The Mystic Rose Page 4

  Cait moved on, inclined to ignore her sister’s entreaty.

  “Oh, Cait, please? We have been walking all day. My feet are sore.”

  Caitríona hesitated. She turned back and looked at the chairs. Her vacillation was all that one of the more enterprising chair owners needed. Leaping to his feet, he hurried to where the two young women were standing. “My friends!” he called. “You wish to hire a chair. Mine is best.” Dark and thin, he smiled at them as he spoke in rough, rustic Greek. “I am Philippianous. Come with me, I will show you now.”

  “Very well,” said Cait, when she had examined the chair and found it satisfactory. “How much?”

  “Where you wish to go?” asked the eager Philippianous. “You tell me that, I tell you how much.”

  “Blachernae Palace.”

  At this, the young man’s eyes grew wide. “You have business there tonight perhaps.”

  “Yes,” said Cait. “How much?”

  “Thirty denarii,” he said, growing sly.

  “Ten.”

  “My lady,” complained Philippianous, “it is getting dark. We are tired and have nothing to eat. Twenty-five denarii. It is a good price.”

  “Fifteen denarii—for both of us—”

  “Ten apiece,” countered the chair owner.

  “Very well,” relented Cait. Slipping a small leather purse from beneath her girdle, she began counting small silver coins into her hand. “Ten apiece—to take us there and return.”

  “My lady,” whined Philippianous. “We are poor and hungry. We have had nothing to eat all day. We cannot work all night with nothing to eat.”

  “Then take your rest,” replied Cait, regarding the group of bearers who were listening to the negotiation with undisguised interest. “I am certain one of your friends would be more than happy to oblige.”

  “Cait, please!” whispered Alethea, embarrassed that her sister should haggle like a fishwife over such a trivial matter.

  Sensing victory, the bearer pointed to his chair. “It is a nice chair. Very comfortable. We will take good care of you.”

  “If you do well,” Cait promised, “I will give you extra for a meal. But you must take us to the palace first.”

  “Done!” The chair owner spun on his heel and clapped his hands. He called to his laborers, who rose from among the men gathered around the fire. One of them took a last gulp from the jar before passing it along, and then he and his three companions shuffled to a wide red-painted chair with a green cushion on its wooden bench seat.

  Alethea nudged her sister in the ribs, and pointed at a green chair. It was newer, slightly larger, the pole rings were shiny brass, and the cushion was yellow satin. Cait nodded. “Wait,” she said, and pointed to the green chair. “That one.”

  “My sister,” complained the owner. “That one is very special—for the empress herself, eh?”

  “If the empress wishes to hire it, we will gladly give it to her,” replied Cait, stepping into the chair. She held out the little stack of coins.

  Philippianous sighed, but gave his men the nod to go ahead. Taking up two long brass-tipped wooden poles from among those leaning against the wall, they slipped them through the rings, lifted the chair, and started off. “Enjoy your journey, my friends.”

  “You come, too. I will give you an extra ten to announce us at the palace,” Cait said, adding a few more coins to the stack in her hand.

  “Philippianous is at your service, empress,” said the chair owner, accepting his payment with a polite bow. The bearers moved out, and the owner ran on ahead, leading the way and clearing idlers from the path.

  Alethea was instantly ecstatic. “This is wonderful! Cait, we should travel like this everywhere,” she said, almost hugging herself.

  Cait made no reply. She turned her eyes to the slowly darkening street ahead, and thought about what had been accomplished this day, and what was still to come.

  “Why did you not say we were going to the palace?” asked Alethea brightly.

  “Some surprises are best kept secret,” Caitríona replied.

  Alethea snuggled closer, enjoying the mysteriousness of it. “Is the royal family there?”

  “No,” replied Cait. “I have to see someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A man called Renaud de Bracineaux.”

  “It is to do with Papa’s death?”

  “Yes.”

