The mystic rose

CHAPTER NINETEEN

'My dear archbishop,' said Commander de Bracineaux smoothly, 'I am very pleased to meet you at last.'

'And I am astonished to meet you at all,' answered Bertrano, eyeing the Templar narrowly. 'You are supposed to be dead.'

De Bracineaux laughed. 'Then I think you will find me a most corporeal ghost.' As if to demonstrate his material presence, he reached out and took the churchman by the arm and squeezed it. 'I assure you, my lord cleric, I have a good deal of life left in me yet.'

Archbishop Bertrano, seated in his throne-like chair outside his hut, regarded the hand on his arm; his flesh seemed to squirm under de Bracineaux's hand-as if he had been touched by something from beyond the grave. 'Indeed, sir,' replied the archbishop, pulling his arm away. 'But how am I to know you are who you claim to be?'

'Ah, yes, of course,' sighed de Bracineaux as if the question had plagued him down the years. 'What proof will you accept?'

'It is not up to me,' grumbled the archbishop.

'Perhaps you would not mind telling me how you came by word of my demise,' suggested the Templar commander.

'But I do mind, sir,' snapped Bertrano. 'I do not see that I owe you any explanations. It is for you to prove yourself, or get you hence.'

'A moment longer, if you please,' said de Bracineaux. 'I do not know how this confusion has come about, but I can guess: there was a woman-not pretty, but young still, with dark hair. She had a letter-your letter-the one you wrote to the pope asking for help to save a treasure called the Mystic Rose. This woman told you I was dead.' Regarding the churchman closely, he said, 'I believe I am close to the mark.'

Archbishop Bertrano fingered the wooden cross at his belt, but said nothing.

Turning to d'Anjou, the commander said, 'You see, baron? It is as we feared – the thief has already been here before us. We are too late. The damage is done.'

'Be of good cheer, my lord,' answered d'Anjou with practised, if slightly oily, sympathy. 'All is not lost.' He turned sad, imploring eyes to the archbishop. 'With God's help we may yet be able to recover the holy relic.'

'You are right to remind me,' replied de Bracineaux glumly. 'We wait upon God's good pleasure-and upon this prince of the church.' Turning once again to the archbishop, he said, 'It rests with you, noble cleric. We are in your hands.'

Bertrano frowned and pulled on his beard. He gazed long at the two men before him and made up his mind. 'Then I will not keep you waiting, my lords. I tell you now I want nothing more to do with you.'

'I protest -' began Baron d'Anjou.

The archbishop cut him off. 'Hear me out. You come galloping into my city with your horses and men, covered with dust and stinking of the trail. You come making demands and shouting orders at everyone, raising an unholy turmoil in the streets. You command audience and bully my monks until I abandon my work to see you.' He glared at his two unwelcome visitors.

'Well, I have seen you,' concluded the archbishop brusquely. 'And I do not mind telling you that I do not like what I have seen.' He rose from his chair and stepped from the table. 'Now, sirs, I will thank you to excuse me. I have a church to build.'

D'Anjou made to object once more, but de Bracineaux waved him off. 'I see we have provoked you, my lord archbishop,' he said. 'Pray forgive us. If we have acted in haste and without sufficient forethought, it was because we have been long on the trail with but a single thought burning in our hearts-to recover the holy relic for the good of the church.'

The archbishop's scowl turned to anger. 'So say you,' he answered. 'But I do not know you. The Renaud de Bracineaux I knew perished in a Saracen prison!' He stepped toward the door of his hut. 'I bid you good day, gentlemen, and Godspeed.' With that he stepped through the door, slammed it behind him, and was gone.

'How extraordinary,' remarked d'Anjou quietly. 'I do believe the man is insane.'

'Perhaps,' agreed de Bracineaux. 'But there is more to this matter than we know. We must consider carefully what has happened before we decide how to act.' He rose stiffly from his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. 'I am tired, d'Anjou, and in dire need of a drink.'

'Come, de Bracineaux,' replied the baron rising at once. 'I sent Gislebert to secure rooms for us at the inn across the square. Follow me, and we shall have wine and meat before you know it.'

The inn was as much stable as hostel, with rancid straw on the floor and a grubby, ill-kept fire on the hearth. It was crowded with rough-handed labourers from the nearby cathedral who sat in dull exhaustion with pots of warm ale between their thick paws, drinking quietly to ease the throbbing in their joints. Several knights from the town had heard about the Templars' arrival and had come to see for themselves what manner of men they were. They were talking loudly and drinking wine as they took the measure of the much-vaunted Grand Commander of Jerusalem.

