The mystic rose

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Bleeding from a deep cut to his forehead, his face ashen with fatigue, de Bracineaux snatched Cait from d'Anjou's grasp. Cait screamed and clawed at him, but he grabbed her arm with his free hand and, still clutching his sword, threw his arm around her waist. He lifted her off her feet and dragged her out from among the crowd gathered in front of the church.

'Here!' cried the archbishop, rising from his prayers in the snow. 'Let her go! This is not the way, de Bracineaux.'

'Stay back, priest,' said d'Anjou, shoving him down once more. 'This is none of your concern.'

'In God's name,' Bertrano cried, 'I beg you: let her go. End the bloodshed.' Struggling to his feet, he started after the Templar commander. 'De Bracineaux!' he called. 'Stop!'

'Keep him away!' shouted the Templar over his shoulder.

Baron d'Anjou moved to head off the interfering cleric. 'I told you to stay back, priest.' He grabbed the archbishop by the arm and pulled him around. 'Bother God with your prayers, and leave the rest to us.'

'Release me, sir!' Bertrano shrugged off d'Anjou's hold. 'You will not presume to tell me what to do.' He turned and started after the commander and his captive once more, calling for Caitriona's release, and an end to the fighting.

The baron grabbed Bertrano's arm and tried to pull him back, but the big man shook off his assailant, and bulled ahead. He reached de Bracineaux and put his hands on the Templar. 'Put down your sword, commander,' the archbishop called. 'Sue for peace. I will speak to them.' He took hold of the Templar's sword hand and tried to break his grip. 'Let the woman go.'

'Get back!' snarled de Bracineaux, elbowing the cleric aside. 'D'Anjou! Keep him away from me!'

D'Anjou seized the archbishop by the belt of his robe and pulled him back a few paces. The churchman made a wild swing with his arm, knocking the baron aside; he turned and started once more for the Templar. D'Anjou lunged after him. 'Stay back,' he growled.

Bertrano shook him off and turned. D'Anjou darted after him, appeared to make a grab, but missed. The archbishop took another step, then stumbled and went down.

He writhed in the snow, pressing a hand to his side. Several of the nuns hurried to his aid. One of them screamed when she took hold of Bertrano's hand. Her own hand came away wet and red; there was blood in the snow, spilling from a gash in his side. 'I warned you,' Baron d'Anjou said, wiping the blade of his dagger with a handful of snow. 'You should have listened.'

Kicking and scratching, Cait succeeded in squirming free, but de Bracineaux got his fingers in her hair and dragged her with him. 'You have cost me dearly,' he wheezed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 'Now you are going to repay me in full.'

Cait lashed out at him with her fists, swinging hard, the blows muted by the mail and padding. Wrapping his hand securely in her hair, he hauled her to her knees and pressed the ragged edge of his sword to her throat. She felt the cold steel bite into the soft flesh of her neck, and stopped struggling. From the corner of her eye she saw two Norse knights approaching.

'That is close enough!' de Bracineaux shouted as Svein and Yngvar came running up. 'Any closer and the lady will lose her head.' As if to demonstrate the veracity of this threat, he tightened his grip in her hair and jerked her head up, pressing the sharp blade harder against the base of her throat. She felt something digging into her shoulder and realized it was the golden pommel of de Bracineaux's dagger which was hanging from his belt. If she could get her hands on it, she might have a chance to defend herself.

'Let her go, Templar,' said Yngvar. 'We mean to treat you fairly.'

'Do you think I would trust any of your promises?' replied the commander. 'No, I have a better idea. Throw down your weapons and she may yet live.'

Cait edged sideways slightly, freeing the dagger from behind her shoulder. De Bracineaux punished her for the movement by jerking her head higher and pressing the blade harder still. She heard a horse galloping swiftly nearer.

'Release her, de Bracineaux,' called the rider. She heard the voice and took hope: it was Rognvald. 'Let her go, and we will settle terms of peace.'

'I will give you my terms!' roared the commander. 'This woman dies unless you give me the cup.' When no one moved to respond, de Bracineaux forced Cait's head down and started to draw the blade across her throat; she felt the skin break and blood begin to ooze.

Rognvald made to dismount, but the Templar commander shouted, 'Stay back!' He pulled Cait's head up and back, stretching her throat to show the cut he'd made. 'Bring me the cup!' he screamed. 'Now!'

