To thy eternal and perpetual home, thou goest.
Sleep, friends, sleep-and away with sorrow;
Sleep, friends, sleep-in the absence of fear;
Sleep, friends, sleep-in the Rock of All Forgiving.
The black wrath of the God of life
Is upon the dank gloom of death as thou goest.
The white wrath of the Lord of the Stars
Is upon the dark path that leads beyond this worlds-realm.
Thou Great God of Salvation,
Pour out thy healing grace on these souls
As the fire pours out its bright and eager heat,
And gather them into your wide and loving embrace.
For ever, and for ever, always and for ever. Amen.'
When he finished, he stepped back into the circle, and the company watched in silence until the towering pyre began to collapse, sending bright sparks spinning up into the night-dark sky.
So that the brave Moorish dead would not have to suffer the ignominy of sharing a funeral fire with the enemy who had slain them, Prince Hasan had commanded a separate, smaller pyre to be made for the slain Templars and their disgraced leader. As the watchers began making their way slowly back to the village, this second pyre was fired, too. But, aside from Timotheus who paused to offer up a prayer for mercy on behalf of the misled Templars, no one stayed to watch.
Upon their return, Abbess Annora met them outside Dominico's house with word that Archbishop Bertrano was dead. 'He was at peace to the end,' she told them, 'and passed away lightly as a sigh.'
'I am sorry to hear it,' said Rognvald. 'He was a good man.' Turning to Prince Hasan, he said, 'I am sorry, too, that your fears have been realized.'
'More blood will flow from this,' replied Hasan ruefully. 'Such is the will of Allah. So be it.'
'There will be no more bloodshed,' declared Cait firmly. 'We will take the archbishop's body back to Santiago for burial, and we will tell them that he died at the hands of the Templars. Blame for his death will not be laid upon you or the people hereabouts. I will see to that.'
'I am grateful, Ketmia. Unfortunately, it is a far distance;' the prince pointed out, 'by the time you reached Santiago there would be little worth burying.'
'In summer perhaps,' remarked Alethea. 'But it is winter now, and if we do not tarry along the way the cold will keep his body from corruption,'
'Such things are known in Norway,' offered Rognvald. 'It may work here.'
'Even if it did not,' offered Cait, 'we would be no worse off than before. But, Alethea is right; if we are to have any chance at all we must leave without delay.' To Hasan, she said, 'I am sorry, but it appears we will not be able to take advantage of your kind offer to winter at Al-Jelal.'
'Alas,' replied Hasan, 'it would have been a rare and special pleasure. Nevertheless, I understand. Still,' he added quickly, 'perhaps you would not object if I see you safely on your way?'
'Not in the least,' Cait replied. 'I can think of nothing I would like better.' She glanced up and saw the shadow of disappointment flit across Rognvald's features. As he turned away, she slipped her hand through his arm. 'Well, there is perhaps just one other thing,' she confided, adding, 'Have you ever been to Caithness, my lord?'
By the end of the next day, all was ready. At dawn the following morning the company bade farewell to Brother Timotheus and his faithful village flock and set off, leading a wagon packed with snow and ice in which the archbishop's body was preserved. With them went Prince Hasan and a company of his Moorish soldiers, who would accompany them as far as Palencia where Gislebert and the nine surviving Templars would be turned over to Governor Carlo-with a request that they be detained long enough to allow a specially prepared report of their actions on behalf of the apostate Commander De Bracineaux to reach the pope, and for Cait and her company to reach the ship at Bilbao.
At Al-Jelal they stopped long enough to pick up a second wagon to follow the first. In this wagon were Paulo- who insisted he was well enough to face the rigours of the road-and three nuns of the Abbey of Klais Mairi, chosen by Abbess Annora to begin a new Order of the Grey Marys in Caithness: Sister Siaran, Sister Besa, and the newest member of the order, Sister Alethea. Accompanying the sisters, as a gift to the new order, was a large gilded cross-and, snug in its hiding place in the base of the cross, the Most Holy and Sacred Chalice, the Mystic Rose.
EPILOGUE
The memory of that night remains as vivid and vital as this morning's sunrise. I have merely to bring the image before my mind-the rock-cut sanctuary, the altar dressed in white, the great gilt wooden cross shimmering in the candlelight, the Inner Circle robed in white standing in attendance-and I am there again, on my knees, the Blessed Cup cradled in my hands.
It is empty as I look inside. But as I raise it to my lips the bowl is suddenly filled with crimson liquid. I take it into my mouth and taste the heavy sweetness-of life, of hope, of the everlasting joy of serving the Eternal One. With each remembrance, I drink again from the Holy Chalice and my vow, like the quickening liquid it contains, is renewed.
To remember, for me, is to enter again the vision I was granted on that night. 'Not everyone sees a vision,' Zaccaria told me then. 'And not everyone who sees a vision sees the same thing. You have been richly blessed, brother.'
True enough, but as it is written: from those to whom much has been given, much shall be required. My joy comes at a price which none but those who have likewise borne that heavy cost can ever know.
Caitriona knew. Pemberton also.
That night, as I took the sweet, life-changing liquid into my mouth and felt the holy fire spread through my dull limbs, the cavernous room, altar, and men who presided over the sacrament-everything! – vanished. I raised my eyes from the cup to see that I was kneeling before a man dressed in the robes of a simple priest-a young man, his hair dark and curly, his beard a thick black mass of tight curls through which his quick smile broke like a flash of light from a cloud-troubled sky. 'Greetings, friend,' he said, 'I have been waiting for you.'
'Brother Andrew.' I had no need to ask-knowing it was he. 'How may I serve you, lord?'
'I am not a lord that you should kneel to me.' He reached down, took my elbow. 'Does one servant kneel to another? Stand on your feet, brother, and let us speak to one another as servants together of the Great King.'
He took my hand and turned it over, exposing the wrist. And there, imprinted on my flesh, was the livid red wound-like stigma: the Mark of the Rose. The other wrist bore the sign, too, and I gazed upon the blood-red marks in wonder.
'As you have been chosen,' Brother Andrew said, 'so you must choose.'
I plucked up my courage to reply, but before I could speak he raised a hand in warning, saying, 'But I would not have you choose in ignorance. For you must know that to be a guardian is both blessing and burden, and I would have you count the cost.'
'Tell me, then.'
'Any who take up the service of the cup will extend their lives in the world – far beyond the age reached by other men and women of mortal birth. You will neither age, nor experience frailty, infirmity, or decrepitude. Your allotted span will be measured in scores, not years, and you will grow great in wisdom.'
‘I was just thinking that the burden did not seem overwhelming, when he said, 'Know also that you will live to see your friends grow old and die, your children, too, and their children after them. Not only this, you will watch many whom you would befriend drown beneath the tides of illness, insanity, and evil which sweep restlessly over the world. You will see dear friends suffer and succumb; you will see good men stumble and fall by the wayside through weakness, and your heart will break-not once, but a thousand times.'
I looked upon the wound-like marks on my wrists, and at last began to understand what it meant to be a guardian and what was being asked of me. Could I shoulder such a burden, I wondered, could I watch those I