'This is a noisy place,' grumbled de Bracineaux into his cup, swallowing down the wine in gulps. 'And it stinks. Trust Gislebert to find the worst.'

'I have seen better, certainly.' D'Anjou gazed around the room with mild disgust. 'We could try somewhere else,' he suggested. 'Or would you rather stay at the monastery with the men?'

'Good Lord, no. I have had a bellyful of simpering, damp-eyed monkery.' He drank again and set the cup down heavily. 'We will stay here the night and if all goes well tomorrow we will not be forced to endure another night in this pesthole of a town.'

Baron d'Anjou refilled the cups. 'Have some more, de Bracineaux, and tell me how you plan to persuade this disagreeable priest of your sincerity.'

The commander pushed aside the cup. 'No more of this vile stuff. See if the innkeeper has anything better.'

D'Anjou rose and made his way to the board behind which the innkeeper and his haggard wife dispensed food and drink to their guests. He returned to the table with a small brown jar and two small wooden cups. He pulled the stopper and poured out a pale golden liquid, then passed one of the cups to the commander, who sampled it, then tipped his head back and swallowed the sweet, fiery liquor down in a gulp.

'That is more to my liking,' de Bracineaux said. 'What is it?'

'He called it dragon's milk-if I understood him correctly. The rude fellow's Latin is atrocious.' D'Anjou took a delicate sip. 'Not bad, whatever it is.' He refilled his companion's cup. 'It seems our friend the archbishop believes you to be someone else.'

'What else should he believe? The man thinks me dead.'

'You think it was the woman?'

'Of course, who else? She spun a tale for him and he believed her, the old fool. And you are a fool, too, baron; I should never have listened to you.' The commander tossed down another bolt of the liquor. 'Now we must find a way to convince him of his folly.'

'I wonder what else she told him-and, perhaps more to the point, what he has told her?'

De Bracineaux shrugged. 'Once we gain the archbishop's confidence, all our questions will be answered.' Placing his hands flat on the table, the commander shoved back his stool and rose. 'I am going to bed.'

He turned to make his way towards the door at the back of the room leading to the three sleeping rooms-one a common room with six grubby pallets of wood shavings and straw, and two small private chambers with slightly better furnishings. As he moved through the room, one of the Spanish knights called to him.

'They say the Templars are God's own soldiers,' the young knight said loudly. 'Have you come to enrol the brave Spanish in your holy army?'

De Bracineaux glanced around and saw four large young men sitting at a table, watching him with scowling faces. He saw the ruddy blush of wine on their smooth cheeks and knew they were half in their cups, so decided to ignore them and moved on.

'My lord Templar!' shouted the knight. There came a crash as his stool toppled over behind him. 'I asked you a polite question. Perhaps you would have the decency to answer.'

The inn grew hushed as de Bracineaux turned. 'Are you speaking to me, pigherd?'

The knight stepped around the table and into the Templar's path. 'I am Alejandro Lorca, sir. You will address me with the respect that is due a nobleman.'

'Out of my way.' De Bracineaux put a hand to the young man's chest and pushed him aside. He fell sprawling on his backside, but sprang to his feet with surprising agility. He came up fast, knife in hand.

The Templar commander backed away a step.

The youth grinned stupidly. 'Ah, now we shall see the famed courage of the Knights of the Temple.'

He lunged forward, the blade sweeping the air before him. De Bracineaux dodged to the side, took the young man's arm, spun him around and shoved him hard into d'Anjou, who stepped forward at that moment. The two collided, and the youth went down clutching his side and gasping.

D'Anjou peered blandly down at him.

The young knight pulled his hand away and gaped at it in disbelief; his fingers were covered with the blood which was rapidly spreading from the gash in his side.

'Impudent pup,' intoned the baron coolly. 'I ought to slit your throat.' He bent down and the young man flinched. D'Anjou smiled wickedly and with a flick of his hand wiped the blade of the short dagger on the wounded knight's tunic. 'Perhaps next time,' he said, then stepped over his victim and continued towards the door, the incident already forgotten.

De Bracineaux regarded the young knight with loathing. 'You want to be more careful, pigherd. You could get hurt.'

The two men disappeared into the room at the back of the inn. The knight's friends and the rest of the patrons rushed to the young man's aid as soon as the door was closed. Lifting him upon their shoulders, they hurried from the inn to the physician's house in the next street to have his wound stanched and bound before he bled to death.

The next morning the innkeeper greeted his two prickly guests with extreme deference, bowing and bowing until d'Anjou asked if the man's bowels were loose.

