The Mystic Rose (30 page)

Before each panel stood a servant who, at the approach of the old woman, stood up smartly and tugged open the heavy doors. The old woman indicated that she should enter, so Cait, followed by her two serving maids, stepped through the entrance and into what she could only describe as the interior of an impossibly large tent.

The ceiling was hung with great, swooping drapes of cloth attached to the tops of the room's numerous slender columns which took on the aspect of tent poles and from which large, many-flamed oil lamps hung on brass chains. The wide expanse of floor was covered by rugs of every size and color piled one atop another in a profligate display of wealth; and here and there around the room were clumps and clusters of enormous satin cushions.

Inexplicably, Cait remembered the first time she had entered a cathedral with her step-mother—the great church at Kirkjuvágr in Orkney. While her father was talking some business or other with the tradesmen, Sydoni had taken her to see the cathedral, and she remembered trembling with wonder at the astonishingly majestic building, so strange and mysterious she felt it must have been enchanted.

She felt the same way now, as with slow, deliberate steps, she moved into the room, eyes wide with amazement at the elaborate strangeness of her surroundings. As the doors closed silently behind her, a new serving maid appeared, greeted her in Arabic, and offered a tray containing a silver cup, a heap of bread torn into small bits, and a bowl of salt. It was, she recognized, a ritual of welcome—the Scots observed a similar custom. Taking a piece of bread, she dipped it in the salt, and then ate it. The serving girl then presented her with the cup, filled with sweetened wine. She took a drink and replaced the cup.

She heard the sound of voices in the antechamber beyond, and turned as the doors opened once more to admit Rognvald and the knights. They trooped in, following a serving boy with a blue turban. Even from where she stood, Cait could see that they had bathed and shaved and, like her, they had been provided with clothes for the festivities: of the eastern variety, well made and of good cloth, only slightly less opulent than her own. Unlike her, however, they moved uneasily in their finery as men unaccustomed to such luxury.

One by one they paused to partake of the bread and salt, and accept a drink of sweet wine. Upon seeing Cait, they immediately gathered around her and exclaimed over her exotic dress. “Oh, my lady,” said Yngvar, his tone one slow gasp of pleasure, “how beautiful you look.”

“No queen ever appeared more elegant,” agreed Svein.

Dag nodded enthusiastically, and added, “Nor more lovely.”

The Spanish knights murmured their approval, and she turned to Rognvald as he raised the cup from the tray. “What say you, my lord of somber mien?” she asked, teasingly. “I make a fine princess, do I not?”

“Passing fine, my lady,” he said softly. She saw something in his eyes then that took her aback. She had meant the question to be a playful, if somewhat impish jest; but staunch Rognvald was in grave earnest. Suddenly embarrassed, she looked away just as the doors opened once more
to admit their host, Prince Hasan, and with him, a slender young woman with long dark hair and large dark eyes.

The prince greeted his guests effusively, making much of the remarkable alteration in their appearances. Then he introduced the woman beside him, saying, “My friends, may I present to you my sister, Danji.” The woman pressed her hands together and bowed gracefully. “Unfortunately, she does not speak Latin, but I thought her presence, and that of her handmaidens, would make this evening's festivities more enjoyable.”

Turning to the knights, he said, “My lord Rognvald, perhaps you would be so kind as to present your men to me. I would know the names of those who share my table tonight.”

“Of course, Prince Hasan,” he replied, drawing his eyes away from the lovely raven-haired woman standing demurely beside the prince. Then, beginning with Yngvar, he presented each of the knights in turn to the prince and his sister, introducing himself last. When these formalities had been observed, the prince called everyone to join him at table, and proceeded to the center of the room where a cluster of cushions had been arranged to form an open circle.

