The Mystic Rose Page 14

  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 fulfill 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, however, 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 plowed 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…Caitríona…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 b
egan to read.

  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-gray foam-traced depths of the cold Atlantic. Almost at once, the fair warm weather changed. Brilliant blue, cloudless skies gave way to low, heavy gray ceilings of endless overcast; cold winds gusted out of the northwest, 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 saltwater 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 harbor tucked into the curved arm 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 harbor.

  “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 toward Heaven. But the tower, or minaret, as he called it, was topped by a large wooden cross, and another had been erected in the center 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-traveled 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 harbor, 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 harbor. 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 marveled 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.

  By evening, they were back aboard the ship, and remained in the harbor for the night. Having discovered the Norsemen’s fondness for ale, Cait thought it best to move on as quickly as possible, putting out to sea again at first light the next morning to continue their journey north along the coast. The evening of the second day, they arrived at Porto Cales, where again they stopped for the night. Haemur’s chart was good, but not so exact that he felt confident to navigate the treacherous, often lethal waters of the rock-strewn coast ahead; he wanted to talk to the local fishermen and find out all he could about their destination. So they put in for the night and, while Abu and Haemur, with chart in hand, spent most of the next day conversing with the boat owners and sailors of the town, the others prowled the marketplaces—except for Svein, Dag, and Yngvar, who prowled only as far as the waterfront inn and remained blissfully occupied drinking ale until Rognvald came and fetched them back to the ship.

  “The best counsel, my lady,” reported Haemur on his return, “is to go up coast to Pons Vetus and hire a guide for the way ahead.”

  “There are many ways to Santiago de Compostela,” Abu put in. “The entire city is a shrine to Saint James the Great and many pilgrims come there to reverence his bones. It is second only to Jerusalem, they say.”

  “Can we go and see it?” asked Thea. “Oh, Cait, can we?”

  Ignoring her, Cait said, “And did anyone happen to mention which of the many ways to the city we should take?”

  “The best way for us is by river,” answered Abu. “They say the river is wide and deep enough to take the ship, but the channels can be difficult for the unwary.”

  “It will cost a little,” Haemur said, “and no doubt I could do it myself if pressed to it. But if it please you, my lady, I would feel better for the use of someone who knows the water hereabouts.” He paused, then added, “Your father would not thank me to wreck his beloved Persephone and forsake you and your lady sister in a foreign land.”

  “Nor would I, Haemur,” replied Cait. “But thanks to you, I am certain that will not happen. I am happy to trust in your good judgment.”

  “Very good, my lady. God willing,” he said, as if resigning himself to an irksome task, “I will take on a guide at Pons Vetus.”

  Two days later, that is what they did. The fisherfolk of the busy little port knew the region well, and when it was discovered there was silver to be had for showing the strangers the way, Haemur had no end of offers from which to choose. Eventually, he decided on a man of mature age, like himself, who had for many years fished the coastal waters and supplied the Galician markets with his catches.

  “Wise you are,” the fisherman told them when he came aboard at sunrise the next morning. “To many folk the river is just a river. They learn otherwise to their disadvantage. The Ulla is chancy—especially above the bend. But never fear, Ginés will see you safe to port without a worry.”

  With that, the old seaman took his place beside Haemur; and although neither man could comprehend the other, with Abu and Olvir’s help, and much use of the signs, nudges, and nods recognized by sailors the world over, the two men soon formed a rough understanding of one another. Ginés directed the old Norse pilot around the peninsula, and up through the scattered rocks and islets on the other side. It was slow work, and the tide was out by the time they reached the river mouth. “It will be dark before the water is high enough again,” Ginés told them. “The weather is going to change. We will find no better place to stay tonight. If you are asking me, I would say to drop anchor right here and proceed when it is light—weather permitting.”

  Although the sky seemed clear and the day mild enough, they accepted the old fisherman’s advice, and prepared to spend the night idly drifting in the sluggish river current. After supper, Cait soon lost interest in listening to the sailors trade sea tales and watching the knights drink wine; she summoned a complaining Alethea and went below deck to bed. In her sleep, she dreamed that she and her father had completed the pilgrimage and returned home. She awakened when she felt the ship begin to move again and went up on deck to find what at first sight appeared to be a dream come true: they were back in Caithness.

  The sky was thick and dark and
low; clouds lay on the hilltops and it was raining gently. The hills themselves were green and steep, and covered with splotches of yellow gorse and the criss-crossing patterns of sheep trails etched in the thick turf. The rounded bulges of granite boulders broke the smooth surface of the hills, like the tops of ancient gray skull-bones wearing through their moss-green burial shroud. White morning mist searched down the slopes, twisting around the stones with long, ghostly fingers.

  In all, the landscape of Galicia evoked her homeland so suddenly and solidly that before Cait knew it, tears were running down her cheeks. More mystified than melancholy, she nevertheless felt the inexplicable pull of her far-off homeland and marveled that this place should appear so remarkably like Scotland.

  “Here, my lady,” called the old pilot from the helm, “I never saw a place looked more like home. If I knew no better, I’d say we were come to Caithness.”

  “He is right,” remarked Olvir. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Cait nodded and moved quickly to the rail so that Haemur and the others would not see her crying; she stood wrapped in her mantle gazing at the mist-covered hills as they slid slowly past. When the knights came on deck to breakfast, she was dry-eyed once more and ready to embark on the next stage of the journey.

  It was after midday when the ship came to the small river town of Iria. “There is a hostler at the crossroads in the town. You can hire horses from him,” Ginés told them. “Compostela is not far, and you will soon be there.”

  As it happened, the hostler had only two horses left for hire. Not wishing to wait until others became available, Cait took the two: for herself and Rognvald. The others, she decided, could remain behind with the ship, and she and Rognvald would travel more quickly without a crowd to slow them. Thus, they set off early the next day and undertook the ride through thickly wooded countryside. The road was old and straight, a Roman road, but well-maintained and busy, passing through several little hamlets and holdings in the valley bottoms.