She left them to their meal, and joined the others at table; she tried to eat a little, but it hurt her throat to swallow, so she gave up and just sat listening to their talk. The day faded and as twilight stole into the valley, deepening the shadows and turning the sky to inky violet, one of Prince Hasan’s men came to the house to say that the funeral pyre was ready. They went out to the lakeside where a great tower of timber had been erected. The Moorish troops had formed a wide circle around the pyre, and the villagers and some of the nuns had assembled on the slope of the shore to watch.
At the prince’s command, Halhuli stepped forward and, taking up the torch, raised it three times, calling out in Arabic each time. He then passed the fire-brand to the warrior next to him; the man did likewise, raising it to the chanted exhortation and then passing it onto the next in line, and so on until all the surviving warriors had performed the rite.
At last, the torch came to the prince; he received it, stepped forward, and upon completing the third exhortation, lowered the torch and touched it to the tinder which had been prepared. Flames licked out and up, bright yellow in the blue dusk.
He moved to the next side of the four-sided pyre and lit the tinder there, too, then proceeded to the remaining sides, lighting each in turn. When he had completed the circuit, the flames were rising through the latticework of the pyre, skipping from branch to branch, leaping higher and higher into the darkening sky. The shadows of the watchers flickered and danced in the orange glare of the fire on the snow. Inside the tower-like structure, the corpses had been neatly wrapped in their cloaks and stacked on a stout platform, and this caught fire, giving off a silvery smoke as the bodies began to smolder.
When the flames had caught hold and begun their work in earnest, Brother Timotheus moved out from the circle and approached the burning tower. Raising his hands, he called out in a loud voice to be heard above the crack and roar of the inferno. He said:
Thou goest home in this night in the depth of winter;
To thy eternal and perpetual home, thou goest.
Sleep, friends, sleep—and away with sorrow;
Sleep, friends, sleep—in the absence of fear;
Sleep, friends, sleep—in the Rock of All Forgiving.
The black wrath of the God of life
Is upon the dank gloom of death as thou goest.
The white wrath of the Lord of the Stars
Is upon the dark path that leads beyond this worlds realm.
Thou Great God of Salvation,
Pour out thy healing grace on these souls
As the fire pours out its bright and eager heat,
And gather them into your wide and loving embrace.
Forever, and forever, always and forever. Amen.
When he finished, he stepped back into the circle, and the company watched in silence until the towering pyre began to collapse, sending bright sparks spinning up into the night-dark sky.
So that the brave Moorish dead would not have to suffer the ignominy of sharing a funeral fire with the enemy who had slain them, Prince Hasan had commanded a separate, smaller pyre to be made for the slain Templars and their disgraced leader. As the watchers began making their way slowly back to the village, this second pyre was fired, too. But, aside from Timotheus who paused to offer up a prayer for mercy on behalf of the misled Templars, no one stayed to watch.
Upon their return, Abbess Annora met them outside Dominico’s house with word that Archbishop Bertrano was dead. “He was at peace to the end,” she told them, “and passed away lightly as a sigh.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Rognvald. “He was a good man.” Turning to Prince Hasan, he said, “I am sorry, too, that your fears have been realized.”
“More blood will flow from this,” replied Hasan ruefully. “Such is the will of Allah. So be it.”
“There will be no more bloodshed,” declared Cait firmly. “We will take the archbishop’s body back to Santiago for burial, and we will tell them that he died at the hands of the Templars. Blame for his death will not be laid upon you or the people hereabouts. I will see to that.”
“I am grateful, Ketmia. Unfortunately, it is a far distance,” the prince pointed out, “by the time you reached Santiago there would be little worth burying.”
“In summer perhaps,” remarked Alethea. “But it is winter now, and if we do not tarry along the way the cold will keep his body from corruption.”
“Such things are known in Norway,” offered Rognvald. “It may work here.”
“Even if it did not,” offered Cait, “we would be no worse off than before. But, Alethea is right; if we are to have any chance at all we must leave without delay.” To Hasan, she said, “I am sorry, but it appears we will not be able to take advantage of your kind offer to winter at Al-Jelál.”