  Cait turned once more to her meditation on the day’s events. As soon as the ship had been secured in its new berth in Bucoleon Harbor they returned to the church where Duncan was lying on his bier in the sanctuary, waiting for burial. She allowed Haemur to accompany them—more for Haemur’s sake than for her own. The old sea captain had liked and admired her father very much, and it would have been a needless cruelty to have denied him the consolation of attending the burial.

  So, leaving Olvir and Otti to look after the vessel, they had proceeded to the church where they were received by the abbot himself and conducted into the darkened sanctuary where burned but two tall candles, one either end of the shroud-wrapped corpse. Upon entering the chapel, Alethea had begun to cry. Once they were seated, the cleric had read a simple service for the dead, at the conclusion of which the body of their father had been taken up by the brothers and carried to a small burial ground in a portion of the garden outside the monastery scriptorium where a fresh grave had been dug in the dry, rocky earth.

  After a lengthy prayer in Greek, Cait said another in Gaelic, whereupon Alethea, weeping uncontrollably now, had placed on the body a handful of summer flowers and foliage wrapped in a length of white silk. The monks lowered the body into the hole and, while the abbot read a passage from the holy scripture, the brothers slowly filled in the grave. Haemur stood with bowed head and folded hands, and both Caitríona and Alethea knelt as the monks heaped the dirt high over the bundled corpse, tamped it down, and then planted a new-made wooden cross in the mound.

  The service concluded, the abbot led the little funeral party to the refectory where they were given some wine and honey cakes with raisins to refresh themselves. Afterward, Cait delivered the monetary gift they had agreed upon—together with an additional sum for the grave to be continually maintained—whereupon the chapter’s infirmarer was summoned. A stoop-shouldered man of middle age with sad dark eyes, the infirmarer presented the women with a small box made of lead; a chi-rho had been embossed in the soft metal, and the container sealed with solder.

  “I thank you, brother,” Cait said, accepting the small casket from his hand. She then thanked the abbot for his care and kindness, and the three were conducted by the porter through the gates of the monastery and out into the light of a hot summer day. Cait moved out into the sun-bright street in a thoughtful mood, Haemur solemn and silent beside her.

  Alethea, who had dried her tears, walked along the tree-lined streets with a buoyant step. The great tide of sorrow which surged over her unexpectedly now and again had ebbed for the time being, and she felt light-headed—as if the heavier humors had been drained off, and now she might float away on the breeze. “It was a fine funeral,” she observed, once they were through the gate. “Do you not think so, Cait?”

  “It served a purpose.”

  “You could have done better, I suppose.”

  Not wishing to argue with her sister, she merely said, “Papa wished Padraig to conduct his funeral.”

  “Oh,” said Alethea. She had not thought of that. “Of course.”

  A Célé Dé funeral was a very sacred and special occasion, combining not only prayers and hymns, but stories, songs, and special readings. It culminated in a feast at which family and friends gathered at the banquet table to celebrate the life of the departed and share their fondest recollections. The feast generally began at dusk and continued through the night, finishing at dawn when everyone went out to witness the breaking of the new day and sing their brother and fellow pilgrim on his journey home.

  Cait felt sorry that her father had not been able
to receive such a funeral; it was his due. Still, she meant to do what she could.

  “What is in the box?” asked Alethea. “Strange they should give us a gift.”

  “It is not a gift,” said Cait quietly.

  “What is it then?” The younger woman snatched away the box which Cait held reverently in her hands. She turned it this way and that, looking for a way to open it.

  “Thea, please.” Cait put her hand on her sister’s arm and turned her around. She held out her hand for the box. “Give it to me now.”

  “No,” the young woman sulked, jerking the box away. “Not until you tell me what’s inside.”

  Cait frowned, regarding her sister with sour disapproval. “It is Papa’s heart,” she said softly.

  “What!” shrieked Alethea. Cait held out her hand, and Thea shoved the box into it with disgust. “You had them cut out his heart?” she cried, tears welling at once. “You cruel and thoughtless creature! How could you do such a thing!”

