The mystic rose cc-3

by Stephen Lawhead

  Cait herself was not unaware of what people thought of her. But if other women were more comfortable in costly silks and satins than rough boots and riding trews, more content to sit moon-eyed beside the hearthfire with their needlework than hunt with the hounds, so be it. To Cait's way of thinking, these shrinking, swooning sisters had no one to blame for their drab and insipid lives but themselves.

  'Papa, were you and Sydoni married here?' she asked, gazing up at a glittering mosaic of the holy family, resplendent in purple robes and gilded halos.

  'Here-in Ayia Sophia?' Duncan glanced at her to see if she were teasing him, but saw that she was in earnest; 'No, not here. Such splendour was far beyond our scanty means. He paused, remembering. 'Also, I seem to remember that to be married in the cathedral required a ten-month delay. I fear neither one of us would have survived the wait-the fires of passion would have consumed us to cinders.'

  Cait pretended shock. 'Presented with such a lacklustre jewel of virtue as yourself, dear Papa, I am amazed they allowed you to be married at all. So, where did you find a priest to proclaim the banns?'

  'We were married at the Church of Christ Pantocrator. Padraig knew of it, but then he knows everything. As it happens, it is not far from here. We might go there this evening, if you would like to see it.'

  'If I would…' she chided. 'It is the sole and entire purpose of this journey to drag your dutiful daughters over every last footprint of your great pilgrimage, and well you know it.'

  Duncan took her hand from his arm and kissed it. 'You are a very treasure, my light.'

  'I wish Sydoni were here,' Cait said. 'Padraig, too. I am certain they would have a few tales to tell.'

  'Oh, indeed,' agreed Duncan somewhat wistfully, remembering the day more than twenty years ago when he and Sydoni had been married in this city, and that night had celebrated their union. 'Well,' he continued after a moment, pressing his daughter's hand, 'we must enjoy our brief stay all the more for their sake, and hear what they have to say when we get home.'

  They reached the staircase and started down, following the crowds, and eventually joined the throng in the huge hall-like vestibule just as the royal family emerged from the sanctuary. Imperial Varangian guards moved with silent efficiency into the crowd and swiftly formed a double rank stretching from the sanctuary entrance to the outer doors, whereupon they turned and stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind their gold-rimmed shields, ceremonial lances upraised; the blades of their spears were gold, and dressed with scarlet pennons, but sharp nonetheless. Once this protective corridor was established, other guardsmen marched through it, clearing the crowds before them.

  'The emperor and empress!' said Cait. In spite of herself, she was enjoying the imperial display.

  'Go, my dear,' he said, urging her forward. 'I will wait here.'

  Cait released his arm and darted forward. She threaded her way through the gathered horde and peered over the shoulders of the Varangians to catch a glimpse of Emperor Manuel and Empress Irene, and their sallow-faced daughter, as they swept from the church. They were followed by the Patriarch and the Archbishop, and a long triple row of priests holding lanterns and chanting, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic waves.

  As soon as the priests passed, the twin ranks of imperial bodyguards took three paces towards one another, turned, and marched from the church. Instantly, there was a rush behind them as the congregation surged for the door to see the emperor flinging handfuls of gold coins to the crowds. Caitriona was momentarily caught up in the flow and quickly found herself outside the church. The royal party moved on, the clamouring populace with them, and Cait turned against the stream to make her way back inside the church to rejoin her father.

  Darting and sliding between close-packed clumps and clusters of people hurrying to follow the procession, she made for the place where she had left him-but he was no longer in. the vestibule. She paused and looked around, but could not see Duncan anywhere, and was at the point of going back outside to look for him when she caught sight of him in the dimly lit sanctuary. Lord Duncan was standing next to one of the gigantic porphyry columns so as to be out of the way of the departing masses.

  Cait forced her way through the streaming multitude at the door, and struggled to reach her father. As she came nearer, she saw that he was talking to someone; she could not see who it might be, for the stranger was hidden behind the column; but from the expression on her father's face the conversation was far from cordial.

