The Mystic Rose (11 page)

“W
E ARE BEING
followed.”

The voice stirred Cait from her brooding contemplation of the white, heat-bleached sky and the powder-dry road ahead. Cait lifted her hood and turned in the saddle to see that it was Rognvald who had addressed her.

“Forgive me. I would not intrude, my lady, but there is someone following us.” He addressed her in Norse, and his accent sounded, to Cait's ear, like the old fishermen who used to take refuge at Banvar
when foul weather drove them into the bay. They were also from Norway, and the sound of the knight's voice reassured her; it made her feel as if she were speaking to some ancient relative.

“How many?” She cast a hasty glance over her shoulder—but saw nothing save the owner of the horses they had hired, and his two sons, bringing up the rear on their donkeys. Behind them the dust-dry track stretched back and back across the undulating hills to Damascus—now a small shimmering gleam in the heat-haze far behind them.

Rognvald said, “Just one.” He regarded her curiously. “Did you think there would be more?”

“Never mind what I thought,” she told him firmly.

“I believe,” he replied, “you will have to tell me your secret sooner or later. Perhaps if you told me now, I could help you with it.”

“I have no secrets.” She looked back at the trail behind her and saw a small dark figure disappear swiftly over a faraway hilltop. “At least none I care to discuss with you.”

“As you will.”

They rode on for a time, and Cait turned her thoughts next to the necessary steps ahead. Acquiring her bodyguard of knights was just the beginning. They would have to be properly clothed and armed, and they would need horses—all of which would be expensive; she would have to sell more, if not most, of the remaining valuables from her father's chest. She had offered to buy new clothes for them before leaving the city, but the knights preferred their rags to Saracen garb, which was all that Damascus had to offer. Nor could they buy any weapons—the Arabs were forbidden to sell to Christians under pain of death by a decree of Prince Mujir ed-Din. Cait had her dagger, but that thin blade was the only protection the party possessed. Once they reached Tyre, however, they could buy anything. The horses, at least, could wait.

“Why did you ransom us?” asked Rognvald.

“Hmm?” wondered Cait, half aware he had spoken to her. “I already told you.”

“This pilgrimage of yours, yes. But as you will not tell me where we are going, I can only assume some deeper purpose.”

Cait thought for a moment. “As a young man, my father visited the Holy Land,” she explained simply. “He never reached Jerusalem, and always wanted to return and finish the pilgrimage. Last year he decided to do it, and to take Alethea and me with him; he wanted to show us the places he had visited.”

“Including prison?”

She frowned. “My father was once a prisoner there.”

“So you said. Where is your father now?”

Cait's frown deepened. When she did not reply, Rognvald looked at her and saw her face clenched with concentration. She seemed to labor so long over the question that he drew breath to withdraw it; before he could speak, she said, “We stopped in Constantinople to see the city and refresh our provisions. While we were there, one of Emperor Manuel's many nieces was married, and we went to the ceremony. It was held in the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, and thousands attended.”

She did not look at him when she spoke, but kept her eyes on the road ahead—although her sight had turned inward. And there was a softness to her voice that was not present before, a sadness.

“The service was over, and I followed the crowds out into the street to see the bride and groom away. My father remained inside, however, and when I returned, I saw him talking to a man. By the time I rejoined him, the man was gone and my father had been stabbed.”

“The man stabbed your father?” wondered Rognvald, incredulity creasing his brow. “In a church?”

“He died in my arms,” affirmed Cait, nodding sadly. “We buried him the next day in the graveyard of a monastery, and then sailed on to Damascus.”

“I see.” The knight nodded thoughtfully. “So, in honor of your father's wishes, you are continuing the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”

Cait frowned. “No,” she said, then hesitated, unwilling to say more.

“Ah,” Rognvald guessed, “here is where the secret arises.”

“There is no secret,” Cait insisted.

“Then tell me. Where are we going?” He regarded her with benign interest. “Come, my reluctant lady, you have entrusted your life and that of your sister to us; you might as well entrust your secret.”

“I will tell you,” Cait decided at last, “but not now. Once we are aboard ship—then I will tell you.”

Lord Rognvald accepted her decision. “Agreed.” He smiled. “I will look forward to hearing it.”

Cait turned to look behind again. “What are we going to do about our follower?”

“There is a stream just ahead,” he said, pointing to a line of small, scrubby trees gray with dust. “It is growing hot. We can rest there and see what comes.”

Cait agreed and the traveling party proceeded slowly to the line of trees. The stream turned out to be dry, the bed full of dusty rock and withered grass. But the patchy shade provided some relief from the heat and the savage onslaught of
the sun. They dismounted and, while the owner of the horses and donkeys gave each of his beasts a handful of grain from a bag, the knights and seamen found places to rest under the trees. Rognvald rode a little apart and took up a position where he could watch the road.

Retrieving the waterskin from behind her saddle, Cait pulled the stopper and took a long draft; the water was warm, but it wet her lips and tongue, and washed the dust from her throat.

Owing to their long captivity, the knights were unaccustomed to the heat and sun, and unused to the saddle. They limped manfully to the little grove and flopped down, to lie exhausted in the mottled shade. After only half a day outside, their prison pallor was replaced by the radiant pink of sunburn. Cait watched them doubtfully; it would be weeks, she reckoned, rather than days, before they were back to fighting fitness. Thus, despite her impatience to hurry back to the ship, she resolved to adopt a slower pace for their sake.

Handing the waterskin to Otti, she told him to take a drink and pass it on, then sat down with her back to a treetrunk and closed her eyes. In a little while, she heard someone beside her and looked around to see Dag settling his lanky frame beneath the same tree.