  “It was his dying wish,” Caitríona explained simply. “He wanted his heart to be buried in the church at home.”

  Alethea put her face in her hands and wept. Despite her aggravation, Cait felt sorry for her sister—always getting things twisted around and making herself look foolish. She passed the box to Haemur who was standing awkwardly to one side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

  “Take this back to the ship, put it in a safe place, and wait for us there,” Cait told the grizzled old pilot. “Remember what I told you. It will likely be very late when we return, so keep a light burning at the prow.”

  Haemur accepted the lead box with a little bow, and said, “As you will, my lady. Return when you like, you will find the ship in order and awaiting your command.”

  Cait smiled; the old seaman seemed to be going out of his way to demonstrate his acceptance of her as the new master of the vessel. For that, she was grateful. She thanked him and sent him on his way, and then she had begun her work of revenge.

  The previous day, the consul had told her that de Bracineaux was a friend of King Baldwin and a guest of the emperor. To find the Templar commander all she had to do was discover which of the many imperial residences was being used by the friends, relations, and entourage of the newly wedded couple. With Thea in tow, she had then begun the tedious and tiring inquiry—a delicate investigation which necessitated shrewdness, tact, and a finely honed sense of diplomacy—particular skills which Cait possessed in fair measure, when she cared to use them.

  It was late when they left the Magnaura Palace precinct where Cait had at last been able to tease out the information she required. They had stopped to buy a little fruit and bread and cheese at a market they happened by, and then continued on their way to the Blachernae Palace where the members of the royal wedding entourage were staying as guests of Emperor Manuel Comnenus.

  Now, as evening descended around them, Cait settled back in the chair, and allowed herself to think about what lay ahead. She closed her eyes and rehearsed the decisive moment in her mind, trying to imagine it down to the smallest detail so that she should not be taken by surprise.

  They were closer to the palace than they knew, and soon Philippianous halted the chair and pointed to an enormous square structure in brick and stone rising from behind a stout wall. “The palace, my lady,” he said, as if he were the proud owner.

  Caitríona observed the flat, undistinguished façade, with its alternating colors of brickwork, and its high-peaked roof shingled with red tile, and decided that it looked more like the Earl’s great house in Orkney than the favorite residence of the Holy Roman Empire’s exalted ruler.

  “This is the palace?” wondered Alethea aloud. Like Cait, she had imagined something far more grand and imposing.

  “Indeed, yes,” Philippianous assured them. “The Palace of Blachernae is renowned. People come from all over the world to see it.”

  There were four soldiers standing in the street before a gate wide enough and high enough to allow the royal carriages of kings and princes to pass through with ease. “Be so kind as to announce us,” Cait instructed.

  “It would be a pleasure, my lady,” replied their expansive guide.

  “Say that Ladies Deborah and Constance de Payens have arrived for their audience with Commander de Bracineaux.”

  At this, Alethea, who had been daydreaming about the rich pearl-studded gowns the empress reputedly wore, sat up sharply. Her Greek was not as good as her sister’s, but she understood this last without any difficulty. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “Those are not our names.”

  “Quiet, Thea,” snapped Cait. “Do as you are told.”

  Philippianous’ smiling features arranged themselves into a knowing smirk. He opened his mouth, but Cait cut him off before he could comment. “Announce us,” she commanded.

  Cait turned on her sister. “Now listen, Thea,” she warned. “Keep your mouth shut, and do what I tell you, or I will leave you here by yourself. Understand?”

  “I still cannot see why we have to—”

  “I mean it!” Cait raised a threatening finger.

  Alethea nodded sourly.

  “Good. I will explain everything later.”

  Philippianous had made their names known to the porter, a hulking drone who waved the chair and its occupants through the gate—eyeing the nubile younger woman lustfully as the two passed. Inside the palace grounds, they proceeded at once to the courtyard and the palace entrance where they were halted by guards, and where, once again, the doors were opened without further question when the commander’s name was given.

