The Mystic Rose Page 2

They were, it seemed to me, clouds of war, shadows of the great evil rushing eastward to feed and strengthen the darkness already rampant there. The political quagmire of the European noble houses was inexorably sucking one government and power after another deeper and deeper into the ruinous morass. The fighting, which had now spread on many fronts, grew continually sharper, more brutal and vicious by the day. As yet there was no end in sight.

  The splendor of the summer day was, I reflected, like our own lives upon the earth: short-lived, and bounded by darkness on every side.

  It was in this somber mood that I turned my steps toward home. By the time I reached the house, the weather had turned foul. I unlocked the front door just as the first drops of rain spattered onto the pavement behind me.

  I quickly stepped inside and, as I turned to close the door behind me, my eye fell upon a small, buff-colored envelope lying on the mat. I turned it over and saw my name neatly lettered in black ink. My heart began beating faster as I opened the envelope and saw the single word: Tonight.

  ONE

  AT THE PRONOUNCEMENT of the Patriarch of Constantinople, the bride was carried from the cathedral on a silver bed draped with cloth of gold. Alone on that wide and glittering expanse, she looked frightened, cowed, and far younger than her thirteen years. Before her went a hundred black-robed monks chanting the Gloria, followed by the stiffly dignified metropolitan in his high-crowned, ruby and ivory-beaded red satin hat; the imposing prelate carried a large silver frame containing the Sacred Mandelion: the cloth bearing the indelible image of Christ, one of Byzantium’s most highly valued treasures.

  Veiled in delicate silver netting from the top of her golden wedding crown to the tips of her white-stockinged toes, the young woman’s slender form shimmered in the light of ten thousand candles as she passed through the standing congregation, borne aloft on the shoulders of eight black Ethiopians in yellow tunics. The noble groom followed his new bride on a white horse, leading a dove-gray mare; both animals were caparisoned in scarlet edged with silver, and both wore white ostrich plumes attached to their silver headpieces.

  From her place in the gallery high above the floor, Caitríona, mute with amazement, gazed upon the dazzling spectacle and knew she had never seen anything half so magnificent, and probably never would again. Everything, from the golden crowns to the purple clouds of incense drifting like the mists of Heaven, worked an enchantment of wealth and power that left her breathless.

  When the wedding procession passed beneath the upper gallery of Ayia Sophia, all the onlookers rushed to the opposite side and leaned over the marble balustrade to see the towering iron-clad doors of the great church flung open wide and the newly married couple depart on billows of pink rose petals. The crowds which had been waiting outside the church since dawn roared with delight to see the royal party as it began the parade through the city to the Triconchos Palace where the official marriage banquet would be held amidst the marble columns of the Hall of Pearl.

  “Well, dear heart,” said Duncan to his daughter, “what did you think of that?”

  “You were very brave to bring me here,” Caitríona replied. “I have always admired that in you, Papa.”

  “Indulgent, perhaps. But why do you say brave?”

  “Because,” she said, her lips curving with sardonic glee, “now that I have seen how a lowly niece of the emperor is fêted on her wedding day, I shall accept nothing less on mine.”

  Duncan clucked his tongue, and said, “If I thought there was even the slightest chance you would deign to marry, I swear this cathedral would witness a ceremony far more grand than that which just took place.”

  “Bring on the king and golden bed,” snipped Cait. “Let us get it done here and now.”

  “Is it too much for a father to hope the treasure of his life might find a little happiness in wedlock?”

  “And ensure the continuance of the noble line, yes.” She frowned dangerously. “Look at me, Papa, and tell me the truth: who in their right mind would want to marry me?”

  “Any number of men, dear heart, given half a chance.”

  “Papa!”

  “There are fairer women perhaps,” allowed Duncan delicately. “But the beauty of the soul far outlasts the charms of the flesh.”

  “Show me a man enraptured with the beauty of the soul, and I will show you a eunuch.”

