away in hopeless pining for their far-off home.

  Cait bore the ache of the hiraeth even as she exulted in the memory of that Christ Mass long ago, and gradually the conflicting emotions produced in her a pleasurable calm. As the voices announced the age-old gospel of the Blessed Messiah’s birth, she felt a peaceful acceptance of all that had been and would be—an inexplicable recognition that somehow she was where she was meant to be; however she had come, whatever trials she had faced, she belonged here, her presence was ordained by forces beyond her imagining.

  At last the service finished; the priest blessed his congregation, and then turned to his visitors. “My friends, we would be honored to have you stay with us and share our hospitality. Humble as it is, I daresay you will not find better tonight, nor, I think, a more heartfelt welcome anywhere.”

  “Your offer is most kind, brother—” began Rognvald.

  “Forgive me, I am Brother Timotheus,” the priest said quickly, “known to one and all as Timo.”

  “If, as you have proclaimed tonight,” Rognvald continued, “a simple barn was good enough for the Holy Child, it will be good enough for us.”

  “Well said, brother,” replied the priest. “But we can do better than that.” He turned and called several of the villagers from among those who were timidly eyeing the large, fierce-looking newcomers. The knights were surrounded by a knot of boys who showed a lively interest in the swords hanging from their belts.

  “Dominico,” the priest said, laying his hand on the shoulder of one of the men, “is head man of this village, and these two fine young men are his sons. I will instruct them to find places for you among the people, if that is acceptable. We are but a small village, as you will have noticed, and there is not a house large enough to hold you all. Nevertheless, I can assure you of a warm dry place among kindly folk. Many a king could wish for as much, yes, and full many the—” Timotheus broke off suddenly. “Ah, forgive me, I am preaching again.” He smiled meekly. “I seem to do that more and more these days. I cannot say why.”

  “We would be pleased to accept your kind invitation,” Cait told him, “so long as it does not overtax the charity of the people.”

  “Heaven forbid!” sniffed the priest. “It will be good for them.” He turned and spoke quickly to the village chief who, with much nodding and smiling, hurried away with his sons, taking a fair portion of the population with him. Rognvald commanded the knights to go along and see that the horses were cared for. They all clumped out into the snowy darkness.

  “What is the name of this place?” asked Cait, smiling at two little girls hiding behind their inquisitive elders.

  “It is called Pronakaelit,” the priest said. “It means Hidden Valley.”

  Cait repeated the word, and asked, “What language is spoken here?”

  “Ah, yes,” replied Timotheus. “Despite my best efforts, they speak but little Latin, as you have astutely observed. The tongue they prefer is their own. Their name for it is Euskari.”

  “But the songs,” Cait pointed out, “were Gaelic.”

  Brother Timotheus smiled proudly. “I know. I taught them.”

  “As it happens,” said Rognvald, “we have come in search of a young woman—tall and with long dark hair. Her name is Alethea, we were hoping to find her here.”

  “Were you indeed!” replied the priest with some surprise. “She has been here, I can tell you that.”

  “Truly?” Cait clasped her hands together and raised them to her chin, hoping against hope that she had heard the priest correctly. Rognvald reached out and put his hand on her arm in anticipation of the news.

  Before either of them could ask what he knew, the priest asked,
“Who is she that you should seek her so ardently?”

  “She is my sister,” Cait said. “Is she well? Do you know where she has gone?”

  “Please,” said the priest, holding up his hands to stem the flood of questions he feared were forthcoming. “I can tell you she is well, and she is nearby.”

  “God be praised,” breathed Rognvald, his voice a slow sigh of relief.

  “Where?” demanded Cait, excitedly. “Can we go there now?”

  “Peace, my lady,” the priest protested gently. “I dare not say more.”

  “Alethea was abducted by bandits,” Rognvald explained. “They carried her into these mountains, and we have been searching for her since she was taken.”

  Brother Timotheus nodded as if he suspected that this had been the way of things all along. “I believe you, my friends. I assure you, I do believe you. And if it were up to me, I would send for the girl at once and happily preside over your joyful reunion.” He spread his hands apologetically. “Be that as it may, however, it is not so easy as that, nor can I say more.”

