The mystic rose cc-3

by Stephen Lawhead

  Cait decided to withdraw to her quarters below deck where it was cooler. 'Come, Thea,' she said, 'let us leave the men to practise their swordplay.'

  When Thea made no reply, she looked to see her sister gazing raptly at the knights, who had stripped to the waist in the heat. 'He is handsome, is he not?' she said.

  Cait saw where her sister was looking. Dag, his spare, muscular torso glistening with sweat, was lunging back and forth across the deck in a vigorous display of stab and thrust-as much for Alethea's benefit, Cait surmised, as for the drubbing of his invisible opponent.

  'Thea, come away,' snapped Cait. Abashed at her sister's barefaced stare, she took the younger woman by the arm and pulled her down the steps. 'Have you no shame?' she demanded as soon as they were below deck. 'He is hired to do my bidding, and I will not have you making cow eyes at him.'

  'I was never making cow eyes!' replied Thea, rigid with indignation. 'Not that you would know anything about it. You will die a dried-up old hag and have no one to blame but yourself.'

  The remark was calculated to cut deep and it did. 'Take that back.'

  'No.'

  'Take it back!'

  By way of reply, Thea screwed up her face in a sour expression of defiant disobedience. Before she knew it, Cait's hand snaked out and struck her on the cheek with a resounding slap. Without another word, Thea turned and disappeared into her chamber, slamming the door behind her.

  Cait, upset and angry, stood fuming in the companionway, fighting down the urge to go in and throttle her sister. Instead, she returned to the upper deck, and was speaking with Haemur about the voyage ahead when Rognvald approached carrying a long cloth bundle in his hands.

  'This is for you, my lady,' the tall Norseman said. Drawing aside the cloth wrapping, he presented her with a short, slender sword. 'It was made as a gift for Queen Melisende of Jerusalem, but was taken as loot when the baggage train that carried it was overrun by Saracens. Geldemar only recently acquired it.'

  He placed the elegant, keen-edged blade in her grasp. It was half the size of a man's weapon, lighter, shorter, and balanced for a woman's hand. She swept it back and forth smartly. The quick, responsive weight sent an unexpected thrill through her. She had tried swords before-men's blades-and thought them cumbersome and ungainly.

  'It is fine, is it not?' said Rognvald approvingly.

  'A very marvel,' she murmured. With this blade, she thought, I will hold de Bracineaux to account.

  'When Geldemar saw that I liked it for you, he insisted that you should have it.'

  'In recognition of a wonderful new friendship, I should think.'

  'No doubt,' agreed the knight.

  Cait raised the sword before her face. The way the sunlight slid over its polished surface and danced along the razor-sharp edge brought a smile to her lips. 'You must teach me to wield it properly,' she said.

  'It will be my very great pleasure,' said Rognvald, inclining his head.

  Two days later, after fittings from both tailor and shoemaker, a visit to the barber for shaves and haircuts for the knights -who were finally beginning to look almost civilized again-and numerous deliveries by provisioners bringing wine and water by the cask, ground meal by the barrel, hard-baked bread, salted pork, fish and sausage, dried peas and beans and other staples, and delicacies such as honey, almonds, pepper, and ground spices-Haemur raised anchor and Persephone drifted slowly out into the bay. Once clear of the long spiny ridge of the headland, he unfurled the sails and they set out for the Pillars of Hercules and the rocky storm-fraught coasts beyond.

  PART II

  September 2, 1916: Edinburgh, Scotland

  'Gentlemen, the time has come to appoint a new leader.'

  It was Evans, our Second Principal, speaking in low, solemn tones which filled the Star Chamber with a sepulchral sound. 'The war which has already cost so many lives has claimed one more, and we now taste the grief of those who mourn throughout our nation. I tell you, brothers,' he said, looking to Pemberton's empty chair, 'it fills my mouth with bitter ashes.'

  He turned his sorrowful gaze from Pemberton's place and said, 'The rule of our order dictates the terms by which the new leader is to be appointed. But before proceeding any further, we will observe a time of silence in honour of our fallen leader.'

  We all bowed our heads and offered up the memory of that fine, noble man to the Allwise Creator in whose presence he now delighted. The silence in the room swelled to become a hymn of deepest admiration and the most profound esteem, a veneration beyond utterance.