  “Be so kind as to wait here,” Cait told the bearers. “God willing, we may not be long. If you are ready to depart the moment we return I will double your fee.”

  “Most gracious lady,” replied Philippianous grandly, “we will await your appearance with confident expectation.” He led them to the massive copper-gilded iron doors, where they were escorted into the palace without delay.

  Once inside, they were met by an aging courtier who demanded to know their business. “We are invited to an audience with Commander de Bracineaux,” Caitríona replied crisply.

  The courtier cocked his head to one side and gave the two young women a long, dubious glance. “Even so?”

  “The invitation was issued by the Master himself.” Cait leaned forward and placed her hand on the man’s arm, putting her mouth close to his ear. “He said to tell anyone who asked that we are—” she paused precisely long enough to leave no doubt in the courtier’s mind that it was a lie, and then added, “his nieces.”

  The elderly courtier pulled away as if burned by her touch. He drew himself up to speak, and Cait thought he might refuse them then and there. Instead, he merely turned on his heel and led them across the entrance hall to a long flight of wooden stairs. Without a word, he indicated that they were to ascend. Cait thanked the servant and, taking the dumbstruck Alethea’s hand, proceeded up the stairs without looking back.

  They emerged on the next floor and stepped into a large, wood-panelled vestibule connecting three long corridors lined with doors. Two yawning servants leaning against a gilded column regarded the newcomers lazily, but made no move to help them. Cait presented herself and asked in which of the apartments the Templar de Bracineaux might be found. The chamberlain raised a hand, indicated the central corridor, and said, “Sixth door.”

  Thea close behind, Cait proceeded down the corridor, drawing a deep breath to calm herself. It was going better than she had hoped, but an instant’s carelessness would ruin everything. They passed several doors, and heard coarse singing emanating from behind one of them; from behind another came a loud crash followed by raucous laughter and stamping feet.

  So, the local gossip is true, she thought. The Franks sleep when they should work, eat when they should sleep, and roister when they should pray. They rarely wash, talk too loud, blow their noses on their clothing, and rut like pigs.

  As they app
roached the sixth door, Alethea squeezed Cait’s hand. “Someone is coming!” she whispered.

  Caitríona looked quickly down to the far end of the corridor where a figure had just appeared in the passageway. As the figure approached she saw the tray of cups in her hand. “It is just a serving girl.”

  She waited until the girl drew near and paused at the sixth door, whereupon Cait approached her quickly and asked whether the cups and jar were bound for the commander’s chamber. “Indeed, my lady,” replied the girl.

  “Leave it with me,” said Cait, taking the tray from her. “We were just about to join him. You may go.”

  The girl looked at the two women, and then surrendered to their unarguably superior rank. She delivered the tray with a tight bow, and retreated quickly the way she had come. As soon as the girl was gone, Cait laid the tray on the floor; she quickly shrugged off her costly mantle and handed it to her sister; next, she removed the dagger from its sheath at her side and tucked it into her girdle at the back so that it would be out of sight, yet ready to hand.

  “What are you doing?” asked Alethea, eyeing the dagger.

  “I told you. I have to talk to someone.” Cait picked up the tray. “Stay here and keep watch. Knock on the door if anyone should come.”

  Alethea made to protest, but Cait’s raised eyebrow persuaded her to hold her tongue. Glancing nervously both ways along the corridor, she said, “Hurry, then.”

  Balancing the tray with one hand, Cait reached for the latch and, taking a deep steadying breath to calm her pounding heart, pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside.

  FOUR

  THE ROOM WAS large and dark, and opened onto a smaller inner chamber which in turned opened onto a balcony overlooking a garden court. The double doors separating the rooms were thrown wide, and two men were sitting at a small round table on the balcony, enjoying the soft evening air. Even by fitful torchlight, she recognized the broad shoulders and untidy mane of white hair belonging to Renaud de Bracineaux. With a glance at Alethea, who made a last anxious plea to hurry, Cait closed the door behind her and stepped inside.