The Mystic Rose (26 page)

And, somewhere, above the clamor of battle, she heard Alethea's screams. Although she had not been aware of it at the time, she must have heard her sister's cries for help as she was carried off. She heard something else, too: a man's voice, frantically shouting for help. The hopelessness of the cry brought her bolt upright in her bed with a gasp.

“Abu!”

T
HE SOUND OF
the knights saddling the horses and preparing to strike camp brought Cait from an unquiet sleep. Her eyes felt like raw wounds, and her mouth tasted of smoke and ashes. She dragged herself onto her knees and pulled back the tent flap. The sky was dark still, but a thin line of pale red light was showing through the trees to the east. She rose and shuffled out of the tent, and felt the cold sting of the air on her face. Last night's wind had brought cold weather to the mountains; there was frost on the ground.

On stiff, unfeeling legs, she moved to where Rognvald was throwing a saddle pad over the back of a horse. He greeted her somberly, and said, “We will leave as soon as the horses are saddled. I think it best to take everything with us. I do not expect we will come back here again.”

“The wagon will slow us down, will it not?”

“Dag is not yet well enough to sit on a horse. He can drive the wagon and look after the pack animals. We will mark the trail for him and tell him where to stop and wait. It will slow us, yes, but it cannot be helped.”

“Abu is missing, too,” she told him, her voice taking on a confessional quality.

He finished smoothing the pad and then glanced at her. “Yes,” he said. “I know.” He bent down, lifted the saddle which was laying on the ground beside him, and hefted it into place. “I did not think you would remember.”

Another time and the reprimand would have rankled and irritated; now, however, she merely swallowed glumly. “You
did not find his body when you were searching the wood,” she said after a moment, “so perhaps we may yet find him. He cannot have gone far.”

“He has a horse,” Rognvald told her.

“How do you know?”

“There were three dead Moors, and only two horses.”

“You think he took it?” Cait was baffled by this unexpected turn. “Then we shall have to divide our forces and search for them both—is that what you're thinking?”

“I am thinking,” replied Rognvald, stooping to gather the cinch strap dangling beneath the horse's belly, “that where we find Alethea, there we will also find Abu.”

“He followed her,” Cait murmured. “Of course.” She was slow to pick up the thread of Rognvald's thought, but now she had it and felt her blood warm once more to the chase.

Stepping close, she put her hand on Rognvald's arm. “I am sorry for my shameful behavior; it was not becoming a lady of rank. I allowed my anxiety over my sister's disappearance to cloud my judgment—a fact which I deeply regret.”

Rognvald bent down to fasten the strap.

“I have offered my apology,” Cait said, her voice growing tight. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard.”

“Do you not accept it?”

“Lady, it is not for me to accept or reject. Am I a priest now, waiting at your beck and call to shrive you?”

Stung by his reproach, she removed her hand from his arm. “Our priest is dead.”

“Yes,” agreed the tall knight. “So, I think you will have to suffer your pangs of conscience as best you can.”

“I do suffer them, sir. And I was taught the virtue of repentance. Obviously,
you
were not.”

“See here, we all do things in the heat of battle we later regret. War
is
regret.” He gave a sharp tug, pulling the cinch strap tight. “Do not look to me to soothe away your remorse with kind words and kisses.”

“Oh, never you fear, my lord,” she spat. “Though you die
in your bed an ill-tempered old man, you will not hear me apologize again.”

She turned on her heel and stormed away. Thus, the unhappy day began.

As soon as the tent was packed away and the wagon loaded and secured, the much-diminished party moved on. They accompanied Dag and the wagon a short way along the track, and arranged a place to meet later in the day before turning aside to take up the trail they had abandoned the previous evening.

The ground was more rough and rocky than Cait remembered—or perhaps it was the coating of frost which made every stone, leaf, branch, and twig stand out in sharp relief. The path was much steeper, too, and as they climbed higher and ever higher, the wind began to grow stronger and more raw, whipping the horses' manes and tails.