  Cait, mystified by this irrational reluctance, stared at the monk in bewilderment. “But why?”

  “I promised Annora that I would say nothing.”

  Rognvald, seeing the clouds gathering on Cait’s furrowed brow, moved to avert the storm. “Who is Annora? Could you tell her that we have come for Alethea?”

  “Annora is abbess of the Order of the Klais Mairís. The good sisters maintain an abbey near here.”

  “Klais Mairís,” said Cait, repeating the words. The name was, so far as she could tell, quite similar to the Gaelic she knew; it meant the Gray Marys. “Is it far, this abbey? Can we go there?”

  “Alas, no—at least, not tonight,” said the priest, “but tomorrow I can send word to the abbey that you are here.”

  Cait shook her head in dismay. The kindly priest frowned with sympathy. “I am sorry, daughter,” he said. “This is how it must be. But be of good cheer, for she is safe and well cared for, and I have no doubt that in a day or two you will be reunited with your sister.”

  Rognvald thanked the good brother for this assurance and Cait, forcing a smile, thanked him too, and said with as good a grace as she could muster: “We have waited this long, I suppose a day or two longer will make no difference. In any event, it is good to know that she is safe and well—wherever she may be.”

  “Yes, that is the spirit.” Timo rubbed his hands. “Now then, you must be hungry and thirsty from your journey. Would you and your men care to join me in a simple repast? It is only beans and bread, mind, for tomorrow is the first of many feast days.”

  “We would be most happy to break bread with you,” replied Cait, overcoming her disappointment. “But nothing would please me more than to hear how one of the Célé Dé came to be living in this remote fastness.”

  Brother Timotheus’ eyebrows arched high in surprise. “Deus meus!” he exclaimed. “You know of the Célé Dé?”

  “Oh, I know enough to recognize them when I see them,” Cait assured him. Rognvald regarded her curiously, but said nothing. “You see, my family has long supported a Célé Dé monastery on our lands.”

  “Come along then, daughter,” he said, taking her hand excitedly. “You must come and sit with me and tell me everything.”

  The priest busied himself with snuffing the candles, beginning with those on the altar—pausing before each one and bowing three times before lowering the crook-shaped snuffer over the flame. He moved around the room with a sprightly step, humming to himself and glancing every now and then at his visitors as if to reassure himself that they had not vanished as suddenly and inexplicably as they had arrived.

  Then, taking up a lantern from beside the door, Timotheus led them out and around to the back of the chapel to a cell built against the church wall. Darting inside, he collected his staff and hooded cloak, and then led his guests across the village square to the settlement’s largest house. The door was open and there was music coming from inside. “This is Dominico’s house,” he told them. “That is his baptism name, mind. I cannot pronounce his birth name.”

  Inside, they found the knights huddled together beside a generous hearth, their feet stretched before a log fire while they listened to a pair of lively young men play music on a pipe and drum while womenfolk of various ages darted here and there with platters, bowls, and cups. Dominico stood in the middle of the room, welcoming his guests, singing loudly, and calling orders to all the others in their incomprehensible tongue, while his wife, a small, round woman called Elantra, directed the preparations with quiet efficiency.

  “Glad Yule, my lady!” called Yngvar as Cait and Rognvald entered. “They have already fed our horses and now they are going to feed us.”

  “Glad Yule!” added Svein, lofting the cup in his hand. “They have ale, too!”

  “And black bread like home!” said Dag, waving half a loaf at them.

  “It seems the Yuletide celebrations have begun after all,” remarked Rognvald.

  “The people here are like children in many ways,” sighed Brother Timotheus, “they can never wait for anything.”

  Dominico, chattering excitedly, gathered the late arrivals and herded them to a bench opposite the hearth. He dashed away, returning a moment later with two overflowing ale cups and a young girl bearing a tray of bread. The dark-eyed girl, grave with the weight of her responsibility, stood straight and, looking neither left nor right, offered the noble guests loaves of black bread from her tray. While Rognvald took charge of the cups, Cait accepted one of the loaves, smiled pleasantly, and thanked the girl, whose stoic solemnity wilted at their exchange. The household honor satisfied, she turned and scampered away, calling loudly for her mother.