“Alas,” replied Hasan, “it would have been a rare and special pleasure. Nevertheless, I understand. Still,” he added quickly, “perhaps you would not object if I see you safely on your way?”
“Not in the least,” Cait replied. “I can think of nothing I would like better.” She glanced up and saw the shadow of disappointment flit across Rognvald’s features. As he turned away, she slipped her hand through his arm. “Well, there is perhaps just one other thing,” she confided, adding, “Have you ever been to Caithness, my lord?”
By the end of the next day, all was ready. At dawn the following morning the company bade farewell to Brother Timotheus and his faithful village flock and set off, leading a wagon packed with snow and ice in which the archbishop’s body was preserved. With them went Prince Hasan and a company of his Moorish soldiers, who would accompany them as far as Palencia where Gislebert and the nine surviving Templars would be turned over to Governor Carlo—with a request that they be detained long enough to allow a specially prepared report of their actions on behalf of the apostate Commander De Bracineaux to reach the pope, and for Cait and her company to reach the ship at Bilbao.
At Al-Jelál they stopped long enough to pick up a second wagon to follow the first. In this wagon were Paulo—who insisted he was well enough to face the rigors of the road—and three nuns of the Abbey of Klais Mairís, chosen by Abbess Annora to begin a new Order of the Gray Marys in Caithness: Sister Siâran, Sister Besa, and the newest member of the order, Sister Alethea. Accompanying the sisters, as a gift to the new order, was a large gilded cross—and, snug in its hiding place in the base of the cross, the Most Holy and Sacred Chalice, the Mystic Rose.
EPILOGUE
THE MEMORY OF that night remains as vivid and vital as this morning’s sunrise. I have merely to bring the image before my mind—the rock-cut sanctuary, the altar dressed in white, the great gilt wooden cross shimmering in the candlelight, the Inner Circle robed in white standing in attendance—and I am there again, on my knees, the Blessed Cup cradled in my hands.
It is empty as I look inside. But as I raise it to my lips the bowl is suddenly filled with crimson liquid. I take it into my mouth and taste the heavy sweetness—of life, of hope, of the everlasting joy of serving the Eternal One. With each remembrance, I drink again from the Holy Chalice and my vow, like the quickening liquid it contains, is renewed.
To remember, for me, is to enter again the vision I was granted on that night. “Not everyone sees a vision,” Zaccaria told me then. “And not everyone who sees a vision sees the same thing. You have been richly blessed, brother.”
True enough, but as it is written: from those to whom much has been given, much shall be required. My joy comes at a price which none but those who have likewise borne that heavy cost can ever know.
Caitríona knew. Pemberton also.
That night, as I took the sweet, life-changing liquid into my mouth and felt the holy fire spread through my dull limbs, the cavernous room, altar, and men who presided over the sacrament—everything!—vanished. I raised my eyes from the cup to see that I was kneeling before a man dressed in the robes of a simple priest—a young man, his hair dark and curly, his beard a thick black mass of tig
ht curls through which his quick smile broke like a flash of light from a cloud-troubled sky. “Greetings, friend,” he said, “I have been waiting for you.”
“Brother Andrew.” I had no need to ask—knowing it was he. “How may I serve you, lord?”
“I am not a lord that you should kneel to me.” He reached down, took my elbow. “Does one servant kneel to another? Stand on your feet, brother, and let us speak to one another as servants together of the Great King.”
He took my hand and turned it over, exposing the wrist. And there, imprinted on my flesh, was the livid red wound-like stigma: the Mark of the Rose. The other wrist bore the sign, too, and I gazed upon the blood-red marks in wonder.
“As you have been chosen,” Brother Andrew said, “so you must choose.”
I plucked up my courage to reply, but before I could speak he raised a hand in warning, saying, “But I would not have you choose in ignorance. For you must know that to be a guardian is both blessing and burden, and I would have you count the cost.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Any who take up the service of the cup will extend their lives in the world—far beyond the age reached by other men and women of mortal birth. You will neither age, nor experience frailty, infirmity, or decrepitude. Your allotted span will be measured in scores, not years, and you will grow great in wisdom.”