The tracks of the fleeing Moors led up over the curving spine of a bare rock ridge; with sour disappointment growing in her breast, Cait began to suspect that the bandits had disappeared into the mountains beyond—a suspicion quickly confirmed when the party scrambled up an incline of scree and abruptly found themselves gazing down into a rocky defile through which snaked a gray stream. And across the divide—the mountains. Cait looked at the daunting slopes covered in a thick tangle of scrub-oak, hazel, and small, stunted pines, and her heart sank.

She turned in the saddle and looked down the way they had come. Far below, she could see the narrow trail as it wound along the lower shoulders of the foothills. She did not see the wagon, but reckoned it was down there somewhere.

“We will rest here a moment,” called Rognvald. “Svein and I will ride to the bend—” he pointed along the top of the ridge, “and see if we can find a way ahead.”

They rode off and the others dismounted to stand close to their mounts for warmth. Cait pulled her cloak more tightly around her to keep the wind out and stood staring bleakly at the soaring slopes beyond the canyon. The three knights stood talking together, and Cait decided that it was time she
made herself better acquainted with those remaining in her service.

The men stopped talking as she joined them, and turned expectantly. “Please,” she said, “do not stop on my account. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“My lady,” said Yngvar, “we were just remarking how winter comes early to the mountains.”

“It seems winter has begun,” Cait agreed, adding, “Alethea does not even have a cloak.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances. “Is it like this in your country?” the one called Rodrigo asked, indicating the mountains.

“There are mountains in Scotland,” Cait told him. “But only low hills where my family lives. Our lands are near the sea, and winters are often harsh.”

“My family owns land near Bilbao—also near the sea,” the knight told her. “That means we share the same sea, you and I.” He smiled, and Cait realized he was trying to cheer her.

“I am sorry for the death of your friends,” she said. “Thadeus, Ricardo, Hernando, and Emari.” The names she knew, but had no idea which name belonged to which knight. “If not for me, they would still be alive.”

The knight lowered his head; Cait saw him swallow down his grief. “I will miss them, it is true,” he replied evenly. “But they were men of valor, and freely sworn. They would not hold you to blame, nor do I.”

“Even so, they did not deserve to die like that,” said the one called Paulo. “It is a disgrace for a knight to die without a sword in his hand.”

“Only the worst coward would cut down a man who cannot defend himself,” Yngvar said. “A man of honor would never do such a low thing.”

A great sadness swept over Cait as she listened to the men talk. She pulled the heavy wool cloak more tightly around her throat and looked toward the mountains. The higher peaks were lost in mist which appeared to be thickening; tendrils of fog oozed down the slopes, like sinuous fingers, slowly reaching and stretching, searching out the low
places, filling them, and flowing silently on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, whistling over the bare rocks of the ridge, and she could smell snow in the air.

“Oh, Alethea,” she murmured to herself, “I am so sorry.” She closed her eyes and prayed God to send his angels to protect the young woman from the killing cold, no less than from the hateful abuse of her heathen captors.

A short while later, they heard the sound of horses and looked to see Rognvald and Svein returning. As they dismounted, the others gathered around to hear their report. “There is a marker at the edge of the stream down there,” Rognvald told them. “That is where they crossed.”

“A marker?” said Cait.

“A heap of stones, my lady,” replied Svein.

“But who would—” she began, and then the answer came to her. “Abu?”

Svein nodded. “We think he is marking out the way for us.”

“Show me,” said Cait, swinging back into the saddle.

“It is not far,” said Rognvald. “But we have a decision to make.”

Something in his tone gave her to know that he was talking about her. “Yes?”

“The day is growing foul. I think a storm is coming.”

“We will find what shelter we can along the way. I am not giving up the search because of a little wind and rain.”

“I am not suggesting we give up the search,” Rognvald replied, his voice growing tight with exasperation. “But there is no need for all of us to grow wet and miserable with it. You could go back down and wait with Dag at the wagon. By the time you join him, he will have reached the waiting place and will have a fire going.”

“
You
can sit and warm yourself by the fire,” Cait told him. “I am going to find my sister.”

“Then we move on.” Rognvald motioned to the others to mount their horses, and the party continued.