  Duncan's brow was lowered and his jaw was tight, his chin thrust forward defiantly. His eyes glinted cold fire which, although fearsome, was not easily kindled.

  Indeed, Caitriona had seen him this way but once in her life: when an uninvited party of Danes, after setting up camp on the beach below the stronghold, had stolen, butchered, and roasted three good breeding cows. When Duncan found out about it, he marched down and confronted them in their camp. The roistering Danes got off lightly, she thought, with an apology and double payment for the cows. He was not facing marauding Danes now, but the expression was the same-his noble features were alight with righteous wrath.

  The sudden strangeness of the situation sent a thrill of alarm thrdugh her. Cait felt her scalp tingle with dread anticipation and her stomach tighten into a hard knot. She put her head down and forced her way through the oncoming stream of people. Drawing near, she called her father's name. He heard and turned his head. At that instant another man's face moved out from the shadow of the pillar and Cait saw it clearly: he was bearded, the beard grey but neatly trimmed-in contrast to the stark white hair of his head, which was long and brushed into an untidy nimbus around his high-domed forehead. A long, thin scar puckered the flesh above his left eye, lifting the eyebrow into an expression of scorn which, married to the ferocity glaring from his dark eyes, gave him an aspect of ruthless malice that chilled Cait to the bone.

  Then, as if having seen the young woman hastening towards them, the bearded man moved behind the pillar again. She saw the glint of his bared teeth as he slid back into the shadows. Duncan turned towards him and the two continued their conversation.

  Cait sidestepped one group of noisy celebrants, and shoved her way through another, reaching her father at last. By the time she rejoined him, the bearded man was gone. She looked where he had been standing and caught the fleeting glimmer of a long white surcoat with a red cross on the back as it disappeared into the crowd.

  'Papa, who was that?' she asked, steppmg in beside him.

  Duncan, staring fixedly ahead, seemed to be concentrating most intently on her question. He strained for the words, which caught in his throat.

  'Papa?' Her voice became urgent.

  Duncan turned towards his daughter and forced a sickly smile, his face suddenly grey. He lost his balance and stretched his hand to the polished column to steady himself.

  Instinctively, Cait stepped in to bear him up. 'What is wrong?' Even as she spoke the words, she glanced down at his other hand, clutched at his side just below the ribs where a ribbon of blood seeped between his fingers.

  'Papa!'

  'Cait…' he replied absently.'He… he…' Duncan looked down at his wound and shuddered. 'Ah! For the love of God!' he said, his teeth clenched against the pain. 'Ah!'

  'Here -' She slid her arm under his and took his weight on to herself. 'Sit down and rest.' Looking up she cried out, 'Help me! Someone, please! He is wounded!'

  But Cait's cry was swallowed in the general crush and confusion, and the nearer passers by, if they heard, paid no attention. She eased him to the floor, and sat him down on the plinth which formed a step at the base of the column. He slumped back, resting his shoulders against the purple stone. 'Do not move,' she told him. 'I will get help.'

  She made to dart away, but he seized her wrist and held tight. 'No, Cait,' he said, his voice shaking. 'Stay.'

  'I will be back before you know it.' She stood, but he held her tight in his grasp.

  'No time, my light. Stay with me.'

>   'Father, please,' she said. 'Let me find help.' She removed his hand and started off once more.

  'Caitriona, no!' he said, his voice recovering something of its former strength. 'There is only one who can help me now, and I will soon stand before him. Stay and pray with me.'

  She turned and knelt beside him, slipping her arm behind his head, fighting down the panic clawing at her heart and blurring her vision.

  'Listen, Cait. I love you very much.'

  'Oh, Papa, I love you, too.'

  'Then promise me you will not seek to avenge me,' he said, cold sweat beading on his ashen face. 'Let it end here.'

  'I do not understand. Who was that man? Why did he do this?'

  'Promise me!' he insisted, raising himself up again. The effort brought a spasm of pain which made him cough. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. 'I know you, Cait. Promise you will not avenge me.'

  'Very well, I promise.' She dabbed away the blood with the hem of her blue satin mantle. 'Now, lie back and rest a little.'

