The Mystic Rose (45 page)

Caithness was the place that stirred her heart, even now, and nothing—not even the Stigmata of Christ—could ever change that. To live and die in a land not her own and never to see the high wild skies of Caithness again—the thought was almost crushing.

I cannot do it
, she concluded.
The abbess said I have a choice. God help me, I cannot do it.

Cait was all too aware of her many failings, but self-deception was not one of them. She knew herself. She knew her mind. And where some women might cheerfully resign themselves to serving the simple needs of their sisters and the people of the village, Cait knew she would quickly tire of the tedium, the dull routine of the daily round, the endless repetition, the deadening sameness. Life in the abbey would begin to chafe. Sooner or later she would begin to resent the choice. Resentment would harden into loathing, and loathing into hate. She would end up hating the abbey and, in time, that hatred would come to poison and pervert the very thing she was honor bound to uphold and protect.

No, it was impossible; she knew it in her heart and soul—not that knowing would make the telling any easier. She drew a deep breath and made up her mind to tell Abbess Annora at once. Better by far to end it now, before things went any further.

Cait turned and started back along the trail to the abbey, intent on relating her decision. She had taken but a few steps, however, when she heard someone calling from the valley trail behind her. She stopped, looking back, and saw a small figure toiling up the last incline to reach the abbey path.

It was a young girl; she had begun shouting as soon as she saw Cait on the path. Cait quickly retraced her steps, reaching the girl as she collapsed at the end of the trail to lie gasping in the snow. That she was from the village, there was no doubt. Cait thought she recognized the young girl as the eldest of Dominico's daughters.

Her lips, fingertips, and cheeks were blue from the cold. In her haste, she had come away without her cloak, or had lost it along the way. Her hands were scraped raw, and through the holes in her mantle Cait could see that her knees and shins were bloody where she had fallen and skinned herself on the rocks.

Cait rushed to the child and flung her cloak over the trembling body, gathering her up as she tried to rise. “What is it? What has happened?”

The child, gasping, clutched at her and jabbered in her incomprehensible tongue. Cait could neither understand the girl, nor make herself understood. Taking the child's hands in her own, she rubbed them and blew on them to warm the thin, freezing fingers. “Come,” she said when the girl had calmed somewhat, “I will take you to the abbess. She will know what to do.”

Cait helped her to her feet and together they moved off along the path. Upon reaching the second barn, the nuns who had been carrying firewood heard Cait's call and came running to her aid. At sight of the nuns, the girl started babbling excitedly again. “I found her on the path,” Cait told them. “Can any of you make out what has happened?”

One of the nuns knelt down in the snow in front of the child, and took her hands; another stepped close and put her arm around the slender little shoulders. The first nun spoke quietly and, as Cait watched, the sister's expression of concern deepened. “Brother Timo says to come quickly,” the nun explained. “A great many soldiers have arrived in the village; they have put all the people in the church, and the priest says the abbess is needed at once.”

“What do the soldiers look like?” said Cait. “Ask her.”

The nun holding the girl's hands asked and listened to the
answer, then raised her eyes to Cait. “She says they are very big, and ride horses.”

“What about their clothing?” demanded Cait impatiently. “What are they wearing?”

Again the nun asked and received the answer. “They are wearing cloaks.” The child interrupted to add another detail to her description. “The cloaks are white, she says, and have a cross in red just here.” The nun touched the place over her heart. “And on the back.”

The other sisters regarded one another in bewilderment. “Who can it be?” they asked one another.

“I know them,” Cait replied, fighting down the fear spreading like a sickness through her gut. “The Templars are here.”

“T
EMPLARS?” ABBESS ANNORA
repeated the word uncertainly. “Is that what you called them? But who are they?”

“They are priested knights,” Cait answered, realizing how little the Gray Marys knew of the events beyond the protecting mountain walls. “They belong to a special order called the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, but they are known as the Templars, and they are dedicated to the protection of pilgrims and travelers in the Holy Land, and the defense of Jerusalem.”

“They are renowned warriors,” Alethea added.

“Fighting priests,” mused the abbess, shaking her head at the strangeness of it. “Whatever can they want with me?”

“They have come for the Sacred Cup,” Cait told her.

“Have they indeed?”

“It is true,” replied Cait. “I am sorry.”

This admission caused a sensation among the gathered nuns. They all began talking and crying out at once. “Silence!” commanded the abbess. “Silence—all of you. Return to your duties. Those of you who have finished may go to the chapel and pray.” The sisters did as they were told, leaving Cait, Alethea, and the abbess alone. “What else do you know about this?” asked Abbess Annora when the others had gone. She regarded Cait sternly. “And I think I had better hear it all this time.”

“You led them here,” declared Alethea accusingly. “They followed you.”

“So it would appear,” admitted Cait unhappily. To the abbess she said, “I should have told you everything from the beginning. But yes, I knew about the Templars. Their leader is a man called Renaud de Bracineaux; he was the one who murdered my father in Constantinople.”

“The letter,” replied the abbess, adding this information to that which Cait had already told her. “It belonged to him.”

