The Mystic Rose (27 page)

Dag had the wagon unhitched and a small store of firewood collected by the time they reached the camp. Despite his throbbing head, he had spent the short span between midday and dusk doing what he could to set up the camp, and they were grateful for it. Indeed, the prospect of warming themselves by the fire so cheered the knights that, with wild whoops and ecstatic cries, they raced down the last slope to the picket line Dag had strung between the trees beside the trail; they hurried through unsaddling and grooming the horses—rubbing them down with handfuls of dry straw before watering them and tying on the feedbags. That chore finished, they hastened to thaw their freezing hands and feet before the flames.

After they had warmed themselves awhile, Rognvald said, “We will need more firewood tonight. See what you can find.”

While the others moved off in search of more wood, Cait, Dag, and Rognvald set about making a supper of boiled salt pork with beans and hard bread. It was ready by the time the knights returned, and the childlike abandon with which they gave themselves to their food made Cait smile. “They are just overgrown boys,” she observed as she and Rognvald followed them to the bright circle of warmth and light.

“It is good they should enjoy a dry night out of the wind and rain,” the knight replied. “It will be the last we see for a while.”

Cait glanced at him for an explanation.

“Tomorrow we must abandon the wagon,” he told her. “I had hoped we would be able to give Dag another day or two
longer to recover, but the Moors are fleeing into the mountains. If we are to have any hope of catching them, we cannot return to the wagon each night.”

“Do you think it will be very many nights?”

“In truth, I hoped we would get sight of them today, and the matter would have been decided.” He paused, and then as if thinking aloud, said, “We shall take with us as much food and fodder as we can carry, but the tents, poles, and irons, and all the rest will have to stay behind.” His expression became apologetic, and Cait realized he meant the chests of extra clothes and personal belongings.

“If that is how it must be,” she replied, steeling herself for the privation ahead, “so be it. We
will
catch them. We
will
get Thea back.”

“Never doubt it.”

“I
AM CARLO
de la Coruña, magistrate and governor of this fine and prosperous town,” said the man. He made a flourish in the air with his hand, removed his fine red cap and bowed deeply. “On behalf of the worthy citizens of Palencia, I welcome you and your excellent company, and may I wish you a most enjoyable stay.”

The knight took one look at the chubby, round-shouldered fellow in his peculiar hat, and decided that he was an absurdity likely to cause problems if not strenuously avoided. “Good day to you, magistrate,” he replied stiffly. “As you can see, we are in need of food and lodging. I will thank you to arrange it.”

The magistrate puffed out his cheeks. “Well…” he began to protest, but thought better of it, and said, “Of course, my lord, if that is what you wish. It will be my pleasure.” Turning, he summoned his deputy to his side. “Grieco! Where are you? Come here, Grieco. I want you to take word to Master Hernando at the inn. Tell him I am sending very important guests to stay with him. Tell him—” Breaking off, he turned once more to the newcomers and said, “If you please, my lord, may I know who I have the pleasure of welcoming?”

“I am Renaud de Bracineaux, Master and Grand Commander of the Knights Templar of Jerusalem,” he replied. “And this,” he indicated the fair-haired, thin-faced man on horseback beside him, “is my companion Baron Félix d'Anjou. Also with us is Bertrano, Archbishop of Santiago de
Compostela; unfortunately, friend Bertrano is indisposed and cannot speak to you now. I want rooms for three. The rest of my men will lodge at the monastery.” Turning his arid gaze to the soggy, windblown street, he shivered in the autumn chill. “You
do
have a monastery in this…” he hesitated, “this place, do you not? And an inn?”

“But of course, my lord,” answered Governor Carlo proudly. “We have a very fine monastery. It has long been renowned for—”

“Good,” said de Bracineaux decisively. “You can show us where to find it.” He called Gislebert to attend them. “The magistrate will lead you to the monastery. Lodge the men and then come to us at the inn.”

Turning back to Carlo, the Templar said, “Come now, governor, my men have ridden far today and are in want of a hot meal and beds. Be quick about it, and you will find it worth your while.”

Governor Carlo stared in astonished indignation. Who did these men think they were to order him about so? Even the king was more gracious to his subjects than these arrogant saddle-polishers. Well, if they wanted him to lead them to the monastery he would do it. But it would be the last service he would perform for them. After that, they would pay for what they received. Moreover, as they imagined themselves emperors of vast domain, they would pay royally. The thought suffused his face with a glow of magisterial satisfaction. Carlo smiled, bowed, and led the heavy footed Gislebert away.

“Simpletons,” muttered the Templar, “all of them—complete and utter simpletons.”

“Come now, de Bracineaux. That is overharsh,” said d'Anjou. “It is a substantial enough town and we have seen far worse in recent days. I think we may well find some amusement here.”

