The Mystic Rose Read online

  “Bring him here.” The commander sat on his horse in the middle of the street, sweating in the bright sunlight. His head hurt from last night’s wine, and he felt bilious from too much rich food. Baron Félix d’Anjou, he thought—and not for the first time—was a profligate toad and his usefulness was swiftly coming to an end.

  Also, the sooner he had his hand on the thieving bitch who had stolen his letter, the better he would feel.

  He had not discovered the theft until this morning when he rose and went to wash himself. Passing the table, he had noticed the square of parchment was missing. He had summoned Gislebert at once. “The letter,” he said pointing to the table. “What happened to it?”

  “I thought you put it away.”

  “If I had put it away, would I be asking you what happened to it? Think, man!”

  “That serving girl last night—” Gislebert began.

  “Oh, very good, sergeant,” roared the commander, pushing Gislebert toward the door. “Instead of standing like a lump of ripe cheese, go and find her.”

  Gislebert had scurried off and returned a short while later with word that although no one knew the servant in question, the porter had seen two women arrive in a hired chair. “He says the chair came from Tzimisces Square—not far from here,” the sergeant reported. “He has seen it before.”

  “Have horses readied,” barked de Bracineaux. “We are going to get that letter back.”

  “What of the porter?” asked Gislebert. “He is waiting outside.”

  “Bring him with us.”

  Now he sat sweltering in the saddle, and watched the porcine gateman waddle across the square, leading a slender young Greek with the air of a jovial pirate. These people, these Greeks—a supremely deceitful race, thought de Bracineaux darkly, natural-born thieves and cut-throats each and every one. The easy, carefree grace of the young man—the insufferable indifference of his long, loping stride, and the subtle expression of superiority on his swarthy features filled the commander with a rank and bitter loathing. It seems, he decided, an example is in order here.

  The thought made him feel better. Perhaps all was not lost. After all, the thief could not possibly know what it was she had taken, could not possibly imagine its unrivalled importance, its inestimable value. It had been the rash act of an ignorant and opportunistic slut, and she would pay for her impudence—he would see to that. First, however, he would teach the sly young Greek a lesson he would never forget.

  “Do you recognize him?” grunted the sergeant as the porter trundled nearer.

  “I have seen him before. He is the one.”

  “Greetings, my lord, a splendid day for a ride in a chair. Where would you like to go?”

  “Shut up, you,” said Gislebert sharply. “You will speak when spoken to—understand?”

  “That is not necessary, sergeant,” said de Bracineaux wearily. “He is not to blame.” Regarding the slim dark youth before him, he said, “What is your name, boy?”

  The youth bristled at the derisory word but, considering the angry-looking men before him, swallowed his pride and said, “I am Philippianous. How can I help, your majesty?”

  The commander’s eyes narrowed; he could not tell if the youth was making fun of him; more likely, he decided at last, the young fool really thought he was a king. “You brought two women to Blachernae Palace last night. Where did you take them when they left?”

  “I do not recall.”

  “Liar!” snarled Gislebert, drawing back his hand.

  Philippianous glared at the Templar sergeant. “Is it my fault if a man cannot remember where he put his whores?”

  Gislebert gave out a growl and swung at the young man, who jerked back his head, letting the blow sail harmlessly by. Before the sergeant could regroup for another swing, his commander called him off, saying, “That will do, sergeant. He is used to being paid for his service, so we will pay.”

  De Bracineaux put his hand into the leather purse at his belt, withdrew it and flipped a gold solidus to the young man. “I trust that will help restore your memory,” he said.

  Philippianous caught the coin in his fist and examined it before replying. “They must be very important to you.”

  “Where did you take them?”

  “I brought them here,” he sighed, as if the conversation no longer interested him, “because that was all the money they had.” He turned to go.

  “A moment!” said de Bracineaux. “I think you may be of further service to me. I will pay you for your trouble, never fear.” To the porter, he said, “Take him back to the palace and wait with him there.”

