The Mystic Rose (40 page)

“It is called
Pronakaelit
,” the priest said. “It means Hidden Valley.”

Cait repeated the word, and asked, “What language is spoken here?”

“Ah, yes,” replied Timotheus. “Despite my best efforts, they speak but little Latin, as you have astutely observed. The tongue they prefer is their own. Their name for it is
Euskari
.”

“But the songs,” Cait pointed out, “were Gaelic.”

Brother Timotheus smiled proudly. “I know. I taught them.”

“As it happens,” said Rognvald, “we have come in search of a young woman—tall and with long dark hair. Her name is Alethea, we were hoping to find her here.”

“Were you indeed!” replied the priest with some surprise. “She has been here, I can tell you that.”

“Truly?” Cait clasped her hands together and raised them to her chin, hoping against hope that she had heard the priest correctly. Rognvald reached out and put his hand on her arm in anticipation of the news.

Before either of them could ask what he knew, the priest asked, “Who is she that you should seek her so ardently?”

“She is my sister,” Cait said. “Is she well? Do you know where she has gone?”

“Please,” said the priest, holding up his hands to stem the flood of questions he feared were forthcoming. “I can tell you she is well, and she is nearby.”

“God be praised,” breathed Rognvald, his voice a slow sigh of relief.

“Where?” demanded Cait, excitedly. “Can we go there now?”

“Peace, my lady,” the priest protested gently. “I dare not say more.”

“Alethea was abducted by bandits,” Rognvald explained. “They carried her into these mountains, and we have been searching for her since she was taken.”

Brother Timotheus nodded as if he suspected that this had been the way of things all along. “I believe you, my friends. I assure you, I do believe you. And if it were up to me, I would send for the girl at once and happily preside over your joyful reunion.” He spread his hands apologetically. “Be that as it may, however, it is not so easy as that, nor can I say more.”

Cait, mystified by this irrational reluctance, stared at the monk in bewilderment. “But why?”

“I promised Annora that I would say nothing.”

Rognvald, seeing the clouds gathering on Cait's furrowed
brow, moved to avert the storm. “Who is Annora? Could you tell her that we have come for Alethea?”

“Annora is abbess of the Order of the
Klais Mairís.
The good sisters maintain an abbey near here.”

“Klais Mairís,” said Cait, repeating the words. The name was, so far as she could tell, quite similar to the Gaelic she knew; it meant the Gray Marys. “Is it far, this abbey? Can we go there?”

“Alas, no—at least, not tonight,” said the priest, “but tomorrow I can send word to the abbey that you are here.”

Cait shook her head in dismay. The kindly priest frowned with sympathy. “I am sorry, daughter,” he said. “This is how it must be. But be of good cheer, for she is safe and well cared for, and I have no doubt that in a day or two you will be reunited with your sister.”

Rognvald thanked the good brother for this assurance and Cait, forcing a smile, thanked him too, and said with as good a grace as she could muster: “We have waited this long, I suppose a day or two longer will make no difference. In any event, it is good to know that she is safe and well—wherever she may be.”

“Yes, that is the spirit.” Timo rubbed his hands. “Now then, you must be hungry and thirsty from your journey. Would you and your men care to join me in a simple repast? It is only beans and bread, mind, for tomorrow is the first of many feast days.”

“We would be most happy to break bread with you,” replied Cait, overcoming her disappointment. “But nothing would please me more than to hear how one of the Célé Dé came to be living in this remote fastness.”

Brother Timotheus' eyebrows arched high in surprise. “
Deus meus!
” he exclaimed. “You know of the Célé Dé?”

“Oh, I know enough to recognize them when I see them,” Cait assured him. Rognvald regarded her curiously, but said nothing. “You see, my family has long supported a Célé Dé monastery on our lands.”

“Come along then, daughter,” he said, taking her hand excitedly. “You must come and sit with me and tell me everything.”

The priest busied himself with snuffing the candles, beginning with those on the altar—pausing before each one and bowing three times before lowering the crook-shaped snuffer over the flame. He moved around the room with a sprightly step, humming to himself and glancing every now and then at his visitors as if to reassure himself that they had not vanished as suddenly and inexplicably as they had arrived.

Then, taking up a lantern from beside the door, Timotheus led them out and around to the back of the chapel to a cell built against the church wall. Darting inside, he collected his staff and hooded cloak, and then led his guests across the village square to the settlement's largest house. The door was open and there was music coming from inside. “This is Dominico's house,” he told them. “That is his baptism name, mind. I cannot pronounce his birth name.”