  Having received her promise, Duncan slumped against the base of the column. 'Good,' he sighed, settling back against the cool stone. 'Good.'

  Cait put her hand to her father's cheek. 'Please, Papa,' she persisted, 'I need to understand.'

  'Pray for me, Caitriona.' He closed his eyes.

  'I will – every day. But I need to understand.'

  'Renaud…' He coughed again; more blood came up, staining his teeth and chin. She wiped it away.

  At first the name meant nothing. Then the memory suffaced. 'Renaud de Bracineaux? The Templar?' She searched her father's face for a clue to the meaning of this mystery. 'Why?'

  He opened his eyes and tried to smile. 'Poor Alethea… I am glad she is not here. She is not as strong as you…' he coughed, and slumped further down, '… take care of her, Cait.'

  'Hush.' She put her cheek next to his and held him tight, as it to hold off death through the strength of her embrace. 'I will watch over her.'

  He raised his hand and cupped his palm to her chin, holding her face so that he could see her. His eyes were hazy, and his voice wavered. 'Take my heart…' He gulped air, his voice tight with pain, and forced out the words. 'Take it home. Tell Padraig… bury it in the church. He will know what to do.'

  Unable to speak, Caitriona simply nodded.

  'Sydoni,' he rasped. 'Tell Sydoni… my last thought was of her.' His voice had grown suddenly soft and tenuous as spider-silk 'Tell her I… thanking God…'

  'I will tell her.' The tears spilled freely down her cheeks and on to her father's hand.

  Duncan raised his hand and kissed the tear with blood-stained lips; Caitriona clutched his hand and pressed it to her cheek. 'Dear heart,' he said, his voice a fading whisper. 'I go.'

  He slumped back against the column base with a sigh. In that last exhalation, Cait thought she saw a light flicker briefly in his eyes and heard him say her mother's name… 'Ah, Rhona…'-the most delicate ghost of an utterance, a word spoken from the threshold of another world, and he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The dull iron glow of a new day was staining the dark waters of the Bosphorus by the time Cait finally returned to the ship. She stood at the rail and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the dirty yellow gleam burning through the grey cloudwrack like a hot poker singeing through sackcloth. After a time, she turned her unblinking gaze to the famed seven hills of Byzantium, all hung in purple mist and smoke, as if in mourning for her murdered father.

  She heard a footfall on the deck behind her, but did not turn.

  'Good morrow, my lady.' The voice was that of Haemur, their aged Orkneyjar pilot, a loyal and trusted servant, and the one person in the world Duncan would allow to captain Persephone to the Holy Land. A skilled but uneducated man, Haemur spoke only Norse, peppered with a smattering of Gaelic. 'When you did not return last night, I was worried that -'

  She turned and he saw the look on her face. His hands fluttered like distracted birds. 'Lady Caitriona,' he gasped, 'what has happened?' Then, as if realizing for the first time that she was alone, he said, 'But where is my lord Duncan?'

  'He is gone, Haemur,' she replied in a voice as brittle and empty as a dry husk.

  The seaman gazed uncomprehendingly at the young woman. 'He is coming later perhaps?'

  'No.' She shook her head. 'He is dead, Haemur.'

  The elderly sailor rubbed his red face with a rough hand. Tears came to his pale blue eyes. 'I see.' He turned away abruptly, and started towards his bench at the stern, dabbing at his eyes. She called him back.

  'I am sorry, Haemur.' She moved to him and, taking one of his thick-callused hands in both her own, explained what had taken place at the cathedral. It was quickly and simply told, and then she said, 'The body will be buried later today, and we will attend the rites. Right now, I want you to wake your men and move the ship.'

  He regarded her without understanding. 'Dead? Are you certain?'

  'Yes,' she confirmed. 'We must move the ship at once. I have arranged for a berth in the Bucoleon Harbour-the one below the lighthouse.'

  'The Greek harbour-where the grain ships call.'

  'The same. They will not think to look for us there.'

  'Who?' he asked.