  Duncan sighed. His daughter’s refusal to consider a suitable marriage had long been a thorn in his flesh. While Cait herself imagined it was her lack of loveliness which kept acceptable men at a distance, her father strongly suspected it was the quick, dagger-like edge of her tongue. Why, oh why, did she have to be so hardheaded and immovable? It was, he realized, the family curse.

  “Poor, poor Papa,” she cooed, sliding her arm through his. “Lumbered with a thankless wench of a daughter who makes his life a dreary cavalcade of suffering from dawn to dusk. Oh, will this unendurable misery never cease?”

  Leaving their places at the marble rail, they began following the other nobles from the gallery. Once in the outer corridor, they entered the slow-moving stream of people shuffling toward the wide staircase leading down to the main floor of the cathedral. “I suppose,” mused Duncan philosophically, “there are worse things than having a daughter who thinks she is King of Caithness.”

  Cait laughed. The sound delighted her father, who heard in it the echo of her mother’s voice. Alas, that was all she had inherited from her mother; Caitríona’s green eyes and long black hair were hers alone. Tall and long-limbed like her forefathers—her stature made the vaunted Grecian beauties seem scrawny and underfed—she was a fully fleshed woman whose imposing presence easily dominated the more demure members of her sex.

  Few men could match his wilful daughter for strength of resolve and cold, clear-eyed reckoning, he admitted to himself; fewer still were keen to try. The ancestral blood which flowed through her veins contained too much wild Celt, and too little refined nobility. It was, he knew, often remarked that she was more at ease with a spear in her hand than a spindle—but what of that? When Cait passed by, one caught the scent of sea air and rain-misted heather; the bracing, blustery wind off the highland moors was in her hair and in her impetuous, exuberant nature.

  Cait herself was not unaware of what people thought of her. But if other women were more comfortable in costly silks and satins than rough boots and riding trews, more content to sit moon-eyed beside the hearthfire with their needlework than hunt with the hounds, so be it. To Cait’s way of thinking, these shrinking, swooning sisters had no one to blame for their drab and insipid lives but themselves.

  “Papa, were you and Sydoni married here?” she asked, gazing up at a glittering mosaic of the holy family, resplendent in purple robes and gilded halos.

  “Here—in Ayia Sophia?” Duncan glanced at her to see if she were teasing him, but saw that she was in earnest. “No, not here. Such splendor was far beyond our scanty means.” He paused, remembering. “Also, I seem to remember that to be married in the cathedral required a ten-month delay. I fear neither one of us would have survived the wait—the fires of passion would have consumed us to cinders.”

  Cait pretended shock. “Presented with such a lackluster jewel of virtue as yourself, dear Papa, I am amazed they allowed you to be married at all. So, where did you find a priest to proclaim the banns?”

  “We were married at the Church of Christ Pantocrator. Padraig knew of it, but then he knows everything. As it happens, it is not far from here. We might go there this evening, if you would like to see it.”

  “If I would like…” she chided. “It is the sole and entire purpose of this journey to drag your dutiful daughters over every last footprint of your great pilgrimage, and well you know it.”

  Duncan took her hand from his arm and kissed it. “You are a very treasure, my light.”

  “I wish Sydoni were here,” Cait said. “Padraig, too. I am certain they would have a few tales to tell.”

  “Oh, indeed,” agreed Du
ncan somewhat wistfully, remembering the day more than twenty years ago when he and Sydoni had been married in this city, and that night had celebrated their union. “Well,” he continued after a moment, pressing his daughter’s hand, “we must enjoy our brief stay all the more for their sake, and hear what they have to say when we get home.”

  They reached the staircase and started down, following the crowds, and eventually joined the throng in the huge hall-like vestibule just as the royal family emerged from the sanctuary. Imperial Varangian guards moved with silent efficiency into the crowd and swiftly formed a double rank stretching from the sanctuary entrance to the outer doors, whereupon they turned and stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind their gold-trimmed shields, ceremonial lances upraised; the blades of their spears were gold, and dressed with scarlet pennons, but sharp nonetheless. Once this protective corridor was established, other guardsmen marched through it, clearing the crowds before them.