Inside, they found the knights huddled together beside a generous hearth, their feet stretched before a log fire while they listened to a pair of lively young men play music on a pipe and drum while womenfolk of various ages darted here and there with platters, bowls, and cups. Dominico stood in the middle of the room, welcoming his guests, singing loudly, and calling orders to all the others in their incomprehensible tongue, while his wife, a small, round woman called Elantra, directed the preparations with quiet efficiency.

“Glad Yule, my lady!” called Yngvar as Cait and Rognvald entered. “They have already fed our horses and now they are going to feed us.”

“Glad Yule!” added Svein, lofting the cup in his hand. “They have ale, too!”

“And black bread like home!” said Dag, waving half a loaf at them.

“It seems the Yuletide celebrations have begun after all,” remarked Rognvald.

“The people here are like children in many ways,” sighed Brother Timotheus, “they can never wait for anything.”

Dominico, chattering excitedly, gathered the late arrivals and herded them to a bench opposite the hearth. He dashed away, returning a moment later with two overflowing ale cups and a young girl bearing a tray of bread. The dark-eyed girl, grave with the weight of her responsibility, stood straight and, looking neither left nor right, offered the noble guests loaves of black bread from her tray. While Rognvald took charge of the cups, Cait accepted one of the loaves, smiled pleasantly, and thanked the girl, whose stoic solemnity wilted at their exchange. The household honor satisfied, she turned and scampered away, calling loudly for her mother.

The musicians, meanwhile, finished their song to the noisy acclaim of the knights, who began stamping their feet and slapping their knees and clamoring for more. The two boys grinned and quickly commenced another, yet more spirited tune. Dominico, clapping his hands and calling like a bird, began whirling around; spinning this way and that, his feet beating time to the music, he rounded on Cait, scooped her up and spun her onto the floor. The next thing she knew, she was caught up in the dance to the dizzy delight of one and all.

More and more villagers were crowding into the house by the moment, some bringing jars of wine and ale, and others bearing festive foods: boiled eggs, smoked meat and fish, flat bread flavored with anise. When there was no more room in the house, the merrymaking spilled out into the snow and then the neighboring houses. More musical instruments appeared: tabors and shakers, pipes made of gourds and clay, wooden flutes of several sizes, and an oddly shaped lyre with four strings.

They drank and sang and danced, and then drank some more. Cait quickly became the most sought-after partner, as one after another of the male villagers, young and old, seized the opportunity to dance with their noble visitor. Once, presented with two obstinate partners who asked at the same time, she averted hurt feelings by taking on both at once—to the exuberant approval of the women looking on.

Amidst the singing and dancing, the food came and went,
and the night with it. One night's revelry spilled over into the next day's celebration. The light of a Yuletide dawn was showing when Cait finally found a chance to creep away. She went into her host's chamber, loosed her swordbelt and put the weapon aside, before sinking into a bed piled high with furs. She closed her eyes and slept only to be awakened a short time later by the clanging of a bell outside the house.

C
AIT SAT UP
in bed; so strong was the sense of familiarity, she imagined she was home again in Caithness. The priests at Banvar
rang the bells to signal the beginning of the Yuletide celebrations; she wondered if Brother Timotheus did the same.

When the music began again, she relinquished any expectation of sleep, rose from her bed, and made her way outside to a world of sparkling white made brilliant by the light of the rising sun. The sky was clear and heart-breakingly blue, and the high, encircling mountain peaks burned with a rosy glow like fired bronze.

The villagers were making their way in procession to the chapel, led by Brother Timotheus exuberantly swinging an oversize bell. The air was biting cold, and the pealing of the bell piercing in its clarity. Yngvar, Dag, and Rodrigo were in the forefront of the parade, trampling triumphantly through the snow as if to make a path for those behind; they were followed by Dominico and his sons, and all the rest. Neither Rognvald nor Svein was to be seen, but Cait fell into line behind the others and proceeded to the church.

The service was blessedly short. Brother Timotheus simply read out a Psalm and led his faithful flock in a few prayers; the congregation sang a song, and then they all trooped back outside where everyone hailed everyone else with an enthusiastic Yuletide greeting. Cait was swept up in wave upon wave of hugging and kissing, as one after an
other of the villagers embraced her. Then they all went off to resume the celebration.

As the last released her and hurried away, she looked up to find Rognvald standing before her. “Glad Yule, Lady Caitríona,” he said. “It seems I am too late for prayers, but not, I hope, for a greeting.” With that, he opened his arms and folded her into a warm embrace and gave her a kiss that left her blinking at its sudden, virile intensity.

“Glad Yule, my lord,” she said, gazing up into his face.

He smiled, his blue eyes keen and clear as the skies high overhead. “Will you breakfast with me?”