'No, my lord,' replied the innkeeper, mystified by the question.

'Then kindly stop bobbing around like a goose with distemper and bring us some bread and a bowl of sweet wine.' The man bowed again and darted away. 'Mind the bread is fresh.' D'Anjou called after him. 'Not that worm-gnawed crust you gave us last night.'

De Bracineaux walked to the entrance, pushed the door open and gazed out across the bare earth street. Beyond the low roofs of the surrounding dwellings, the timber scaffolding of the cathedral soared heavenward. 'I think,' he mused, 'we shall pay another visit to our quarrelsome archbishop this morning, and see if we can persuade him to see things in a different light.'

'How, pray, do you propose to do that?'

'While you slept, I have been thinking. On the evidence of the disturbance here last night, it occurs to me that the people of Santiago do not fully respect the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple. A lesson in courtesy would not go amiss, I think.'

'I am intrigued,' said d'Anjou with a yawn. 'Tell me more.'

'You must learn to rein in your enthusiasm,' replied de Bracineaux, glancing back over his shoulder. 'It will do you harm one day.'

The innkeeper reappeared a moment later bearing an armful of fresh loaves and two jars of sweet wine, which he poured into his best cups. 'There is honey for the bread, my lords, if you please,' he said with a bow.

'Bring it,' said the baron.

They broke fast on bread and honey and sweet wine while the innkeeper watched them twitchily until they rose to go. 'Was everything to your liking, my lords?' he asked anxiously.

'You keep a foul rats' nest of an inn,' d'Anjou told him. 'It would be a boon to travellers everywhere if I burned it to the ground.'

The innkeeper drew back in horror at the suggestion.

'Pay him,' said the commander, moving to the door.

Baron d'Anjou reached into the purse at his belt, withdrew two coins and offered them to the innkeeper. As the anxious man reached for the coins, the baron tilted his palm and spilled them into the dirty straw at his feet, then turned and followed de Bracineaux into the grey autumnal mist.

They proceeded to the monastery where, following prayers, the gates were just being opened for the day. The Grand Commander strode into the cloistered square and called in a loud voice for his men to come forth. They appeared from various doorways-some from the chapel, some from the refectory, some from the dormitory. Marshalling his troops, de Bracineaux ordered them to saddle their horses and arm themselves for battle. This they did without question, although there was no indication of alarm; the town seemed peaceful and quiet.

Within moments this placid repose vanished in the clattering tumult of troops rushing to saddle horses and don armour. They assembled in the street outside the monastery gates and many of the townspeople, hearing the commotion, came out to watch the strange soldiers array themselves for war.

As soon as they were armed and mounted, Master de Bracineaux, with Sergeant Gislebert on one side and Baron d'Anjou on the other, took his place at the head of his company-four ranks of five Knights Templar, each wearing the long coat of fine chain mail and, over it, the distinctive white surcoat with the cross of red upon the chest; armed with lance and sword, and carrying the long-tailed oval shield – painted white and bearing the red cross-they rode out, passing slowly along the streets of Santiago de Compostela and proceeding towards the town's great square and the building site of the new cathedral. As the mounted troops moved slowly on, they gathered a crowd of curious townspeople along the way so that by the time they reached the unfinished square the onlookers outnumbered knights by more than ten to one.

The labourers were already at work; their fires and iron braziers were scattered around the site at places where they could warm themselves from time to time and cook their meals. The dull morning rang with the sound of heavy hammers on wood and stone, the creak of wooden wheels, and the braying of donkeys as the timber scaffolding and stacks of cut stone rose slowly higher, and ever higher.

Archbishop Bertrano stood at the broad base of the tower, shouting at one of the masons who gazed down at him from the unfinished wall high above. The mason pointed beyond him into the town square, whereupon the churchman turned and beheld the mounted Templars and their entourage of townsfolk. Hands on hips, he waited for the knights to draw near.

'You again,' he growled. 'I told you I wanted nothing more to do with you.'

'Good morning to you, too, archbishop,' answered de Bracineaux cordially. 'I hope you passed a pleasant night.'

'It is none of your concern,' snapped the archbishop, eyeing the mounted ranks of armed soldiers.

'I myself did not sleep so well,' the commander confessed.

'Guilty conscience, no doubt,' remarked the cleric.

'On the contrary,' said de Bracineaux. 'I could not sleep for thinking how I might prove myself to you.'

'Then you have forfeited a good night's sleep for nothing,' the archbishop told him. 'Be gone, and let me return to my work.'