  “The emperor and empress!” said Cait. In spite of herself, she was enjoying the imperial display.

  “Go, my dear,” he said, urging her forward. “I will wait here.”

  Cait released his arm and darted forward. She threaded her way through the gathered horde and peered over the shoulders of the Varangians to catch a glimpse of Emperor Manuel and Empress Irene, and their sallow-faced daughter, as they swept from the church. They were followed by the Patriarch and the Archbishop, and a long triple row of priests holding lanterns and chanting, their voices rising and falling in rhythmic waves.

  As soon as the priests passed, the twin ranks of imperial bodyguards took three paces toward one another, turned, and marched from the church. Instantly, there was a rush behind them as the congregation surged for the door to see the emperor flinging handfuls of gold coins to the crowds. Caitríona was momentarily caught up in the flow and quickly found herself outside the church. The royal party moved on, the clamoring populace with them, and Cait turned against the stream to make her way back inside the church to rejoin her father.

  Darting and sliding between close-packed clumps and clusters of people hurrying to follow the procession, she made for the place where she had left him—but he was no longer in the vestibule. She paused and looked around, but could not see Duncan anywhere, and was at the point of going back outside to look for him when she caught sight of him in the dimly lit sanctuary. Lord Duncan was standing next to one of the gigantic porphyry columns so as to be out of the way of the departing masses.

  Cait forced her way through the streaming multitude at the door, and struggled to reach her father. As she came nearer, she saw that he was talking to someone; she could not see who it might be, for the stranger was hidden behind the column; but from the expression on her father’s face the conversation was far from cordial.

  Duncan’s brow was lowered and his jaw was tight, his chin thrust forward defiantly. His eyes glinted cold fire which, although fearsome, was not easily kindled.

  Indeed, Caitríona had seen him this way but once in her life: when an uninvited party of Danes, after setting up camp on the beach below the stronghold, had stolen, butchered, and roasted three good breeding cows. When Duncan found out about it, he marched down and confronted them in their camp. The roistering Danes got off lightly, she thought, with an apology and double payment for the cows. He was not facing marauding Danes now, but the expression was the same—his noble features were alight with righteous wrath.

  The sudden strangeness of the situation sent a thrill of alarm through her. Cait felt her scalp tingle with dread anticipation and her stomach tighten into a hard knot. She put her head down and forced her way through the oncoming stream of people. Drawing near, she called her father’s name. He heard and turned his head. At that instant another man’s face moved out from the shadow of the pillar and Cait saw it clearly: he was bearded, the beard gray but neatly trimmed—in contrast to the stark white hair of his head, which was long and brushed into an untidy nimbus around his high-domed forehead. A long, thin scar puckered the flesh above his left eye, lifting the eyebrow into an expression of scorn which, married to the ferocity glaring from his dark eyes, gave him an aspect of ruthless malice that chilled Cait to the bone.

  Then, as if having seen the young woman hastening toward them, the bearded man moved behind the pillar again. She saw the glint of his bared teeth as he slid back into the shadows. Duncan turned toward him and the two continued their conversation.

  Cait sidestepped one group of noisy celebrants, and shoved her way through another, reaching her father at last. By the time she rejoined him, the bearded man was gone. She looked where he had been standing and caught the fleeting glimmer of a long white surcoat with a red cross on the back as it disappeared into the crowd.

  “Papa, who was that?” she asked, stepping in beside him.

  Duncan, staring fixedly ahead, seemed to be concentrating most intently on her question. He strained for the words, which caught in his throat.

  “Papa?” Her voice became urgent.

  Duncan turned toward his daughter and forced a sickly smile, his face suddenly gray. He lost his balance and stretched his hand to the polished column to steady himself.

  Instinctively, Cait stepped in to bear him up. “What is wrong?” Even as she spoke the words, she glanced down at his other hand, clutched at his side just below the ribs where a ribbon of blood seeped between his fingers.

  “Papa!”