  I do not know how long it lasted, for time was overwhelmed by eternity and no longer held any meaning to me. I simply became aware that Evans was speaking, and once more returned, reluctantly, to the concerns of this world and the matter before us.

  'Unless anyone has cause to object,' Evans was saying, 'we shall proceed in accordance with the directives established in the Rules of Order. I shall now read the pertinent portion from the Articles of Investment: "If it should happen that the First Principal shall die in office, the Second Principal shall hold in his stead the seal and charter of the Brotherhood of the Temple and the Order of the Sanctus Clarus until such time as the surviving members of the elect be met to nominate and appoint one from their number who shall assume the mantle of authority and resume the leadership of the Order, guiding its protection, preservation, advancement, and the furtherance of all its aims."'

  Here the compact Welshman looked up. 'Hear me, all of you? Signify by saying, "Aye."' This we did, and he continued, 'I shall now read from the Articles of Initiation. "If it should be found that, prior to the election and investment of the First Principal, any of the Seven have not attained to the Master, or Final Degree Initiation, and unless any impediment shall be admitted, that initiation shall be offered without delay." Hear me, all of you? Signify by saying, "Aye."'

  While we all affirmed our understanding, I did so in a slightly bemused state, for until that moment I had neither heard nor suspected there were any higher degrees than the one I now occupied, the Seventh. Despite the slightly archaic and abstruse language, it did not take a legal mind long to realize that Evans was talking about me. In other words, if the First Principal is to be elected from among the remaining members of the Inner Circle, then they must all be of equal rank and status. Obviously, I did not enjoy that particular rank.

  Indeed, the very next instant he turned and addressed me personally. 'Brother Murray,' he said, 'I am mindful of your standing. Having attained the Seventh Degree, and having performed loyal and exemplary service since your investment, I declare before this assembly that you are deemed worthy of consideration for initiation into the Final Degree.'

  Still slightly awed by the implications of Evans's announcement, I could only nod as Zaccaria hastened to ratify this astonishing declaration, saying, 'I stand as second to the initiation of our esteemed brother.'

  'We recognize the sanction and affirmation of Brother Zaccaria,' Evans said. 'Therefore I must ask you, brothers, is it your will and pleasure that Brother Murray attain to the Final Degree? If so, please signify.'

  All around the table the members of the Inner Circle declared their endorsement of the proposal, whereupon I was asked to stand. 'Brother Murray,' said the Second Principal, 'seeing no impediment to your elevation arising, I now ask you: to the best of your knowledge is there any reason why you may not advance to your initiation?'

  'No, brother. I stand ready to accept the mandate of my superiors.' It is the customary answer to questions of this kind within the Brotherhood; the only difference is that now I knew the men around me to have been my superiors and not, as I had mistakenly imagined for so long, merely my peers. While I accept that my initiation was a formality which was being carried out to fulfil the dictates of our Rules of Order, I nevertheless experienced the familiar excitement of the novitiate facing the unknown.

  Obviously, I did not know the form this initiation would take. Remembering my induction to the Seventh Degree, how
ever, and the harrowing ordeal it engendered, my enthusiasm was tempered by experience. That is not to say I was afraid: I was not. I trusted the men around me implicitly. Even so, the frailty of the human frame having been much on my mind of late, I was only too aware of the limitations age had introduced. Though I was the youngest member of the Inner Circle, I was neither as energetic nor as agile as in my youth, and any qualms I felt were those which attended men of my age when contemplating even the most ordinary exertions.

  Evans took me at my word, however. 'So be it,' he said. 'Let the initiation commence.'

  He closed the book from which he had been reading out the Articles. 'The nature of initiation to the Final Degree requires that the candidate should remain in seclusion neither more nor less than three complete diurnal periods, the purpose of which is to allow the candidate to reflect on the commitment he is about to make, and to seek the safeguarding of his soul through making peace with his Allwise Creator.' He looked to me for an answer. 'Do you understand?'

  'I understand, brother, and I am ready to proceed.'

  'So be it.' Turning to the others, he said, 'We will adjourn until this hour in three nights' time when we will reconvene to undertake the initiation of our esteemed brother.'