'And then, as I was at my prayers, the answer came to me,' continued the commander, speaking evenly and slowly so any of the many onlookers who understood Latin might understand. 'The example of Our Lord Christ himself provided the way to verify the truth of my claims/

'That I very much doubt, sir,' sniffed the archbishop. 'More likely it was the Devil you were listening to.'

'Diligent churchman that you are,' the Templar continued, as if he had not heard a word the archbishop said, 'you will certainly recall the incident recorded in the holy text where the Lord Jesu is approached by a centurion of the Roman army.'

Bertrano frowned. Drawn by the crowd and commotion, more people were streaming into the square. 'I know the text,' he said. 'Do not think to instruct me.'

'This Roman soldier, as you will recall,' continued de Bracineaux blithely, 'had a trusted servant for whom he had developed a certain affection.1

'Yes, yes,' snapped the archbishop impatiently. 'I know the story.'

'Do you?' remarked the Templar. 'I wonder.'

'The servant had fallen ill,' said the archbishop, his irritation growing, 'so the Roman sought out the Lord Christ and asked him to heal the man.'

'Indeed, yes,' replied de Bracineaux, smiling, 'the Lord said he would come to his house and perform the necessary healing at once.' He paused, his smile becoming fierce. 'And do you remember what the soldier replied?'

'Of course!' snapped the archbishop. 'Stop this mummery. I see what you are doing.'

'The Roman soldier stood before Jesu and said, "My lord, I would not presume to have you set foot in my house. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed." The Lord marvelled at the man's faith, and the centurion explained; he said, "I myself am -'"

Not to be outdone before his own flock, the archbishop took up the recitation, 'He said, "For I myself am a man under authority, with many soldiers under me. I tell this one 'Go!' and he goes. To another, I say, 'Come here,' and he comes to me. To my servant, I say, 'Do this!' and he does it."' He regarded the Templar shrewdly. 'Am I supposed to be impressed by a small recital of holy writ? Well, then, I am not impressed in the least. Even the Devil can quote scripture – as we all know.'

'My dear archbishop,' coaxed de Bracineaux, 'you miss the point of the lesson. You see, like that centurion, I am a man under authority, with many soldiers under me. Arrayed behind me are but a few of them. I say to this one: come -' he turned and summoned the first soldier from his place behind him, 'and, behold!-He comes.'

The soldier dismounted and ran to the commander's side. 'I say to him: stretch forth your hand!'

The Templar lifted his arm shoulder-high and stretched out his hand. De Bracineaux drew his sword and touched the keen-edged blade to the man's wrist. He then raised the sword high overhead and prepared to strike off the soldier's hand. Without a quiver of fear, the Templar gazed impassively at the archbishop.

'Do you think maiming this unfortunate soldier will sway my opinion in any way?' said Bertrano coldly. 'I tell you it will not.'

The commander slowly lowered the blade. 'Perhaps you are right,' he conceded. 'What is a man's hand when the fate of the most valuable relic in all Christendom even now hangs in the balance?'

Handing the naked blade to Gislebert, he dismounted and stepped before the waiting Templar. 'Have you been shriven?' he asked simply. The man nodded once. 'Then, as your superior in Christ, I command you to kneel before me and stretch out your neck.'

Without hesitation the Templar dropped to his knees and, placing his hands behind him, he lowered his head and stretched out his neck before the commander. Meanwhile, Gislebert, having dismounted, brought his commander's sword; taking his place beside the commander, he held the sword across his palms.

A body of monks from the nearby monastery arrived in the square just then and, seeing what was happening, raced to prevent the impending slaughter. 'Keep them back,' the commander ordered, and six mounted Templars broke ranks and rode to head off the onrushing monks.

Indicating the man kneeling before him, de Bracineaux said, 'As you, a prince of the church, wield power over the priests beneath you, likewise does the commander wield power over those who serve under him. For, I ask you, my lord archbishop: who but the rightful lord holds the power of life and death for those beneath his authority?'

The archbishop glared furiously at the Templar, but held his tongue.

'Very well,' concluded de Bracineaux. 'What I do before you now, I do to prove my authority.'

Taking the sword from Gislebert, he grasped it in both hands and made an elaborate sign of the cross above the kneeling soldier. Then, slowly raising the blade above his head, he cried, 'For the glory of God and his Kingdom!'

The blade hovered in the air, and the archbishop rushed forward like an attacking bull. 'Your authority!' charged the archbishop, his voice ringing in the restless silence of the square. 'Your authority! You wicked and perverse whoreson!'

The blade faltered and halted in its downward stroke. The Templar turned to face the oncoming archbishop.