“Why Stone-Breaker?” she asked after a time.

He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, now,” he said, “I was born in Jutland, where there are a great many mounds and stones and such belonging to the Old Ones. It is a very fine place—sometimes a little cold, but the hunting is good. Once when I was out hunting with my brothers, we caught sight of an elk and gave chase. Even though I was the youngest, I was in the lead, ya?” He smiled at the memory, and Cait smiled, too, for he also sounded like the Norse fishermen whose voices rose and fell over the dips and crests of their words like a ship plowing the ocean swell.

“Well, now,” he continued, “as I raced along I passed one of these standing stones and as luck would have it my horse stumbled in a badger hole at that very moment, and I was thrown from my saddle. Well, I hit this stone, see.” He
slammed his fist into his hand with a loud smack to demonstrate. “I smashed into it head first and knocked it down. The stone fell and I fell. They thought I was dead, but when they came to look, they saw that I was still alive. And when they raised me up, they saw the stone was broken under me.” He grinned, his fine straight teeth a winning flash of white. “I have been Dag Stone-Breaker from that day.”

Hearing their talk, Yngvar edged nearer to join them, and Svein, too. Cait noticed that Alethea, whose understanding of Norse was nowhere near as good as her own, was nevertheless listening with rapt attention to the handsome nobleman. “Tell how you got
your
name, Svein,” said Dag with a nudge of his elbow.

“Nay,” he replied, “it is never so exalted as Dag's tale.” But at the encouragement of the others, he sighed and said, “My father kept hounds—every year he had to train up three good dogs to give King Sigurd in tribute. He had several fine bitches, but his favorite was a sweet-natured brown called Fala. A few months after I was born, Fala lost her litter. She was very disturbed over it, and would not eat or drink at all. My father gave her good meat on the bone, but still she would not eat.

“This went on until my father thought he would have to put her away. He held off as long as he could, but it had to be done. So, he went to get his sword and a strap to take her out behind the barn. But when he came back, he could not find Fala. They looked everywhere and finally found her in my bed with me; she had brought me her bone.

“We were both in there together chewing on that bone—Fala on one end and me on the other, chewing away. I have been Svein Gristle-Bone ever since.”

He made the face of a boy gnawing a bone, and Alethea laughed out loud; the others, who had heard the story before, laughed too. “What about Rognvald?” asked Cait. “Does he have another name?”

The knights looked from one to the other and shrugged. “If he does,” replied Yngvar, “I never heard it.”

“How did you come to be taken captive?” she asked. When no one made bold to answer, she said, “If it makes an un
pleasant tale, you do not have to tell me. Still, do not think to spare me on account of it. My father was captured by the Seljuqs as a young man—that is how he came to be in the Damascus prison—so I know how abhorrent it can be.”

“Your father was captured, too?” wondered Yngvar. “That is a tale I would like to hear.” Nodding, the others added their agreement.

At that moment, however, there came a shout from the road, and they all rushed to the edge of the wood to see Rognvald riding toward them with a stranger in tow. Cait saw the pale yellow tunic and trousers, the bristly dark hair, and started out to meet them.

“I caught him hiding behind that hill,” said Rognvald, speaking Latin for the benefit of his captive. He pushed the intruder forward. “He was spying on us.”

“I was resting only!”

“What are you doing here, Abu?” Cait demanded.

“My donkey ran away because of him.” The young Syrian crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

“Answer me, Abu. What are you doing here?”

“Please, sharifah, do not send me away. You will need someone to speak for you. I can do this easily. Please, let me go with you.”

“What about the sick and infirm who depend on you—the patients who keep you running morning to night?”

He frowned. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to win favor as a physician in a place like Damascus? You need an amir or two at the very least if you hope to survive.”

She regarded him sternly. “Do you even
have
any patients?”

“To tell you the truth,” he replied, “no.”

“And are you a physician?” she said, her tone defying him to lie to her.

“I studied medicine in Baghdad. I did,” he insisted. Dropping his voice, he added, “—a little. It is a very difficult occupation. You have no idea.”

“Studying was too hard, so you abandoned it.”

“I did not!” he maintained. “Was it my fault my teacher was executed?”

Yngvar had heard enough. “Allow us to send him on his way, my lady.”

“Not just yet,” she said. “I want to hear the end of this. Svein, Dag, go find his donkey and bring it. You,” she said to Abu, “come with me.”

They returned to the grove and sat down once more, Abu before Cait, and Rognvald and Yngvar on either side—a magistrate and her officers, dispensing justice. Alethea leaned on one elbow beneath a nearby tree, feigning disinterest in the proceedings. Under Cait's questioning, it soon emerged that while languishing in the Baghdad prison for stealing eggs—“How was I to know the chickens belonged to the
qadi
of Baghdad?”—Abu had chanced to meet the celebrated Muslah Abd Allah Ud-Din Ibn Arabi al-Tusi, court physician to the royal family.

The famed physician had been sent to prison following a failed attempt to poison the caliph. “It was a grave mistake, an injustice of unrivaled magnitude,” Abu declared with surprising vehemence. “The
khalifa
was not well liked, it is true. And those who would have rejoiced at his funeral were as numerous as the desert sands. But dear old al-Tusi could no more have poisoned anyone than a faithful dog pee in his beloved master's cooking-pot. He was a sage and scholar of the highest distinction—a very saint.” Abu shook his head sadly. “When the poisoners failed, they needed a scapegoat and supplied the royal physician. Indeed, he made a perfect sacrifice; he was too affronted at the suggestion to even defend himself.”