  But she was already moving away. 'Iam going to my quarters now to wash and change my clothes.'

  She descended the wooden steps into the hold, which was divided into three sections. The first, near the bow, was shared by the two crewmen who helped Haemur; the middle, and largest section, was the hold proper where all the supplies, provisions, and dry goods for the voyage were kept; the third section, in the stern, was divided into two small compartments for the passengers. Cait and Alethea shared one, and the other belonged to Duncan.

  Cait put her hand to the wooden latch and quietly opened the door. Pale dawnlight showed in the small round window over the boxed pallet where Alethea lay sleeping. Cait sat down the edge of the bed and regarded the young woman. Fifteen years old-although she looked, and often behaved, as one younger than her years-she had Sydoni's thick, dark lustrous hair, and smooth tawny skin. Nor did the similarity between the young lady and her mother end there. Alethea was slender and lanky, with a high smooth brow and large dark eyes.

  Cait was nearly twelve years old when Alethea was born; and though at first she thought a baby sister a fine and wonderful thing, the joy quickly palled. Alethea considered Cait too harsh and strict on her, always nagging and chastising. In Caitriona's forthright opinion, Thea was flighty and inconsiderate, too easily taken with whims and capricious fancies, and all-too-often indulged when she should have been corrected. Indeed, Alethea should not have been aboard the ship in the first place-except that when she found out that Duncan was planning to take Caitriona to the Holy Land to see all the places he and Padraig had visited during his long pilgrimage, the younger girl had moped and whined and sulked until her father relented and agreed to take her, too.

  Cait sat listening to Alethea's deep, regular breathing for a moment, and then reached out and rested her hand on the girl's shoulder where the thin coverlet had slipped aside. The skin was warm beneath her palm, and Thea's face appeared so peaceful and content, Cait was loath to disturb her rest. No, she thought, let her enjoy the last serenity she will know for a very long time. The grieving will come soon enough.

  She rose, moved silently to the sea chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, withdrew a clean mantle and small-clothes, and then left Alethea to her rest. She crossed the narrow companionway to her father's quarters and went inside. She stood for a long while, just looking at the room, but apart from the sea chest and a pair of boots in one corner, there was nothing of Duncan to be seen.

  Cait lifted a large, shallow brass bowl from its peg and placed it on the sea chest, then filled it with water from the jar. She undressed then, and washed herself over the basin, letting the cool water sluice away the previous day's sweat and anguish and tears. The water felt good on her skin and she wished the bow
l was big enough for her to submerge her entire body-like the great enamelled basins of the caliph's hareem her father had told her about once long ago.

  When she finished, she dried herself with the linen cloth from the peg, and then, succumbing to her exhaustion at last, lay down in her father's bed. She moulded herself to the depression left by his body in the soft pine shavings of the box pallet, and closed her eyes on the grim nightmare of the day that had been.

  But there was neither rest nor sleep, nor less yet any respite from the outrageous succession of misfortune that she had suffered in all that followed her father's death. To recall the stinging injustice of her predicament made her blood seethe.

  For, presented with a corpse in their cathedral, the ecclesiastical authorities had fetched the scholae. When questioned by the leader of the troop, Cait had named the killer, and was immediately brought before a court magister, who listened politely to her story, and then conducted her forthwith to the Consul of Constantinople, a blunt, practical man with a short-shaved head of bristly grey hair. He sat in a throne-like chair beside a table prepared for his dinner, and listened while she repeated her charge; she told him everything, just as it happened-only to be informed that it was not remotely possible.

  'You must be mistaken, woman,' the consul said frankly; his Greek, like that of the others she had spoken to, although different, could be understood readily enough. 'Renaud de Bracineaux is Grand Commander of the Templar Knights of Jerusalem. He is a priest of the church, a protector of pilgrims, upholder of the faith.'

  'That may be,' Cait allowed. 'But I saw him with my own eyes. And my father named him before he died.'

  'So you say. It is a pity your father died without repeating his accusation to anyone else-one of the priests, perhaps.' He glanced at the table, and stretched his hand towards his cup. 'I am sorry.'