  When the two had gone, the Templars continued on. “He was lying,” Gislebert said.

  “No doubt,” replied the commander placidly.

  “I could have made him tell us.”

  “We will, but not here. The boy is well known hereabouts, and too many people have seen us already. If the women are close by, I do not want them warned off by a street fight.”

  “What do you intend, commander?”

  “Give him inducement enough to consult his memory, and we will soon have the letter in our possession once more.”

  They rode on to the church of the Holy Apostles, which was no great distance from the square, attended a lengthy mass, and then broke fast at an inn which was frequented by many of the Templars who were now more or less permanently stationed in the city. They met several of their order and entertained them with a meal of fresh bread flavored with caraway and honey, soft cheese, and wine diluted with lemon water.

  After breaking their fast, they returned to the palace to find a very irritated Philippianous, who had been made to stand in the courtyard in the hot sun while he waited.

  “Here you are,” said the commander, strolling into the courtyard, “I had almost forgotten about you. Do forgive me.”

  “I would have left long ago, but that pig of a porter would not let me go. What do you want from me? I have already told you all I know.”

  “This for your trouble,” said de Bracineaux, holding up a gold coin. “And two more if you can remember where those two young women went after they left here.”

  “Keep your filthy money,” Philippianous spat. “I am leaving.” He pushed past the sergeant and started toward the courtyard entrance.

  “No,” replied the commander calmly, “I do not think we are finished yet.” He made a gesture with his hands and three Templar soldiers appeared in the doorway behind him. “Take hold of him.”

  Philippianous made to dart away, but the Templars seized him and bore him up. “I am a citizen!” he shouted, struggling ineffectually in their grasp. “I have done nothing wrong!”

  To his sergeant, the commander said, “Bring me some coals.” As Gislebert hurried away, he added, “If d’Anjou is still abed, rouse him. He would not thank us to miss this.”

  Commander de Bracineaux went to his room and removed his spotless white tabard. Picking up his leather gauntlets, he tucked them into his belt, and then attached the hanger for his dagger.

  He drew the knife from its scabbard and tried the edge, admiring the fine craftsmanship of the weapon as he ran his thumb along the honed and polished blade and thought back to the first time he had seen it, along with five others in a box delivered to the ship by a young lord he had tried to recruit in Rouen—the same self-righteous fool of a young nobleman whose meddling had caused him so much trouble all those years ago.

  At long last, that old debt was settled.

  A thin smile touched his lips, for until that very moment he had not considered the fact that it was none other than Duncan who had brought him the knife when it had been left behind; he had been so eager to please.

  The commander replaced the dagger and, as he walked from the room, he wondered if Duncan, as he lay dying, had fully appreciated the grim irony of the situation. Had he, as his life ebbed away, savored the delicious absurdity of being slain by the very weapon he had supplied?

  The Shrine of Mary
the Virgin served as a private chapel for the residents of Blachernae Palace, and the crypt below it was a labyrinth of connecting vaults which housed tombs for minor royalty. It was a suitably dark and private place where the proceedings would not be disturbed.

  Commander de Bracineaux made his way down the narrow steps leading to the first and largest chamber of the crypt. He paused at the small altar with its gilded crucifix and its ever-burning lamp, making a haphazard sign of the cross. Then, setting aside the crucifix and lamp, he took up the altar stole—a narrow strip of cloth with a sturdy cord binding—and proceeded to the chamber beyond, where three Templars were holding an extremely agitated Philippianous, while a fourth stood guard at the doorway.

  “Release me!” shouted Philippianous as the commander stepped into the room. “I have done nothing! I am a citizen, and I demand that you release me at once.”

  “Save your breath,” de Bracineaux replied. Handing the altar stole to the Templar at the doorway, he said, “Bind him and put him over there.” He pointed to a low, flat-topped sarcophagus of gray stone. “Then leave us.”