  The musicians, meanwhile, finished their song to the noisy acclaim of the knights, who began stamping their feet and slapping their knees and clamoring for more. The two boys grinned and quickly commenced another, yet more spirited tune. Dominico, clapping his hands and calling like a bird, began whirling around; spinning this way and that, his feet beating time to the music, he rounded on Cait, scooped her up and spun her onto the floor. The next thing she knew, she was caught up in the dance to the dizzy delight of one and all.

  More and more villagers were crowding into the house by the moment, some bringing jars of wine and ale, and others bearing festive foods: boiled eggs, smoked meat and fish, flat bread flavored with anise. When there was no more room in the house, the merrymaking spilled out into the snow and then the neighboring houses. More musical instruments appeared: tabors and shakers, pipes made of gourds and clay, wooden flutes of several sizes, and an oddly shaped lyre with four strings.

  They drank and sang and danced, and then drank some more. Cait quickly became the most sought-after partner, as one after another of the male villagers, young and old, seized the opportunity to dance with their noble visitor. Once, presented with two obstinate partners who asked at the same time, she averted hurt feelings by taking on both at once—to the exuberant approval of the women looking on.

  Amidst the singing and dancing, the food came and went, and the night with it. One night’s revelry spilled over into the next day’s celebration. The light of a Yuletide dawn was showing when Cait finally found a chance to creep away. She went into her host’s chamber, loosed her swordbelt and put the weapon aside, before sinking into a bed piled high with furs. She closed her eyes and slept only to be awakened a short time later by the clanging of a bell outside the house.

  THIRTY-NINE

  CAIT SAT UP in bed; so strong was the sense of familiarity, she imagined she was home again in Caithness. The priests at Banvar rang the bells to signal the beginning of the Yuletide celebrations; she wondered if Brother Timotheus did the same.

  When the music began again, she relinquished any expectation of sleep, rose from her bed, and made her way outside to a world of sparkling white made brilliant by the light of the rising sun. The sky was clear and heart-breakingly blue, and the hig
h, encircling mountain peaks burned with a rosy glow like fired bronze.

  The villagers were making their way in procession to the chapel, led by Brother Timotheus exuberantly swinging an oversize bell. The air was biting cold, and the pealing of the bell piercing in its clarity. Yngvar, Dag, and Rodrigo were in the forefront of the parade, trampling triumphantly through the snow as if to make a path for those behind; they were followed by Dominico and his sons, and all the rest. Neither Rognvald nor Svein was to be seen, but Cait fell into line behind the others and proceeded to the church.

  The service was blessedly short. Brother Timotheus simply read out a Psalm and led his faithful flock in a few prayers; the congregation sang a song, and then they all trooped back outside where everyone hailed everyone else with an enthusiastic Yuletide greeting. Cait was swept up in wave upon wave of hugging and kissing, as one after another of the villagers embraced her. Then they all went off to resume the celebration.

  As the last released her and hurried away, she looked up to find Rognvald standing before her. “Glad Yule, Lady Caitríona,” he said. “It seems I am too late for prayers, but not, I hope, for a greeting.” With that, he opened his arms and folded her into a warm embrace and gave her a kiss that left her blinking at its sudden, virile intensity.

  “Glad Yule, my lord,” she said, gazing up into his face.

  He smiled, his blue eyes keen and clear as the skies high overhead. “Will you breakfast with me?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” she replied, taking Rognvald’s arm. They walked slowly, enjoying one another’s company and the fine, sparkling day. The sound of the snow squeaking beneath her feet filled Cait with a youthful joy she had not known for years. “It seems our search is soon concluded,” she said after a time.

  When Rognvald did not answer, she glanced sideways at his face and saw that he was gazing at the mountains towering above the village, their smooth, snow-dusted slopes gleaming in the new day’s light. They appeared to Cait like stately monarchs robed in winter furs and enthroned around the bowl of the valley, gazing at their own splendor in the bright mirror of its lake.