Halfway down the slope, the rain started. It was not long before Cait felt the cold wet begin to seep into her cloak. Before they reached the valley floor she was chilled to the bone and wishing she had not dismissed Rognvald's offer so
hastily. But now, having rejected the suggestion, she was determined not to allow him the satisfaction of proving her wrong. So she put all thoughts of warmth and comfort behind her and pulled the hood of her damp cloak lower over her head to keep the rain out of her face.

The valley was shallow and did little to slow the wind gusting down from the mountains. They came to the marker—a pile of stones at the edge of the stream; on the opposite side was another—this one in the rough shape of an arrowhead pointing upstream. They rode in the direction indicated by the marker, following along the gray stream as it wound its way around the large rocks and boulders which had fallen from the slopes above. After a while the rain turned to sleet, and they stopped in the shelter of some young pines to eat a little dried meat, but the trees offered so little protection from the stinging, wind-driven pellets of ice that they quickly decided to take to their saddles again before the horses grew too cold, and their sweaty coats began to freeze.

As the day wore on, Cait's hopes of quickly rescuing Alethea began to dwindle; they were briefly revived when another marker was found and, a short distance beyond it, the remains of a small campfire in a bend in the valley where the stream pooled. The Moors had stopped there—to water the horses and prepare a meal, no doubt—but aside from a small heap of soggy ashes and unburnt ends of branches, there was nothing to see.

Rognvald examined the tracks leading from the campsite, and concluded that the bandits no longer feared pursuit.

“How do you know?” wondered Cait. One set of water-filled hoofprints looked very like another, and these were no different from any she had seen so far.

“The gait of the horses tells the tale,” replied Rodrigo. “The riders are in no great hurry. See here,” he pointed to a series of moon-shaped tracks pressed deep in the mud, “see how the leading edge of each hoof-print is scuffed—”

“I see.” Cait looked more closely. “They look smudged.”

“The horses are tired,” the Spanish knight told her. “They are ambling—dragging their feet, yes?” He made a slow,
flicking motion with his hand. “That means the riders are no longer pushing them.”

“It is good for us,” said Svein. “They do not know we are chasing them.”

“With luck,” said Rodrigo, “we may soon catch sight of them up ahead.” He indicated the ridge wall which formed the end of the valley. “We will be able to see into the next valley from up there.”

The trail led around the edge of the pool; the tracks in the rain-sodden bank were now easy to follow, and Cait began to feel they were making real progress at last. However, the ridge was further away than it first appeared, and the rise far more steep. By the time they reached the bottom of the ridgewall, daylight had begun to fade. Although the sleet had stopped, the wind was growing more fierce. Rognvald halted the party and, with a glance at the sky, said, “We are losing the light. It is time to turn back.”

The words struck Cait like a blow. Her first reaction was to defy him, to challenge his judgment, to contradict his command. In her heart she knew he was right, however, and besides, she was cold and hungry, and no longer had it in her to fight futile battles with either men or the elements. Still, for Alethea's sake, she asked, “Might we go just a little further?”

“It is no use. Even if we gain the top, we will not be able to see anything in the dark. We must go back now if we are to meet Dag before nightfall.”

That was the end of it. As before, they marked the place so they could find it the next day and turning to the high hills to the west of the pool, rode away. The sky had grown dark by the time they gained the wagon trail; the deep-rutted track was treacherous in the dark, so they were forced to dismount and cross the undulating hills on foot—which meant a cold slog along rocky, water-filled furrows.

They saw the glint of Dag's fire from a hilltop long before they reached the place. Cait watched the glimmering of flame as it grew slowly larger, step by step. Her fingers, stiff on the reins of her horse, were numb and her toes stung with the cold; she imagined stretching her feet before a blazing
fire, clutching a steaming bowl of porridge between her hands, and feeling the blessed heat warm her frozen bones.

This reverie proved so pleasant, she imagined sleeping in a dry bed heaped with furs in a room warmed with burning braziers, and the delicious feeling of fur against her skin—then realized with a start that she was imagining her chamber at home in Caithness. How many times, she wondered, had she slept in that room in just that way?