“We will not have time to amuse ourselves,” de Bracineaux growled. “The moment we find this priest Matthias, we will be on our way.”

“Have a heart, de Bracineaux,” sniffed the baron diffidently. “We have spent the last three days slopping through
mud up to our fetlocks, and I demand a few decent nights' sleep in a bed that does not float.”

“We shall see,” grunted the Templar commander. “First we find the priest.”

“The miserable pisspot of a priest can wait,” corrected d'Anjou placidly. “First we find the
inn
.”

De Bracineaux allowed himself to be persuaded. He, too, was sick of the damp and filth, and the prospect of a hot meal, dry clothes, and a jug of mulled wine melted his resolve. “Very well. Two nights,” he agreed. “Have one of the men bring up the wagon.”

They proceeded down the crooked main street of the town to the inn where young Grieco was waiting with the innkeeper, a balding man in a big shirt with baggy sleeves and a greasy linen cloth tied around the bulge in his middle. “Welcome! Welcome, my friends!” he said, running forward to take the reins of the commander's horse. “Please, come in. Eat, drink, and take your ease.” Looking past the two riders to the wagon, he said, “I see you have a lady with you. Let me assure you she will be most comfortable. I will have my wife prepare a special bath for her.”

“Take no trouble,” the Templar told him curtly. “It is not a woman.”

As he spoke, the wagon rolled creaking to a halt behind them; the driver climbed down and went to the back where he removed the board and allowed the bellicose passenger to emerge.

“
Dios mío!
” gasped the innkeeper, taking in the imposing bulk swathed in heavy black robes. “It is the lord archbishop!” Turning on the young man beside him, he cried, “Grieco, you fool! Why did you not tell me the archbishop was with them?”

With that, he darted forward and ran to bow before the august cleric. “My lord archbishop! You honor us with your presence. Please, come in. You shall have the best room I can offer.”

Archbishop Bertrano gave the man a sour smile. “I would gladly accept your hospitality,” he replied, “but I believe the commander will have other plans for me.”

At the innkeeper's bewildered expression, d'Anjou put his arm on the archbishop's shoulder and said, “Our cleric is on a special pilgrimage, you see. Nothing but cabbage and cold water for him, and a horsehair robe in the stable.”

“The stable!” cried the innkeeper. “But, my lord, I could never allow it. Why, it would ruin me. Please, you must see that—”

“Just give him the room next to mine,” said de Bracineaux wearily. “And bring us wine at once. You can stable the horses later.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the landlord. He hesitated.

“Well?” demanded the Templar.

“I have two rooms, my lord, but they are not next to one another. Unless, you wish to…”

“Just put him where I do not have to look at him, or listen to him snore.”

“At once, my lord.” The innkeeper spun on his heel and hurried inside, followed by Grieco, who caught the door and held it open for the important guests. De Bracineaux pushed the reluctant churchman ahead of him and, once inside, made for the low table before the hearth. D'Anjou came last and paused long enough to take Grieco's arm and pull him close.

“I will be wanting a companion this evening,” he told the youth.

“A companion?” wondered Grieco. “I am certain my uncle would be most happy to oblige. I will ask him, if you—”

“The devil take your uncle, boy! I want a woman. The younger the better.” He gripped the young man's arm hard. “Understand?”

He left the gaping Grieco at the door and, while the landlord bustled the silently disapproving archbishop to a room at the back of the inn, he joined de Bracineaux at a large table before the fire. He removed his gloves and put them on the table. “God's eyes, but it is good to be dry again,” he said; sweeping off his hat, he tossed it onto the floor. “I thought it would never stop raining.”

“You are soft, d'Anjou. You would not last three days in
the East. You would have perished long before ever setting foot in Jerusalem.”

“Then you can have your Holy Land, and all that goes with it,” the baron replied airily. “I will stay here and delight the ladies of Iberia.”

The anxious innkeeper arrived just then with a large jar and cups which he placed gingerly on the table. “Wine, my lords. It is not mulled, but…”

“Pour,” said the Templar.

The innkeeper did as he was told, and then backed away as the commander raised his cup to his lips. He took a single sip, swilled it in his mouth and then spat it out. “Agh!” De Bracineaux pitched the contents of his cup into the fire, then threw the cup at the startled landlord. “I said I wanted wine, you dolt. Not this horse piss you serve everyone else. Now get you gone and bring me something drinkable—the best you have.”

The innkeeper's mouth worked as he tried to think of a suitable reply. D'Anjou stood, shoved the jar into his hands, spun him around, and sent him staggering back the way he had come. “Look lively, man. My throat feels like old leather.”

The baron sat down again and began removing his boots, which he placed by the side of the hearth. He stretched out his feet to the fire. The Templar watched him without interest.