He dropped onto a cushion in the center of the horseshoe-shaped arrangement and waved others to their places. “Here, Lord Rognvald,” he called, “sit at my right hand. And, you, my lovely Ketmia, sit with Danji, at my left.” When everyone had been seated, he clapped his hands and there appeared a succession of serving men bearing low tables which they placed before the diners. Hard on the heels of the men came a dozen serving maids to spread each table with a spotless white cloth; no sooner were the cloths in place than brass trays appeared, bearing sweet dark wine in silver cups.

When each guest had been given a cup, Prince Hasan opened his arms in a gesture of benevolence and declared, “Tonight it pleases Allah the Almighty and Munificent to bless this company with feasting that the bonds of friendships may be strengthened between men of faith and good
will. Eat and take your ease, that we may rise from this table better friends than when we first sat down together.”

Thus, the banquet began.

“N
OW THEN,” HASAN
said, leaning his chin on his palm, “how did you come to be wandering around in my mountains?”

They had feasted on spiced lamb and kid, and on strips of fresh venison which the prince's serving maids cooked for them over charcoal braziers set up beside the tables; when the meat was done, they transferred the roasted strip to the bowl of each individual guest using extremely long forks. The knights had not seen this before, and took an instant liking to this method of cooking and serving meat. There were also rich, highly seasoned stews of vegetables, and fragrant rice with dates and almonds, and plenty of honey-sweetened wine.

The prince's sister, Danji, summoned six of her handmaids to come and join the festivities so that the knights might have a pretty companion to share the meal. As a result, the somewhat icy wariness of the men melted in the warmth of the prince's lavish and convivial hospitality—except for Rognvald who, while allowing himself to enjoy the meal, nevertheless maintained a discreetly guarded attitude toward the prince.

“As you have discovered, my al-qazr is far from any roads, and travelers seldom pass this way,” he continued, looking from one to the other of them as he reclined on his elbow amidst the cushions. “What brought you here?”

Despite Rognvald's cautious glance, Cait decided the moment had come to tell Hasan about her sister's abduction and
secure his aid. “In all it is easily told,” she began. “We were on pilgrimage following the valley road some distance from here when we were attacked by bandits. They killed five of our men, but we fought them off—only to find when the battle was over that my sister, Alethea, had been taken.”

“A shameful business, to be sure,” said Hasan. “But, alas, far too common in these remote regions. This is a wild land in many ways.”

“The assault came at dusk,” Rognvald put in, “or we might have made good the pursuit. As it was, we followed the trail until we lost the light, and were forced to give up the chase.”

“A pity,” sympathized Hasan. “And the next day, you resumed the search, but…” he sighed, “it was too late. They were always too far ahead, and eventually you lost the trail.”

“That is exactly what happened,” said Cait, much impressed. “How did you know?”

“Because that is the way of these brigands. They attack at dusk and make off with whatever they can carry, trusting darkness to cover their path. They ride through the night so that when dawn comes they are far ahead of any pursuit.”

“Just so,” said Rognvald. “We would not have come this far, only one of the servants—a Syrian fellow named Abu—had followed Lady Alethea. He marked out the way for us.”

“But then the markers stopped,” Cait said. “We made our camp in the place where we saw the last marker. That was five days ago. We have been searching for the trail ever since.”

“You will not find it,” Hasan told her. “How many bandits did you say made the attack?”

Cait glanced at Rognvald, who said, “I make it at least twelve—but there may have been more.”

“Then, unless I am mistaken, it was Ali Waqqar,” said the prince; his tone suggested both familiarity and contempt. “
Yu'allah!
He is the worst. He and his rabble of outcasts have been a scourge of thievery and murder for far too long.”

“You know them?” wondered Cait, hope quickening inside her once more.

“Alas, I do know them—and wish to Heaven that I did
not,” replied Hasan, his voice thick with animosity. “Once Ali Waqqar was a fine warrior and leader of men. He led the army of Sultan al-Farama in his wars to recover Saragossa. When the sultan was finally defeated, the army dispersed and Ali Waqqar has lived as a bandit and cut-throat ever since.”

“If you know them,” suggested Rognvald, “perhaps you also know where to find them.”