  The meeting ended then, and I received the congratulations of the others. They wished me well and departed, disappearing into the night by their various routes. In a little while Evans and I were left alone. 'I was sorry to hear of the death of your wife,' he said; our business concluded, we could speak more informally. 'It must have been a very great shock to you.'

  'Yes,' I replied. Although I had no idea how the other members of the Inner Circle learned of these things, I had long ago accepted that they did. 'I am only beginning to realize the extent of my loss.'

  'Time will heal,' he told me. 'I do not offer that lightly. Though many people profess the same sentiment blithely and without consideration, it is true nonetheless. Given time, the wound will heal. The scar will remain, but you will no longer feel the pain.'

  I thanked him for his expression of sympathy, and said, 'As it happens, I was prepared to relate a most curious incident concerning Pemberton's death. I wanted to hear what the other members made of it.'

  'Oh, indeed? Well, would you mind telling me?'

  'Not at all,' I answered, and went on to explain about Pemberton's ghostly appearance at the country house, and my subsequent interview with Miss Gillespie. I reported the queer message the young woman had passed on to me. 'He spoke to the young lady; he said: "The pain is swallowed in peace, and grief in glory." That's what she thought him to say, but it makes little sense to me.'

  Evans rubbed his smooth chin and his eyes became keen. He loved a good puzzle, and I was happy to share it with him and let him mull it over for as long as he liked. 'Now that is a poser,' he allowed. 'Providing, of course, that is what Pemberton said.'

  'Granted,' I replied. 'What one says and what one is heard to say are not necessarily the same thing.'

  'Quite.' He smiled, his round, friendly face lighting with simple good pleasure. 'I shall have a good think. Now then, let me show you to your cell.'

  I had learned over the years that the little church where we met contained several underground passages leading to a number of chambers, sub-chambers, and catacombs. Thus I was not surprised to learn that the cell he mentioned was of the old-fashioned variety: a simple bare room with a straw pallet piled with fleeces for sleeping; a small table with a large old Bible bound in brittle leather, and a single, fat candle in an iron holder; a low, three-legged stool; in the corner a tiny round hearth with narrow stone chimney above; and, next to it, a supply of wood and kindling. Beside the hearth was a covered wooden stoup filled with water; a wooden ladle hung by its handle from a leather strap. Atop the stoup lay a cloth bundle. The rock walls were white-washed, and a simple wooden cross adorned the wall above the bedplace.

  In all it was a clean little room, reached after a short candlelit walk along a passage which joined a flight of steps leading from the Star Chamber, which was itself below the chancel of the church. 'All the comforts of home,' Evans said, tipping his candle to the one on the table, 'but none of the distractions.'

  'I've always wondered what it would be like to be a monk. Now I will find out.'

  'You will enjoy your stay, Gordon.' He stepped to the doorway. 'There is food in the bundle, and you will find a latrine in the next cell along.' He bade me farewell then and left me to begin my time of preparation. I listened to his footfall recede down the passageway, and heard the door shut a moment later, and I was alone.

  I occupied myself with setting a tidy little fire on the hearth. This I did as much for the light and the cheery company of the flames as the warmth provided. I unwrapped the bundle and saw that it contained three large round loaves of bread, a lump of hard cheese, a half-dozen apples, and three dried fish. Not only would I sleep like a monk, I would eat like one, too.

  I tried the bed, stretching myself out on the fleeces; it was simple, but comfortable-the straw was fresh, and there was a rough woven coverlet, should I need it. I was not particularly tired, so I got up, took the candle, and had a look at the latrine-again, a simple but serviceable affair which would meet my basic requirements. Returning to the cell, I placed the candle on the table once more and took up the Bible. I perched on the edge of the bed, adjusted the candle so that I could see the pages and opened the cover -only to discover that what I had taken for a Bible was in fact a large, heavy, antique volume entitled, The Mark of the Rose.

  Curiosity pricked, I turned the pages and examined the text. I am no expert in these things, but I had ploughed through enough musty, dusty old books in various legal libraries to recognize a hand-printed tome when I saw one. There was neither colophon, trademark nor printer's stamp that I could see. Judging from the antique typeface and the way the heavy pages were bound, I guessed it had been printed anywhere from the mid to late 1700s. Considering its age, the pages were in remarkably good condition-indicating, I assumed, a prolonged and conscientious effort at preservation.