“It would be a pleasure,” she replied, taking Rognvald's arm. They walked slowly, enjoying one another's company and the fine, sparkling day. The sound of the snow squeaking beneath her feet filled Cait with a youthful joy she had not known for years. “It seems our search is soon concluded,” she said after a time.

When Rognvald did not answer, she glanced sideways at his face and saw that he was gazing at the mountains towering above the village, their smooth, snow-dusted slopes gleaming in the new day's light. They appeared to Cait like stately monarchs robed in winter furs and enthroned around the bowl of the valley, gazing at their own splendor in the bright mirror of its lake.

“Tell me about the Célé Dé,” he said. “Who are they?”

“There is little enough to tell,” she began. “They are priests of an order that holds itself apart from Rome—a small order, but tenacious, and fiercely loyal to its calling.”

“What is that?”

“To preserve the True Path and guard the Holy Light.”

Rognvald nodded. “They are heretics then.”

“Not in the least,” Cait protested. “They simply embrace an older tradition than Rome. There were Christians in the West
before
Rome, you know. The church of the Celts is older by far than the one decreed by Emperor Constantine, and—”

Rognvald chuckled.

“Are you laughing at me?” she said defensively.

“You sound like a priest now,” he replied, “trying to convert the unbeliever.”

“I suppose I am,” she allowed, accepting his chiding. “The Célé Dé are a small and much maligned sect, and we grow protective.”

“Are
you
one of these Célé Dé?”

She nodded. “All of my family belong to the sect—ever since my grandfather went on the Great Pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”

“He discovered them in Jerusalem?”

“No, he met some priests aboard the ship that carried him to the Holy Land. He would not have survived the journey without them. When he returned he rewarded them with lands, and money to build a monastery. And,” she added with quiet defiance, “no matter what anyone says, they are the kindliest, most compassionate, and thoughtful people you will ever meet.”

“If that is true, why are they so reviled?”

“But they are not reviled!” protested Cait.

“You said they were maligned,” he pointed out. “It is the same thing.”

“No it is not!” she snapped. “There is a world of difference. The Célé Dé are never reviled.”

“No?” He looked at her askance. “If they were not, would you defend them so heartily?” Before she could challenge this observation, he said, “What is this True Path that they follow?”

“I am not going to tell you,” she replied crisply. “You will only make sport of it, and—” Rognvald stopped walking. He was looking straight along the path beaten through the snow by the villagers. “What is it? Why have you stopped?”

“More visitors.”

“Bandits?” Cait looked around quickly, but could not see anyone. “Where?”

“Just there.” He indicated a clump of villagers a few dozen paces before them. Cait had been looking for horses and riders, and missed the two pale, slender figures standing directly in her path. Like Brother Timotheus, they were dressed in hooded robes of undyed wool and, judging from
the enthusiastic welcome they were receiving from the villagers, they were well known and well liked.

“They arrived last night—burst in on us during the service,” the priest was saying. “Ah, here are two of them now!” He motioned Cait and Rognvald to join them. “Here, I was just telling Sister Efa about you. And this,” he said, indicating the woman next to her, “is Sister Siâran.”

“God's peace to you, sisters,” Cait said. “I am pleased to meet you. I am Caitríona, and this is Lord Rognvald of Haukeland in Norway.”

Both nuns pressed their hands together and inclined their heads politely. “God bless you and keep you,” they intoned together.

When everyone had become a little better acquainted, Brother Timotheus said, “I believe these good people have business with Abbess Annora. I was going to send word to you today, although now, as you are here, I will let them speak for themselves.” Before Cait could open her mouth, however, the priest said, “But come, it is cold and they will have made a warming drink for us. Let us discuss matters over our cups before the fire.”

They proceeded to Dominico's house where, as Timotheus had predicted, a cauldron of hot, spiced ale was just being poured into jars—much to the noisy delight of the knights, who extolled the virtues of their host with rousing cheers as they drank his health, and that of his sons, and wife, and daughters.

Cait, Rognvald, and the two sisters settled on benches in a corner of the room and the priest went to fetch the ale. “It is such a beautiful morning,” said Cait, easing her way into the conversation. “Have you traveled far?”

The sister called Efa replied, “A small distance, my lady.”

That was all she said, and when it appeared there was no more forthcoming, Rognvald spoke up. “Your robes are very like Brother Timo's here. Are you of the same order?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and looked down at her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“I see,” he said. “Then you are Célé Dé, too.”

The two glanced quickly at one another in nervous
amazement. “You know of the Célé Dé?” asked the one called Siâran.

“I know all about them,” he said confidently. “Lady Caitríona here is a stalwart defender of the order. Her family's lands support a monastery in the far north—a place called Caithness. Have you ever heard of it?”

