The Mystic Rose (6 page)

Cait and Alethea moved quickly toward the ship
Persephone
at the end of the wharf
,
ignoring the shouted pleas and propositions their presence provoked. Once aboard, they were met by Haemur. “Thank God you are safe,” he said, hurrying from his place at the stern. “It grew dark, and when you did not return, I feared something ill had befallen you.”

Cait thanked the pilot for his concern, and said, “We are perfectly well, as you see. But now, I want you to wake Otti and Olvir, and move the ship away from the wharf and into the bay.”

“Now?” Haemur thrust out his hands. “But, my lady, it is too dark. We cannot—”

“Enough, Haemur.” Cait stopped him with an upraised hand. “I would not insist if it was not important.”

With that, she went to the brass lamp hanging from a hook on the mast, lit a candle from the basket on the deck, and proceeded to her quarters below, leaving an unhappy pilot staring after her.

“I am sorry, Haemur,” Alethea offered sympathetically. “You had best do as she says, or there will be the devil to pay.”

“Very well,” replied the seaman. He hurried off to rouse his crew, and Alethea joined her sister in their quarters.

“You could try to be a little more—” she began, and then stopped as she saw Cait bring out the folded parchment from beneath her girdle. “Where did you get that?” she asked, then guessed. “You stole it!”

“Hush!” Cait snapped. Opening the letter, she sat down on the edge of the box bed to read it.

Alethea watched her sister for a moment; then, indignation overcome by curiosity, she joined her on the bed. “What is it? What does it say?”

Cait ignored her and continued to read silently to herself. When she finished, she looked up from the page. “Thea, do you know what this is?”

“How can I? You tell me nothing.”

Cait made no reply. She was reading the document again.

“Well?” demanded Thea after a moment. “What
does
it say?”

“They have found a very great treasure—”

“Who?”

“The greatest treasure in the world—that is what he says.”

“
Who
says? Who wrote it?”

“A cleric called Bertrano. He calls it the Rosa Mystica.”

“The Mystic Rose?” mused Thea, none the wiser. “What does that mean?”

Cait shook her head, scanning the document again. “He says only that it is beyond price—see?” She pointed to the letters in the tight Latin uncials of the scriptorium, and read out the words: “…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.”

Thea shrugged.

“Obviously, it is a name employed to conceal the true nature of the treasure.”

“And this letter tells where to find it?”

“It does—I think.” She pointed to the portion of the document written in a different language. “I cannot read the rest, but I think it must tell where the treasure is to be found.”

The younger woman regarded her sister suspiciously. “Why
did
we go to the palace tonight? And do not say it was
to steal this letter, because you did not even know it was there.”

Cait stood and began folding the letter carefully.

“You are going to have to tell me sooner or later,” Thea pointed out. “You might as well tell me now.”

“We must hide this where no one can find it.”

“Cait,” said Alethea, adopting a disagreeable whine, “tell me—why did we go to the palace?”

Cait sat down again. Placing the parchment square on her knees, she held it in both hands as if she was afraid it might unfold itself and fly away. “Listen carefully. I will say this but once. We went there to confront Father's murderer and hold him to justice.” She gazed steadily at Alethea and added, “I was going to kill him.”

Alethea gaped in amazement at her sister's audacity. “The knife…It is true—you were going to stab him…” Her voice trailed off as the full impact of her sister's ruthlessness broke upon her. “Oh, Cait—”

“Renaud de Bracineaux murdered our father,” she continued. “Papa named him before he died. The magistrate refused to accept the word of a woman; he refused to do anything—so I had to do it myself.”

“Oh, Cait,” Thea whispered, her voice made small by the magnitude of her sister's cold-blooded confession. “God help us.”

Caitríona gazed down at the document she held in her lap. “I think,” she said, “he already has.”

“I
S THAT THE
one?” demanded Renaud de Bracineaux, squinting at the rank of hire chairs across the square.

“It is, my lord commander,” answered the porter of Blachernae Palace. “He comes to the palace sometimes.”

“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.