  The soldiers bound their captive securely hand and foot and quit the chamber. When they had gone, de Bracineaux moved to the head of the sarcophagus. “Many noble and illustrious men are interred in this crypt,” he said, leaning on his elbows. “Of course, they were dead before taking up residence here—but I do not think anyone will mind if we make an exception for you.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?” said Philippianous. “You want to know where the women went? I will tell you. Let me go, and I will tell you everything.”

  “In God’s good time.”

  Gislebert arrived just then, carrying a small iron brazier filled with burning coals and suspended by a length of chain. “Ah, here is Sergeant Gislebert now,” de Bracineaux said. “Put the coals there.” He indicated a place on the stone beside the young man’s head. “Where is d’Anjou?”

  “D’Anjou is here,” said a voice from the doorway, and a bleary-eyed baron staggered into the room. “God’s wounds, but my head hurts, de Bracineaux. What is so almighty urgent that a man must be wakened and dragged from bed at the crack of noon?”

  “We have an interesting problem before us,” replied the commander. “I thought you might like to see how we solve it.”

  The baron tottered to the sarcophagus for a closer look. “What has he done—stolen the keys to the palace?”

  “I have done nothing!” shouted Philippianous. “In the name of God and all the saints, I beg you, release me. I will tell you anything. I do not even know the women. I never saw them before.”

  The commander drew the gold-handled dagger and handed it to d’Anjou. “Exquisite, is it not?”

  “I took them to the harbor,” Philippianous said. “I remember now.”

  “It is a very fine weapon,” the baron agreed.

  “I took them to Bucoleon Harbor. That is where they wanted to go.”

  “It was made by an armorer in Arles—a very artist with steel,” de Bracineaux said, taking up the knife once more. “It has served me well so many times over the years, yet still looks as good as new.”

  De Bracineaux thrust the dagger into the burning coals. “You know,” he said, as if imparting a closely held secret, “one must be very careful not to allow the blade to grow too hot—gold melts more readily than steel; or, so I am told. In any case, it would be a shame to damage the handle.”

  “I think they had a ship waiting for them,” shouted the young Greek, growing frantic. “For God’s sake, let me go. I can find them for you.”

  “It never ceases to amaze me, d’Anjou,” said the Templar commander, pulling on his gauntlets one after the other, “how very talkative people become when they finally grasp the utter hopelessness of their position.”

  “Positively garrulous,” replied the baron with a yawn.

  “But then it is too late.” De Bracineaux pulled the knife from the burning coals; the blade shone with a dull, blue-red glow. “The problem now,” he continued, “is turned completely on its head.”

  “Turned on its head?” inquired d’Anjou idly.

  “Yes.” He spat on the blade and the spittle sizzled as it struck the hot metal. “They simply will not shut up.”

  “Listen to me,” said Philippianous, his voice tight with desperation; sweat rolled from his face and neck in great fat beads. “Wherever they went, I can find them. I have friends in many places. They hear things. Let me go. I will talk to them. I can find these women for you.”

  “You see?” said de Bracineaux. “A very fountain of information.” He nodded to Sergeant Gislebert who, stepping quickly around the sarcophagus, seized the Greek’s hands which were bound at the wrist, and jerked his arms up over his head. The young man, pleading for his life, began to thrash and wail.

  “In the end, there is only one way to assure silence,” said the Templar commander, lowering the knife to the young man’s chest. The hot blade seared the thin fabric of his mantle. The cloth began to smolder.

  “They went to Bucoleon Harbor,” shouted Philippianous. “Please, spare me! Listen, my uncle owns many ships. His name is Stakis—ask anyone, they will tell you he is a very wealthy trader. He will reward you handsomely to let me go. Whatever you ask—I swear before God, he will pay it.”

  “But we do not need your money.” He drew a line with the hot blade down the center of the young man’s chest, searing the skin. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh.

  Philippianous screamed, “In the name of God, I beg you. Spare me!”

  “I do not think God can hear you,” said the Templar, pressing the hot knife deeper. Blood oozed up from the wound, spitting and sputtering as it touched the hot metal.