The nuns shook their heads. “It is true, my lady?” asked a wide-eyed Sister Efa. “Your family maintains a monastery?”

“Yes,” Cait assured them. “And my uncle is abbot of the order.”

“Truly?” wondered Brother Timotheus, returning just then. “Celebrations came between us somewhat last night, but I still want to hear all about this haven in the north.”

“You must be Alethea's sister,” volunteered Sister Siâran.

“She is that,” said Rognvald, beaming with the pleasure of making these small revelations.

“We have been searching for her,” explained Cait quickly. “Brother Timo told us she was with you.” Cait smiled, trying to put the timid sisters at their ease. “I understand she is well.”

“Yes, my lady,” replied Efa, then lapsed into silence once more.

“Where is she? I want to see her at once. Is it far?”

The two sisters exchanged an uncertain glance, but said nothing.

“Is there something which prevents me from bringing her home?” asked Cait, growing frustrated with their reticence.

“Allow me, my lady,” said Timotheus. Addressing the two young nuns, he said, “If I am not mistaken, you have been instructed not to speak of this matter—am I right?”

Sister Siâran, looking at her hands in her lap, nodded.

“There! You see?” cried Timotheus, as if this were the answer to all their troubles.

“But why should they refuse to speak about it? I am her sister,” Cait said, “we have been searching for her a very long time. I want to see her, and—”

“Please, please,” said Timotheus quickly, “all in good time. I imagine the abbess will have her reasons.”

“Then I will not press you,” Cait replied, trying to remain
calm and reasonable. “But you must take me to her. Please, I need to see her—you must understand.”

“But my lady—” protested Efa, looking to Brother Timotheus for help.

“It may not be convenient—” the priest began.

“I want to go to my sister,” she insisted, her tone growing sharp. “I do not care if it is convenient or not. We have traveled a very long way and…people have died.” Her voice broke and hot tears came to her eyes. “I have to see and know she is well.”

Rognvald put his hand on her shoulder and she allowed herself to be drawn close. “It is true,” he said to Timotheus. “We have endured many hardships in the search. It seems a needless cruelty to deny us when we are so close.”

“Forgive me, my friends,” said Timotheus soothingly. “I have spoken without sufficient forethought.” He gave Cait's hand a fatherly pat. “You shall see your sister, of course you shall. This very day.”

“We will leave at once,” Rognvald said, “and go as swiftly as horses can carry us.”

“Oh, no!” said the priest shaking his head in dismay. “It is not permitted.”

“What?” said the knight. “Are you saying horses are not permitted?”

“Men are not permitted!” replied Timotheus. “Nor weapons, either. The abbey contains women only. You must stay behind, my friend. The abbess is most strict about this. In all my years I have never known an exception.”

“Perhaps I may be allowed to escort the women part way,” suggested Rognvald. “Would there be any objection to that, do you think?”

“Providing you left your weapons behind,” the priest agreed, “I suppose it would be allowed.”

“Thank you, brother,” Cait said, “I am much obliged.” She stood quickly. “I will gather my things and make ready to go.”

“I would still prefer to announce your arrival,” Timotheus answered, “but in light of your feelings, I see no reason why we cannot forgo that formality. Yes, why not? When the sis
ters have concluded their visit, you shall return to the abbey with them.”

Cait hurried away, leaving the others to finish their festive ale. When she returned a short while later, she was dressed in her best clothes and her hair had been brushed and her face washed until the skin glowed. She fairly hummed with happy anticipation as she hurried outside where Rognvald had brought horses for Cait and himself, and one for the two nuns, dubious riders at best, to share.

Brother Timotheus and some of the villagers accompanied them to the edge of the settlement, and bade them farewell. The nuns pointed out the path, and they quickly found themselves on a steeply rising trail leading into the mountains which towered above the village. They rode in silence, enjoying the crisp, crystalline beauty of the day, listening to the birds in the snow-laden branches of the tall pines growing alongside the trail. After a time, they left the trees behind; the track became more narrow and winding as it snaked up and up into a sky of blazing blue.

The snow-covered path bent inward, following a fold in the mountainside. The sides of the trail rose high and sheer as the walls of a fortress, and when the riders emerged once more, they could see the little village far, far below, snug in its hollow, as if nestled in the palm of a gigantic hand, the surrounding peaks like fingers.

Another bend removed the village from sight, and they came to a chasm dividing two peaks. The gorge was deep and narrow, spanned by a simple bridge made of rope and wood. Rognvald reined in and dismounted; he examined the bridge and concluded that he dare not risk taking horses across. “The abbey is not far,” Sister Efa told them. “We will walk from here.”