  “Cait…” he replied absently. “He…he…” Duncan looked down at his wound and shuddered. “Ah! For the love of God!” he said, his teeth clenched against the pain. “Ah!”

  “Here—” She slid her arm under his and took his weight onto herself. “Sit down and rest.” Looking up she cried out, “Help me! Someone, please! He is wounded!”

  But Cait’s cry was swallowed in the general crush and confusion, and the nearer passersby, if they heard, paid no attention. She eased him to the floor, and sat him down on the plinth which formed a step at the base of the column. He slumped back, resting his shoulders against the purple stone. “Do not move,” she told him. “I will get help.”

  She made to dart away, but he seized her wrist and held tight. “No, Cait,” he said, his voice shaking. “Stay.”

  “I will be back before you know it.” She stood, but he held her tight in his grasp.

  “No time, my light. Stay with me.”

  “Father, please,” she said. “Let me find help.” She removed his hand and started off once more.

  “Caitríona, no!” he said, his voice recovering something of its former strength. “There is only one who can help me now, and I will soon stand before him. Stay and pray with me.”

  She turned and knelt beside him, slipping her arm behind his head, fighting down the panic clawing at her heart and blurring her vision.

  “Listen, Cait. I love you very much.”

  “Oh, Papa, I love you, too.”

  “Then promise me you will not seek to avenge me,” he said, cold sweat beading on his ashen face. “Let it end here.”

  “I do not understand. Who was that man? Why did he do this?”

  “Promise me!” he insisted, raising himself up again. The effort brought a spasm of pain which made him cough. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “I know you, Cait. Promise you will not avenge me.”

  “Very well, I promise.” She dabbed away the blood with the hem of her blue satin mantle. “Now, lie back and rest a little.”

  Having received her promise, Duncan slumped against the base of the column. “Good,” he sighed, settling back against the cool stone. “Good.”

  Cait put her hand to her father’s cheek. “Please, Papa,” she persisted, “I need to understand.”

  “Pray for me, Caitríona.” He closed his eyes.

  “I will—every day. But I need to understand.”

  “Renaud…” He coughed again; more blood came up, staining his teeth and chin. She wiped it away.

  At first the name meant nothing. Then the memory surfac
ed. “Renaud de Bracineaux? The Templar?” She searched her father’s face for a clue to the meaning of this mystery. “Why?”

  He opened his eyes and tried to smile. “Poor Alethea…I am glad she is not here. She is not as strong as you…” he coughed, and slumped further down, “…take care of her, Cait.”

  “Hush.” She put her cheek next to his and held him tight, as if to hold off death through the strength of her embrace. “I will watch over her.”

  He raised his hand and cupped his palm to her chin, holding her face so that he could see her. His eyes were hazy, and his voice wavered. “Take my heart…” He gulped air, his voice tight with pain, and forced out the words. “Take it home. Tell Padraig…bury it in the church. He will know what to do.”

  Unable to speak, Caitríona simply nodded.

  “Sydoni,” he rasped. “Tell Sydoni…my last thought was of her.” His voice had grown suddenly soft and tenuous as spider-silk. “Tell her I…thanking God…”

  “I will tell her.” The tears spilled freely down her cheeks and onto her father’s hand.

  Duncan raised his hand and kissed the tear with bloodstained lips; Caitríona clutched his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Dear heart,” he said, his voice a fading whisper. “I go.”

  He slumped back against the column base with a sigh. In that last exhalation, Cait thought she saw a light flicker briefly in his eyes and heard him say her mother’s name…“Ah, Rhona…”—the most delicate ghost of an utterance, a word spoken from the threshold of another world, and he was gone.

  TWO

  THE DULL IRON glow of a new day was staining the dark waters of the Bosphorus by the time Cait finally returned to the ship. She stood at the rail and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the dirty yellow gleam burning through the gray cloudwrack like a hot poker singeing through sackcloth. After a time, she turned her unblinking gaze to the famed seven hills of Byzantium, all hung in purple mist and smoke, as if in mourning for her murdered father.