Turning to those standing outside the door of the church, Rognvald called for the cup to be brought out. 'You should think about your men,' Rognvald told him. 'There are nine Templars still drawing breath. Their lives, and yours, are forfeit if you harm this woman.'

'The Devil take them,' de Bracineaux replied. 'Devil take you all.' He turned his head towards the church. 'D'Anjou! Where is that cup?'

Alethea appeared at the door of the church just then. 'It is here,' she said.

'Bring it to me!' shouted de Bracineaux. 'Bring it here to me!'

Holding the Sacred Vessel in both hands, Alethea stepped forward. A way parted through the crowd as she moved, walking slowly, and with grave deliberation as if in a holy procession. She held the cup high for all to see, and the morning light glinted off the gilded rim, creating a glowing halo of gold which hovered above her hands.

The commander saw the precious relic and his face twisted in an ugly gloating grin. Still he held his hostage firmly, the swordblade hard against her throat. Cait could feel the warm blood trickling down her neck and soaking into her clothing. She heard Rognvald say something; he was trying to dissuade the Templar from carrying his scheme any further. Some of the nuns and villagers huddled outside the church began to weep and cry out in their anguish. Cait heard it all, but the sounds meant nothing to her; she could only watch with mounting dread as Alethea drew step-by-slow-deliberate-step closer with the Sacred Chalice in her hands.

When Alethea had come within three paces she stopped. 'Here, girl!' de Bracineaux snarled. 'Give it to me!'

Alethea looked steadily at him, her features expressionless, and slowly knelt in the snow.

'Here!' said de Bracineaux angrily. 'Here to me!'

She made no move to come nearer. Instead, Alethea stretched out her hands and raised the Holy Cup above her head as if in offering.

The Templar commander shouted again for her to deliver the cup into his hands, but Alethea, kneeling meekly in the snow, remained unmoved, holding the cup just out of his reach.

De Bracineaux gave a grunt of impatience. Releasing his grip on Cait's hair, but still holding the sword to her neck, he reached out for the cup with his free hand. Leaning far forward, he took a half-step towards the cup. Arm extended, fingers stretching, he grasped the golden rim and plucked the Holy Chalice from between Alethea's hands. As he reached out, the dagger at his belt swung free.

Alethea rose with catlike quickness. Her long fingers closed on the weapon as she came up. With a single, smooth stroke she drew the knife from the sheath and drove the point of the blade up under de Bracineaux's chin.

With a startled cry, he dropped the cup and the sword. Cait fell forward on to her hands, then collapsed face down in the snow.

De Bracineaux seized Alethea's wrist and tried to pull the dagger away. Wrapping her other hand around the Templar's, Alethea stepped nearer and, with all her strength, drove the knife blade to the hilt. The two stood for a moment in a weird and deadly embrace; and then, with a muffled cry of rage and pain, de Bracineaux pulled his hand free. He made a sweep with his arm and knocked the girl aside.

Alethea fell back in the snow. De Bracineaux pulled the blade from his neck and turned on her. He lurched forward, slashing wildly with the dagger as blood coursed freely from the hole in his throat.

Rognvald rushed in, sword ready.

Alethea lay where she had fallen, gazing up at him-neither trembling, nor cowering in fear, but with calm defiance. Commander de Bracineaux took one step and then another. Blood cascaded from his wound, staining his beard and soaking into his tunic. He reached for her, the knife gleaming red in the sun. But as he made to strike, de Bracineaux's legs buckled beneath him. He fell on his side, blood spewing a bright crimson arc in the snow.

Rognvald, crouching behind his sword, put himself between Alethea and the Templar. De Bracineaux hauled himself on to his knees, regarding Alethea dully, as if trying to understand how a nun could have done such a contemptible thing to him. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words came out in a dark, bloody bubbling which gushed over his teeth and chin, and splashed down his white surcoat, blotting out the red Templar cross on his chest.

Alethea rose to her feet, pushed past Rognvald and stood over de Bracineaux, gazing down with pitiless indifference at her stricken enemy. Unable to speak, he lifted uncomprehending eyes to her impassive face; his jaw worked, forming a single word: why?

'Because,' she said, as the wounded Templar slumped lower in the snow, 'Lord Duncan had two daughters.'