In a moment, the innkeeper came creeping back with another jar which he offered with extreme hesitation. At a glance from the Master, he proceeded to pour, but his hand shook so badly that he missed the edge of the cup and spilled wine on the table, almost splashing d'Anjou. “Clumsy oaf!” snarled the baron, leaping to his feet. He snatched the jar from the cringing innkeeper. “Get out and leave us in peace.”

The man scurried away and d'Anjou, returning to his chair, poured a cup of wine which he pushed across the table to de Bracineaux. He watched as the commander sniffed the offering, and then took a swallow. “Passable,” said the Tem
plar, whereupon the baron took up a hot poker from the hearth and plunged it into the jar.

“Mulled,” d'Anjou said, as the wine sizzled. Tossing aside the poker, he poured himself a cup and settled back into his chair once more, feet spread before the fire.

They drank and let the wine do its work; when de Bracineaux held out his cup for more, the baron filled it and said, “I suppose this priest has a church somewhere close by. Has the archbishop said where it is?”

“The bloated pig's bladder of a priest professes not to know. He is more trouble than he is worth. I am sick of the sight of him.”

“Regrets?” inquired the baron.

“Since Santiago he has been worthless,” grumbled the Templar. “And he was very little use before that.”

“I smell something cooking.” The baron lifted his nose and craned his neck around.

“Probably pork,” muttered de Bracineaux. “I am heartily sick of pork, too.”

“What about some of that beef we saw coming into town?” said d'Anjou, sipping from his cup. “Perhaps we should have Gislebert get us some.”

“He has better things to do than cater to your idle whims, d'Anjou.”

At that moment, the door opened and Gislebert appeared. “Ah!” said d'Anjou, lifting his cup. “The very man himself. Here now, sergeant, de Bracineaux thinks you have better things to do than serve my trifling fancies. Is that so?”

Gislebert glared, but made no reply. “The men are lodged and the horses stabled.” He looked at the wine longingly.

“What news of Matthias? Did the abbot say where the priest might be found?”

The sergeant swallowed. “He is not here. The abbot said he is expected to return to the monastery for the winter, but he has not yet arrived.”

“Then we shall go and get him,” said the commander. “Where is he?”

“He is building a church on lands near here. It is no great distance—half a day's ride, perhaps, not more.”

“Then tomorrow we will ride out and convince this priest to join our happy pilgrimage.”

“That should be no great difficulty. His grace the archbishop can simply compel him under threat of excommunication,” said d'Anjou, pouring a cup of wine for Gislebert. “Sit down, sergeant. You look faint from thirst.”

“Once we have the priest to lead us, we will abandon that puffing windbag at last.” De Bracineaux drained his cup and, as the baron refilled it, he shouted for the landlord to bring the food. When the innkeeper appeared, the Templar said, “I have a taste for roast beef.”

“I have no beef, my lord,” the landlord said, wringing his hands in the cloth at his waist. “My good wife has made a rabbit stew with shallots, wine, and mushrooms. Everyone says it is excellent.”

“I want beef, damn you! Beef!”

“But there is none to be had in all the town just now. Perhaps a young bull will be butchered in a day or two, and then I shall certainly get some for you.” He spread his hands helplessly. “I have some sausages; and there is fresh pork. If you like, I will have my good wife make for you a fine—”

“Devil take you
and
your good wife!” the Templar raged. “I want beef, and that is what I shall have.”

The innkeeper appealed to d'Anjou. “I am sorry, my lord, there is no beef in all of Palencia.” His dark eyes implored. “The rabbit stew is very good.”

“Bring it,” the baron told him.

“At once, my lord.” He turned and scurried back to the kitchen. “I will bring bread, too.”

“And more wine!”

“At once, sir.”

The Master glared at d'Anjou. “Never cross me like that again,” he growled.

“What—and do you mean to crucify the man?” replied the baron casually. “For God's sake, de Bracineaux, there is no beef. Carving up our host will avail you nothing.” He leaned back in his chair, clutching his cup to his chest and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of the fire.

The innkeeper brought another jar and a round loaf of
brown bread which he placed diffidently on the table and scurried away before drawing the ire of his difficult guests. Gislebert tore the loaf in half once, and then again; he sat chewing his portion and staring absently into the fire. The commander drained his cup and poured another.

The three drank in brooding silence until the innkeeper reappeared, holding the sides of a bubbling iron pot which he placed in the center of the table. A boy with him brought an assortment of wooden bowls, which he left beside d'Anjou's elbow before darting away again. The innkeeper produced four wooden spoons which he cleaned on the greasy scrap of cloth around his waist. Placing a spoon in each of the bowls, he proceeded to ladle out the contents of the cauldron.