I was just thinking that the burden did not seem overwhelming, when he said, “Know also that you will live to see your friends grow old and die, your children, too, and their children after them. Not only this, you will watch many whom you would befriend drown beneath the tides of illness, insanity, and evil which sweep restlessly over the world. You will see dear friends suffer and succumb; you will see good men stumble and fall by the wayside through weakness, and your heart will break—not once, but a thousand times.”
I looked upon the wound-like marks on my wrists, and at last began to understand what it meant to be a guardian and what was being asked of me. Could I shoulder such a burden, I wondered, could I watch those I loved fall one by one into the sleep of death? Could I stand aside and watch the sufferings of the world, and not yield to the crushing pain?
“It is a hard thing you ask of me,” I told him.
“It is a hard thing, yes,” he agreed. “As it is written: many are called, but few are chosen. But if it helps to make the choice any easier, hear me when I say there will be no more guardians after you, my friend. You will be the last. You will live to see the glory of the Great King acknowledged throughout the world when the treasure so faithfully preserved by the Célé Dé is at last revealed. In you, the long obedience of these loyal Servants of Christ will be rewarded, and it will be the glory of the ages.”
It was then I realized what Pemberton had been trying to tell me. The pain is swallowed in peace, and grief in glory.
He had been a guardian. He had known the pain and grief that now stood before me, and he wanted me to know that it would be all right. That, in the end, the pain of my guardianship would be redeemed, any grief I suffered would be swallowed in the glory to come. Ultimately, the blessing would be far greater than the burden.
“The time has come to decide, brother,” said the White Priest. “What will you choose?”
“It is an honor to be chosen,” I replied. “And I will do my best to prove myself worthy. Yes, I will serve.”
Brother Andrew smiled and offered me a blessing. He then told me of the trials to come, and how I must prepare myself to meet them. We talked of this, and of other things before he went away and I awoke from the vision with the burning certainty that the course before me had been established long, long ago.
I was the last in a line that stretched back to a young man in the Orkney Isles—to Murdo, who was not willing to stand by and see his birthright stolen. Foolish, reckless, headstrong, and impetuous, Murdo, and Duncan, and Caitríona in their turn, remained true to the vision they were granted, to make of their place in the world a haven “far, far from the ambitions of small-souled men and their ceaseless striving.” Together they made a place where the most precious and sacred objects under Heaven could reside undisturbed until the day of their unveiling, when the world should again see, and remember, and believe.
About the Author
STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD (www.stephenlawhead.com) is an internationally acclaimed author of mythic history and imaginative fiction. His works include Byzantium and the series The Pendragon Cycle, The Celtic Crusades, and The Song of Albion. Lawhead makes his home in Austria with his wife.
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PRAISE FOR STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD’S SUPERB CELTIC CRUSADES SERIES
“Lawhead’s robust characterizations and vivid descriptions of exotic locales should satisfy fans.”
Publishers Weekly
“Readers partial to Lawhead’s…blend of mystical piety, adventure, and history should find enjoyment here.”
Kirkus Reviews
“A fine addition to an already impressive body of work…The Iron Lance has it all: love, treachery, heroism, epic battles, spiritual quest, treasure, and adventure…Readers will have a battle of their own waiting for the next installment.”
Grand Rapids Press
“This action-packed adventure…is sure to entice his legions of faithful readers.”
Booklist
“Intriguing…Steeped in historical detail, this action-filled romp through the Crusades should appeal to Lawhead’s growing audience.”
Library Journal
By Stephen Lawhead
Dream Thief
EMPYRION
The Search for Fierra • The Siege of Dome
In the Hall of the Dragon King
Warlords of Nin
The Sword and the Flame
THE PENDRAGON CYCLE
Book 1: Taliesin • Book 2: Merlin
Book 3: Arthur • Book 4: Pendragon
Book 5: Grail
Avalon
SONG OF ALBION
The Paradise War • The Silver Hand
The Endless Knot
Byzantium
THE CELTIC CRUSADES
Book 1: The Iron Lance • Book 2: The Black Rood
Book 3: The Mystic Rose
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE MYSTIC ROSE. Copyright © 2001 by Stephen R. Lawhead. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition January 2006 ISBN 9780061760181
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