“They know the mountains well and they have many places to hide. Such is the fear they inspire, the people look the other way when they pass. Thus, they are not easy to find.” The prince paused and shook his head sadly. “I am sorry, my friends. That this has happened is unfortunate; that this has happened within the boundary of my realm is unforgivable. From this moment,” he said, his tone growing more adamant, “I will make it my sole concern to find Ali Waqqar and his brigands, and bring them to justice.” Drawing himself up he placed his right hand over his heart and said, “Prince Hasan Al-Nizar makes this solemn vow, and I will not cease until you are joyfully reunited with your beloved sister, and your valorous servant.”

“I pray you swift success,” Cait told him. “Achieve your aim and you shall win a loyal and loving friend.”

“Praise Allah the Magnificent! I could ask for nothing finer.”

So caught up were they in pledging their fealty to one another, neither saw Rognvald's tight, slightly scornful grimace as he lifted his cup to his mouth. “Do you have a wife, Lord Hasan?” he asked abruptly.

The prince regarded him with mild surprise. “I have been married, yes—once, when I was a very young man,” he said.

“Only once? I thought Muhammedans kept wives the same way herders keep cattle.”

Cait, incensed at the knight's bad manners, glared furiously at him in an effort to make him desist. He took no notice.

“Some may take more than one wife. It is permitted,” Hasan forced a thin smile, “although not advised. As the great Qadi Tukhmin has said, ‘A house with many wives is
like a ship with many oars, but no rudder.' And you, my friend, have you ever been married?”

“No,” replied Rognvald, returning to his cup. “One day, perhaps—God willing. But not yet.”

Hasan nodded sympathetically. “God wills all good things for his children. I am sure you will find the very woman one day, and then
qismah
—your fate will be well and truly sealed.”

From somewhere outside of the hall, there came the sound of a gong. Instantly, Danji and her handmaidens rose and, bowing to the prince and his guests, they departed. The knights, sorry to see the women go, looked to their host for an explanation. “It is the Hour of Covering the Fire,” Hasan told them. “From ancient times, my people have observed this practice. You see, we were once a desert people and each night the signal was given to cover the fire so that all would know when it was time to sleep.” He smiled. “But, please, you are guests in this house; you must not interrupt your revelry on account of this quaint custom.”

Seeing a chance to establish some small authority of his own in this strange place, Rognvald said, “We will observe your custom, Lord Hasan. For we, too, must sleep if we are to renew our search in the morning.” He stood. “I thank you for your kind consideration. Certainly, it was the best meal we have had in a very long time. Now, if you please, we will leave you in peace.” To Cait, he said, “I bid you good night, my lady.”

The other knights, recognizing the signal, rose—albeit somewhat more reluctantly—and, following the example of their lord, took their leave. They walked from the banqueting room, leaving Cait and the prince alone.

“I cannot remember a more lavish and delightful feast, Prince Hasan,” Cait said. “Your kindness and generosity have made this a night I will never forget.”

The prince smiled and inclined his head. “Your praise is more than my small effort deserves.” He paused, regarding Cait with a pensive expression. “Alas, I do not think your Lord Rognvald approved. He is a cold one, to be sure, but I had hoped the festivity would have warmed him a little.”

“Please, I pray you, do not take a moment's thought for him. He is a frozen Norwegian who cannot accept kindness when it is offered.” Cait spoke with more vehemence than she felt, but did so for Hasan's sake. “Proud men often disdain the benevolence of others.”

“Ah, you are as wise as you are lovely,” sighed the prince. “It is rare in my experience to find those two qualities united in one woman. For, as the poet says, ‘What can be bought with wisdom's coin, that beauty does not own?' But you, Ketmia, possess both in abundance.”

No one had ever called her beautiful before, and Caitríona did not know how to reply. She tried to think of something to say, growing more and more uncomfortable as the prince, blissfully silent, regarded her with delight akin to rapture, until at last, she said, “It has been a most enjoyable night, and I thank you—not least for undertaking to help us find my sister.” She rose slowly. “I must sleep now if I am to be ready to ride in the morning. So, I will bid you God's rest, my lord.”