  “Oh, why not let him go?” said d’Anjou. “I have not had a thing to eat or drink, and the stink you are making turns my stomach.”

  “Very well,” replied de Bracineaux. He lifted the knife away and plunged it back into the coals. “Still, it would not do to have our glorious and renowned order ridiculed by the filth of the street. Once people find out the Templars can be lied to with impunity, we will be mocked from Rome to Jerusalem—and we cannot allow that. So, I think an example is in order.”

  “No!” shrieked Philippianous. “No! Please, I will not tell a soul. I will not breathe a word to anyone.”

  “For once I believe you,” said the commander. His hand snaked out and, snatching the knife from the brazier, he pressed the glowing tip hard against the young man’s teeth, forcing his jaws open. The hot blade slid into his mouth, searing his tongue. A puff of smoke rolled up, and the blade hissed. Philippianous gave a strangled scream and passed out; his body slumped.

  Only then did de Bracineaux remove the knife. “He has soiled himself,” he observed, wiping the blade on the young man’s clothing. “He stinks. Get him out of here, sergeant.” He turned away from the inert body on the gray stone slab. “Come, d’Anjou, I am thirsty. I think I would enjoy some more of the emperor’s excellent wine.”

  “My thoughts exactly, de Bracineaux.” The baron turned and shuffled from the chamber, followed by the commander.

  Gislebert regarded the unconscious Greek. “What do you want me to do with him?”

  “Throw him back in the street,” replied the commander over his shoulder. “He will serve as a mute, yet nonetheless persuasive reminder to all who think to defy the Order of the Temple.”

  SIX

  SHE PRESSED THE hem of her mantle to her nose and paused, putting a hand to the mildewed wall as her stomach heaved. So the Saracens would not think her weak, she swallowed back the bile, steadied herself and walked on into the suffocating stench of the dungeon. For the first time since leaving Constantinople, Caitríona doubted whether she was doing the right thing.

  That first night aboard ship, with the vision of the White Priest still burning in her mind, her course had appeared obvious, the way clear. Ignoring Alethea’s pestering and petulance, she had taken the lett
er to her father’s quarters to examine it alone in greater detail. By the gently wavering light of three lamps and four candles, she had read the document three times—most of it was in Latin, save for a small section in an unknown script. She puzzled over the obscure portion trying to make out the curious text; it was not Latin, or Greek, much less Gaelic or Norse—the only languages she knew.

  The letter had been written by a Portuguese cleric called Bertrano, Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela, and addressed to none other than Pope Adrian IV. After the usual greetings and salutations, the archbishop announced that the “secret of the ages” had been revealed—a marvelous treasure had been discovered in Aragon, a part of eastern Iberia which had been, until recently, a Saracen domain. His reason for writing, he said, was to seek the aid of the Holy Father in the protection of this treasure, which he called the Rosa Mystica. Owing to the increased instability of the region, he greatly feared the Mystic Rose would be captured, or destroyed, and “the greatest treasure in the world would be lost for ever”—a calamity which, he said, would never be forgiven.

  The archbishop asked the pope to send faithful and trusted servants guarded by a fearsome company of knights to retrieve the treasure and carry it back to the Holy Land so “that which is beyond all price, the treasure of the ages, our very real and manifest hope for this present age and the kingdom to come, the Mystic Rose, might be re-established in Jerusalem” where it rightfully belonged.

  As she pored over the text, she wondered what this treasure might be, and why the White Priest wanted her to become involved in this affair. The more she thought about it, the more strange and fantastic it all became. In de Bracineaux’s chamber, Cait had accepted his appearance as normal and natural as meeting a friend in an unexpected place. But now it seemed anything but natural. Put away your wrath, and believe, he had told her, and promised that when she was finished she would receive the desires of her heart.

  Well, what she desired most was revenge. Lord, she prayed, folding the parchment letter carefully, make me the instrument of your vengeance.