“Yes,” Cait admitted. “It belonged to him.” She looked to the wise abbess with pleading in her eyes, begging for her understanding. “I knew he wanted the Holy Cup, and I thought if I could get to it first, I could use it to bring de Bracineaux to justice.”

“And you would not shrink from carrying out that justice yourself, I suppose?”

“No,” confessed Cait. “I would not.”

“I see.” The abbess nodded, her mouth pressed into a thin, firm line.

“What are you thinking, abbess?” asked Alethea after a moment.

“I think I must go and speak to these Soldiers of Christ and learn how the matter is to be resolved.”

“I will go with you,” said Cait. “I may be able to help.”

“Cait, no,” objected Alethea. “They will recognize you.”

“Not if I go in habit,” she replied.

“Hurry then,” Annora said. “Alethea, go to the chapel and wait there with the sisters, and tell them to pray for God's will to be revealed to us. Caitríona, you come with me, we will find you a mantle and robe, and then we will go down to the village—
and
,” she added pointedly, “you can tell me anything else I ought to know along the way.”

 

Two nuns arrived in the village a little before sunset; the sky was livid, staining the undersides of the clouds violet and muddy orange. The two lone figures made their way through the deserted village to the church where a number of white-cloaked men were gathered around a fire they had made outside the door of the timber building. The abbess and her companion marched directly to the knight standing guard at
the door, and said, “I am Abbess Annora. I was told someone wanted to see me.”

The Templar regarded the two women without expression. Both were dressed in the gray robes of their order, hooded against the cold.

“I will tell the commander you are here,” said the soldier, and disappeared inside, reappearing a moment later. “Please come in, abbess. Grand Commander de Bracineaux will receive you now.”

The abbess and her companion stepped through the door and into the dim interior of the church. Brother Timotheus met them just inside the door. “Abbess Annora,” he said, rushing up, “thank God you have come. I have been telling these men that there is no need to hold everyone like this. I am certain matters can be settled peaceably to the satisfaction of all concerned.”

Cait looked past the village priest and saw de Bracineaux sitting in one of Dominico's chairs before the altar. His white hair was matted and damp, clinging to his head like wet leaves; his face was red from the cold and wind, but his eyes were keen as blades. Beside the Templar sat Archbishop Bertrano; Gislebert stood behind his commander's chair, and the fair-haired man named d'Anjou was pacing in the shadows behind the altar. The villagers were sitting on the floor in family groups—silent, watching, waiting. She searched among them for her own knights, but Rognvald and the others were not there. She wondered where they might be hiding.

The priest, seeing Cait, opened his mouth to greet her, but the abbess cut him off saying, “I came as soon as I received your message. Tell me, what is the urgency? And why are all the people here? Are they being held captive?”

“They are here to help us keep things from becoming, shall we say, needlessly complicated. Also, to pay their respects,” said de Bracineaux, rising slowly from his chair. “After all, it is not every day an archbishop comes to call.”

At this, Bertrano also rose. “God be good to you, abbess.” He introduced himself to her, and said, “I think you will find
that we are both serving at the pleasure of the pope and his Templars in this matter.”

“So it would appear,” answered the abbess. “But perhaps someone could be so kind as to explain what it is that requires my most urgent attention.”

“It is very simple,” began the archbishop. “Some little time ago, I received word that the Holy Cup of Christ was preserved in this village. Naturally, I was intrigued, and inasmuch as the stability of the region has lately come under threat due to the continuing reclamation of Christian lands from the Moors, I decided to seek advisement in th—”

“Enough!” said de Bracineaux sharply. He stepped forward, pushing past the archbishop. “Thank you, Bertrano, for airing your explanation, but if we stay to hear you finish it, we will be here all night.” He took his place before the two nuns, arms folded over his broad chest. “Just tell me this,” he said, gazing sternly at the abbess, “do you have the cup?”

“Yes,” answered Annora. “The holy relic of which you speak resides at the convent.”

The commander's smile was greedy and wide. “Good. His Holiness the pope has determined that the cup is to be delivered into my hands for safekeeping.”

“That I will not do,” answered Annora, “until I know the reason. The Holy Cup has been in our possession since the Blessed Apostle himself came to Iberia. You cannot expect me to give it up without good reason.”

De Bracineaux's gaze grew fierce. “Yet, I say you
will
give it up.”

“Allow me to speak,” put in the archbishop, interposing himself between them. “This is my doing, for it was my letter which alerted the pope to the danger of losing the cup to the Moors.”

“Very well,” de Bracineaux growled. “If it will help bring the matter to a close. We have wasted too much time here already.”

“Dear abbess,” said Bertrano, stepping close, “the region is in turmoil; war and strife are rampant throughout all the land. It is the wish of His Holiness, the Patriarch of
Rome, that the cup should be removed to a place where it can be guarded in all safety. You and the sisters of your order have performed your duty admirably well—indeed, I have nothing but the highest praise for your faithfulness and care, and I will see to it that the pope learns of your long obedience—but you must see that the time has come to make better arrangements for the safekeeping of what is certainly Christendom's single most valuable object. It simply cannot reside here any longer—that much, at least, must be clear to you.”