“To be sure,” said the prince, rising slowly. “I will have Jubayar escort you to the women's quarter.”

Taking her arm, he led her to the anteroom where a very tall, very fat man was standing beside the large brass gong. He wore a pale blue turban and long, unbelted mantle. His face was beardless, revealing a livid scar running from the point of his chin to his collarbone. He regarded Cait with a sleepy haughtiness, his large, fleshy features impassive as she came before him.

“This,” said the prince, “is Jubayar. He is one of my most trusted servants. He is a eunuch, and therefore has charge of the women's house. You will be entirely safe in his protection.”

The big man bowed, but said nothing when Cait attempted to greet him.

“Jubayar!” the prince shouted, and then, as an afterthought explained to Cait: “He is also very deaf. But he can be made to understand if you speak loudly—although he knows no Latin.” Turning once more to the large eunuch, he spoke a rapid burst of Arabic, whereupon the servant bowed
and, with a last glance at Cait, began leading the way down the corridor. Cait thanked the prince once more, bade him a good night, and then hurried after her surly escort.

Mahdi and Pila'i were asleep when Cait entered the room; both young women slept on thin pallets at the foot of her bed. They roused themselves as she entered, and helped her undress, folding the numerous items of clothing and carefully stowing them away in the wooden chest. They brought out a loose-fitting silk gown which she put on and, as Pila'i prepared her cushions, Mahdi brushed her hair and then skillfully braided it so that it would not grow tangled in the night.

Leaving her maids to put out the lamps, Cait drifted off to the first truly restful sleep since leaving home. That night she saw Alethea in a dream.

She dreamed that she and her sister were in Caithness. It was a fair summer day, and the two of them were walking along the brow of the high promontory to the south-east of Banvar
. The wind was fresh and the sun bright on the water in the bay far below; she could hear the rush and tumble of the waves, and the mewing of the seabirds as they wheeled and circled in the wide, cloudless sky.

Alethea was talking about something which Caitríona could not make out; she listened in a halfhearted way as Thea droned on and on, her voice growing slowly fainter—until Cait could no longer hear her any more. Cait stopped and looked around, but could not see her sister. She called out once and again, but there was no reply.

Fighting down the panic rising in her breast, Cait tried two more times, with no better result; on the third try, she heard Thea answer. The voice came from the direction of the sea, but sounded far away. Realizing what must have happened, Cait rushed to the edge of the promontory and, fearing the worst, looked over. Instead of seeing Thea's mangled body lying on the rocks below, she saw instead a steep and narrow trail leading down to the shingle beach, and Thea herself halfway down along the precipitous track.

“Thea, wait!” she cried. “Go no further. Wait for me, I am coming to help you.”

At her cry, Alethea looked back over her shoulder to where Cait was starting down the treacherous path. “Cait, no!” she called. “Do not follow me. It is for me to go on alone.”

“You will be killed,” Cait shouted. “Come back.”

Thea shook her head gently. “No harm will come to me.” She put out her hand and pointed to the bay far below. “You see,” she said, “they have come for me. I must go with them.”

Cait looked and saw that a boat had entered the cove, and was making landfall. There were a number of women in the boat, and they were all dressed alike in long hooded robes of gray with a small, curiously short mantle of white covering their shoulders. Two of the women climbed out of the boat and waded to the shore; they came to stand at the water's edge and, looking up, beckoned Thea to them.

“Farewell, darling sister. Do not feel sorry for me. I have never been happier.”

With that, she turned and proceeded down the steep and winding trail. Cait continued to call after her, but she neither looked back, nor gave any other sign that she heard—until, after joining the two figures on the shore, she turned and lifted a hand in farewell. Cait watched as her sister waded out to the waiting boat and climbed aboard; the boat turned and made its way from the cove and out into the empty sea.