'For the glory of God?' roared the angry cleric. 'Get thee behind me, thou Satan! It is for your glory, not God's, and I will not stand aside and watch you spill the blood of the innocent for your vain amusement.'

Genuinely taken aback by the indictment, de Bracineaux lowered the sword. 'You accuse me of vanity, priest,' he growled. 'How many men have you killed in the raising of this monument to your vanity?' He waved a hand airily at the curtain wall and tower of the unfinished cathedral.

'It is a temple to the Everlasting God, sir,' replied the archbishop. 'Four men have died, and five hundred have laboured long to establish an altar which will last forever-their lives and labour an honourable sacrifice to the Author and Redeemer of Life.'

The archbishop bent down, raised the kneeling soldier to his feet, and pushed him out of the way before turning on the Templar once more. 'Do not presume to elevate your wicked exercise by comparing it to the exalted and holy obedience of my faithful labourers. I know you for what you are, sir, and I condemn your arrogance and pride.'

De Bracineaux bristled at the cleric's heated accusations. 'Why you bloated old goat,' he said, his voice strangled with rage, 'no man talks to me this way. I am the Master of Jerusalem! Do you hear?'

'Were you the very emperor himself, I would speak,' declared the irate archbishop. 'For when vile pride usurps a man's humility and true affection it is the duty of a priest to speak, to name the sin and call the sinner to account.'

The Templar's eyes narrowed dangerously; his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. 'I came before you in friendship and humility,' he said, forcing the words between clenched teeth, 'and I was shunned. Now, as I stand before this crowd of witnesses, I am reviled.'

His jaw muscles worked, grinding his teeth with suppressed rage. 'I command armies and ships, fortresses and cities; I have but to lift my hand and kingdoms are overthrown; I speak and heathen nations tremble. And I swear before Almighty God, were it not for the sake of the Holy Cup, you would be kneeling before the Throne of Heaven even now, proud priest.'

Archbishop Bertrano raised a triumphant finger. 'Now do I truly believe you are the Master and Commander of the Knights of the Temple. For who else but a man long accustomed to the wicked conceits of high position could stand in the presence of God and boast as you do? Your pride, sir, is a stink in the nostrils of God Almighty, and unless you repent on bended knee, it will drag you down to hell.'

De Bracineaux, livid and shaking, reached out and snatched hold of the archbishop's robe and pulled him close. 'Tell me where the Mystic Rose is to be found, or I swear by my right hand that before you draw another breath I will carve that devious tongue from your lying mouth.'

The archbishop, his lips pressed into a firm, defiant frown, glowered at the Templar with smoldering indignation.

'Well, priest?' de Bracineaux said, his breath hot in the cleric's face. 'It was your letter that brought me here, and I have not come this far to fail. I ask but once more.' He tightened his grip on the archbishop's robe. 'Where is the Holy Cup?'

'As God is my witness, I tell you I do not know where the relic is to be found,' answered the archbishop. 'That knowledge resides with the monk Matthias; he alone knows the whereabouts of the Sacred Vessel, and he is not here. He is in Aragon.'

'Then you will tell me where this brother is to be found,' the commander said. Even as he spoke, his eyes took on a sly gleam. 'Better still, so that no further misunderstandings threaten the harmony between us, you will show me the way. Considering that this singular opportunity has come about through your interfering offices, I think it is the least you can do.'

Releasing the cleric, he called to Gislebert. 'Ready a horse for our friend. His highness the archbishop is joining our pilgrimage.'

'You cannot command me,' the archbishop spluttered. 'I have work to do.'

'Then I suggest you make haste to discharge your obligations without delay.' He turned on his heel, and gestured to the Templars looking on. 'Bring him.'

One of the pack mules was hastily saddled and made ready for the archbishop, who, protesting the outrage being practised upon him, was forcibly manhandled on to the back of the beast. Then, at the sergeant's signal, the ranks of Templars moved slowly off.

The monks gave out a loud cry of dismay, pushed past the mounted soldiers and ran after their beloved archbishop, clamouring for his release. The soldiers paid them no heed-until some of them ran up to the churchman's mule and tried to haul him from the saddle. At a word from the Master, Gislebert called a command and the last rank of Templars wheeled their horses, raised their shields and lowered their lances, instantly blocking the street and preventing the townsfolk and monks from impeding their retreat.

Meanwhile, the rest of the cavalcade rode on. Archbishop Bertrano, realizing there was no rescue forthcoming, called to his monks for building work to continue in his absence. He was still shouting instructions when his listeners disappeared from sight.