  I returned to the title page and found printed beneath the title the words: prepared from the manuscript of William St Clair, Earl of Orkney.

  The choice of words was interesting. It did not say that William had written the manuscript, but merely implied ownership. From this, I deduced that the manuscript in question was an older document from which the book I now held had been produced.

  Thoroughly intrigued, I began thumbing the pages indiscriminately, and before long began reading. My pulse raced as, one after another, I began encountering the old familiar names: Ranulf… Murdo… Ragna… Duncan… Caitriona… Sydoni… Padraig… Emlyn… and others whose lives had now become so intimately known to me that I thought of them as friends.

  I understood then how I was to use the time I was being granted. Settling back on my bed, I pulled the table close and, propping the book on my knees, turned to the first page and began to read.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Twenty-six days out from Cyprus, Persephone passed the Pillars of Hercules, leaving the calm blue waters of the Mediterranean behind and entering the green-grey foam-traced depths of the cold Atlantic. Almost at once, the fair warm weather changed. Brilliant blue, cloudless skies gave way to low, heavy grey ceilings of endless overcast; cold winds gusted out of the north-west, kicking up a rough chop which hammered the prow and kept the ship pitching and lurching from crest to trough for days on end.

  No stranger to heavy seas, Haemur reduced the sail-once, and then again-and kept a firm hand on the tiller and an experienced eye on the heavens. When the rain and mist finally cleared, the Iberian coast came into view. Two days later they sighted the entrance to the great shallow salt-water bay which the locals called the Sea of Straw.

  Weary of the wind and rain and bouncing deck, Cait gladly gave the command to make landfall, and in a little while they came in sight of Lixbona, with its wide and busy harbour tucked into the curved ar
m of coastline on the Tagus river. The white Moorish city, rising on terraced hills, glistened in the sun with a fresh, rain-washed gleam. The air seemed sharper, more invigorating, too-heralding an early autumn, Cait thought.

  Persephone's eager passengers stood on the deck as the ship passed through the narrows and into the bay, and watched the city grow larger as more of the gently undulating hills were revealed to them. 'There is the al-qasr,' said Abu Sharma, pointing to the citadel sitting square atop the steep promontory overlooking the harbour.

  'Do you know this place?' wondered Rognvald.

  'No,' he said, and explained that the word simply meant 'fortress' in Arabic. 'And, look, there is the central mosq.' He pointed to a large, domed building with a tall, pointed tower rising beside it like a finger pointing towards Heaven. But the tower, or minaret, as he called it, was topped by a large wooden cross, and another had been erected in the centre of the mosq's bulging dome. For when the city fell to the Christians there had been no gross destruction; instead, the practical people of Lixbona merely converted the Muslim buildings to new uses: the fortress became the king's palace, and the mosqs were made into churches.

  Thus, Lixbona resembled a true Damascus of the north: wide marketplaces, covered bazaars, mosqs, synagogues, and chapels scattered among the tall, white-washed houses with their elaborate screened balconies and flat roofs, on which families gathered after the day's work was finished. And like Damascus, it was a city of brisk commerce, too. The rolling brown Tagus was a well-travelled road along which the people of the fertile southern valley shipped grain, meat, wine, and green produce all the way from the craggy Sintra mountains to the coast.

  Upon reaching the great river harbour, Haemur could find no berths along the huge timber wharf, so took a place among the ships anchored in the bay; while the seamen made Persephone secure, the others prepared to go ashore. After a few attempts, the knights succeeded in attracting the attention of a ferryman, who took them to the wharf. It was the first landfall since leaving Cyprus and it took some time to get used to solid, unmoving ground beneath their feet. For the knights, the day began and ended at the first alehouse they encountered on the street leading up from the harbour. Meanwhile, Cait and Alethea, accompanied by Olvir and Otti, purchased fresh provisions to be delivered to the ship. That finished, and with no wish to hurry back, they walked along the market stalls and marvelled at the variety of goods. Feeling generous, Cait allowed Alethea to buy a sky-blue beaded shift and mantle, and gave Olvir and Otti a similar amount to spend on two used, but serviceable, daggers. Ever since the knights began their arms training, she had noticed how the seamen lusted after their Norse companions' handsome weapons, and considered it would be no bad thing to arm her sailors as well.