Annora's face hardened. “It is clear to me that you have created a problem where none existed. Certainly, now that the world knows about the Holy Chalice its continued safety is compromised.” Her thin lips pressed themselves into a line of harsh disapproval.

“Just so,” conceded Bertrano. “I am sorry.” His remorseful gaze drifted to the Templar commander, and he added, “You will never know the depth of my regret.”

“There!” said de Bracineaux, impatience pinching his tone. “You have heard the reason. Will you now give us the cup?”

“We may be secluded here in the mountains, but we are not blind to the dangers you mention,” the abbess replied crisply. “It would seem the time has come to make better arrangements for the cup's safekeeping.”

“Then you will give us the cup?” said de Bracineaux, his tone rising to a demand.

“If the archbishop assures me in the name of his holy and sacred office that all he has told me is true, and that this has been ordained by his superiors in the faith,” Annora regarded Bertrano closely, “then, yes, I will deliver the Sacred Cup of Christ to you.”

“Abbess, no—” objected Cait, dismayed by what she was hearing. She reached out to take Annora's arm, as if to protest the decision. De Bracineaux saw the movement, and his hand snaked out, seizing her by the wrist.

“I think,” he said, “the abbess has made a wise decision.”

Revolted by the touch, Cait jerked her hand free from his grasp. As she did so, the hood slipped back on her head and
the side of her face came into view. She quickly replaced it, but de Bracineaux continued to stare at her.

The archbishop also saw, and opened his mouth to speak, but the abbess took Cait by the shoulder and turned her toward the door. “Wait for me outside, sister.” As Cait moved away, the abbess turned to face the archbishop. “Well? What is your answer?”

“Good abbess,” said Bertrano, watching as Cait departed, “I am Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela, and however much I might wish it was otherwise at this moment, all I have said of this matter is true. However loathsome it is to find myself in agreement with the commander, nevertheless, on my holy and sacred office, I do assure you of my veracity. But know that it is with a heavy and contrite heart that I do so.”

“Satisfied?” demanded de Bracineaux.

“You shall have the cup,” Annora repeated. “I will deliver it to you following our last Holy Communion. You understand, I must allow the sisters of my order a chance to say farewell to the Sacred Vessel. The service will be held tonight at the convent, and we will bring the Holy Chalice tomorrow morning.”

“Splendid,” sighed the archbishop, much relieved. “We will await this historic occasion with God's own patience.”

“Better still,” countered de Bracineaux, “we will come and retrieve the relic, and save you the trouble of bringing it to us.”

“Thank you, but that will not be necessary,” the abbess declined. “Instead, I will insist that you respect the hallowed tradition of our order which does not allow men to set foot within the boundaries of the convent.”

Cait glanced back as she opened the door to step outside. She heard Archbishop Bertrano say, “Let it be as you say. Until tomorrow then.” And then she was through the door and away.

They were silent on the way back to the abbey. The short winter day ended, and picking their way along the trail in the deepening twilight was difficult work, so it was not until the moon rose and the stars came out that the way grew easier.
Upon reaching the upper path, the abbess turned and waited for Cait to join her. “You do not agree with my decision.”

“I did not say that,” Cait replied.

“No,” allowed Annora, “but your silence is most eloquent. You think I am wrong to give it to them.”

“I do, yes.”

“Do you also see that I have no choice in the matter?” When Cait did not respond the abbess stopped walking. “Listen to me, Caitríona; it is ordained. Oh, yes, I do believe so. Despite whatever you may think of the instruments God has chosen to perform this work, the fact remains: Archbishop Bertrano wrote a letter to the pope, who has entrusted the Templars to carry out his wishes.” She softened, placing a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. “They would have come for the cup in any event.” Cait made to protest, but the abbess raised a hand in admonition. “The pope is my superior before God. I must obey.”

“Regardless of the consequences?” Cait asked bitterly. “I thought God had chosen me to be the next guardian of the cup.” She thrust her hands out to show the red welts on her wrists. “I was chosen. That is what you said.”

“Caitríona, the ways of God are beyond reckoning. Even so, I know he is at work in this. We come to him with the shattered remains of our best intentions, and he gathers all the broken pieces, reforms and reshapes them, and makes them new according to his purposes. He is able to achieve his will in the world, never doubt it.”

There was nothing more to be said, so they continued in silence. The abbess knew the last stretch of the path along the fields, and moved quickly; Cait followed, her spirit in turmoil. True, she had already decided that she could not become the next Guardian of the Chalice; yet she was far from prepared to see de Bracineaux get his profaning hands on the sacred object. She did not see how she could prevent that now. The abbess had spoken and that was that.

Although night was hurrying on, and they were cold, hungry, and exhausted from their long climb, upon their return
to the abbey the abbess bade Cait to sound the bell to gather the sisters. When they were all assembled in the refectory, Annora announced, “Tonight a strange and portentous thing has happened. The Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela has arrived in the village with a charge from His Holiness the Pope to take possession of our Blessed Cup.” A fretful murmur coursed through the assembled nuns. “As abbess of this order, I am sworn to obey, and have pledged my assent to the pope's wishes.”