fingers.
'Papa!'
'Cait…' he replied absently.'He… he…' Duncan looked down at his wound and shuddered. 'Ah! For the love of God!' he said, his teeth clenched against the pain. 'Ah!'
'Here -' She slid her arm under his and took his weight on to herself. 'Sit down and rest.' Looking up she cried out, 'Help me! Someone, please! He is wounded!'
But Cait's cry was swallowed in the general crush and confusion, and the nearer passers by, if they heard, paid no attention. She eased him to the floor, and sat him down on the plinth which formed a step at the base of the column. He slumped back, resting his shoulders against the purple stone. 'Do not move,' she told him. 'I will get help.'
She made to dart away, but he seized her wrist and held tight. 'No, Cait,' he said, his voice shaking. 'Stay.'
'I will be back before you know it.' She stood, but he held her tight in his grasp.
'No time, my light. Stay with me.'
'Father, please,' she said. 'Let me find help.' She removed his hand and started off once more.
'Caitriona, no!' he said, his voice recovering something of its former strength. 'There is only one who can help me now, and I will soon stand before him. Stay and pray with me.'
She turned and knelt beside him, slipping her arm behind his head, fighting down the panic clawing at her heart and blurring her vision.
'Listen, Cait. I love you very much.'
'Oh, Papa, I love you, too.'
'Then promise me you will not seek to avenge me,' he said, cold sweat beading on his ashen face. 'Let it end here.'
'I do not understand. Who was that man? Why did he do this?'
'Promise me!' he insisted, raising himself up again. The effort brought a spasm of pain which made him cough. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. 'I know you, Cait. Promise you will not avenge me.'
'Very well, I promise.' She dabbed away the blood with the hem of her blue satin mantle. 'Now, lie back and rest a little.'
Having received her promise, Duncan slumped against the base of the column. 'Good,' he sighed, settling back against the cool stone. 'Good.'
Cait put her hand to her father's cheek. 'Please, Papa,' she persisted, 'I need to understand.'
'Pray for me, Caitriona.' He closed his eyes.
'I will – every day. But I need to understand.'
'Renaud…' He coughed again; more blood came up, staining his teeth and chin. She wiped it away.
At first the name meant nothing. Then the memory suffaced. 'Renaud de Bracineaux? The Templar?' She searched her father's face for a clue to the meaning of this mystery. 'Why?'
He opened his eyes and tried to smile. 'Poor Alethea… I am glad she is not here. She is not as strong as you…' he coughed, and slumped further down, '… take care of her, Cait.'
'Hush.' She put her cheek next to his and held him tight, as it to hold off death through the strength of her embrace. 'I will watch over her.'
He raised his hand and cupped his palm to her chin, holding her face so that he could see her. His eyes were hazy, and his voice wavered. 'Take my heart…' He gulped air, his voice tight with pain, and forced out the words. 'Take it home. Tell Padraig… bury it in the church. He will know what to do.'
Unable to speak, Caitriona simply nodded.
'Sydoni,' he rasped. 'Tell Sydoni… my last thought was of her.' His voice had grown suddenly soft and tenuous as spider-silk 'Tell her I… thanking God…'
'I will tell her.' The tears spilled freely down her cheeks and on to her father's hand.
Duncan raised his hand and kissed the tear with blood-stained lips; Caitriona clutched his hand and pressed it to her cheek. 'Dear heart,' he said, his voice a fading whisper. 'I go.'
He slumped back against the column base with a sigh. In that last exhalation, Cait thought she saw a light flicker briefly in his eyes and heard him say her mother's name… 'Ah, Rhona…'-the most delicate ghost of an utterance, a word spoken from the threshold of another world, and he was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
The dull iron glow of a new day was staining the dark waters of the Bosphorus by the time Cait finally returned to the ship. She stood at the rail and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the dirty yellow gleam burning through the grey cloudwrack like a hot poker singeing through sackcloth. After a time, she turned her unblinking gaze to the famed seven hills of Byzantium, all hung in purple mist and smoke, as if in mourning for her murdered father.
She heard a footfall on the deck behind her, but did not turn.
'Good morrow, my lady.' The voice was that of Haemur, their aged Orkneyjar pilot, a loyal and trusted servant, and the one person in the world Duncan would allow to captain Persephone to the Holy Land. A skilled but uneducated man, Haemur spoke only Norse, peppered with a smattering of Gaelic. 'When you did not return last night, I was worried that -'
She turned and he saw the look on her face. His hands fluttered like distracted birds. 'Lady Caitriona,' he gasped, 'what has happened?' Then, as if realizing for the first time that she was alone, he said, 'But where is my lord Duncan?'
'He is gone, Haemur,' she replied in a voice as brittle and empty as a dry husk.
The seaman gazed uncomprehendingly at the young woman. 'He is coming later perhaps?'
'No.' She shook her head. 'He is dead, Haemur.'
The elderly sailor rubbed his red face with a rough hand. Tears came to his pale blue eyes. 'I see.' He turned away abruptly, and started towards his bench at the stern, dabbing at his eyes. She called him back.
'I am sorry, Haemur.' She moved to him and, taking one of his thick-callused hands in both her own, explained what had taken place at the cathedral. It was quickly and simply told, and then she said, 'The body will be buried later today, and we will attend the rites. Right now, I want you to wake your men and move the ship.'
He regarded her without understanding. 'Dead? Are you certain?'
'Yes,' she confirmed. 'We must move the ship at once. I have arranged for a berth in the Bucoleon Harbour- the one below the lighthouse.'
'The Greek harbour-where the grain ships call.'
'The same. They will not think to look for us there.'
'Who?' he asked.
But she was already moving away. 'Iam going to my quarters now to wash and change my clothes.'
She descended the wooden steps into the hold, which was divided into three sections. The first, near the bow, was shared by the two crewmen who helped Haemur; the middle, and largest section, was the hold proper where all the supplies, provisions, and dry goods for the voyage were kept; the third section, in the stern, was divided into two small compartments for the passengers. Cait and Alethea shared one, and the other belonged to Duncan.
Cait put her hand to the wooden latch and quietly opened the door. Pale dawnlight showed in the small round window over the boxed pallet where Alethea lay sleeping. Cait sat down the edge of the bed and regarded the young woman. Fifteen years old-although she looked, and often behaved, as one younger than her years-she had Sydoni's thick, dark lustrous hair, and smooth tawny skin. Nor did the similarity between the young lady and her mother end there. Alethea was slender and lanky, with a high smooth brow and large dark eyes.
Cait was nearly twelve years old when Alethea was born; and though at first she thought a baby sister a fine and wonderful thing, the joy quickly palled. Alethea considered Cait too harsh and strict on her, always nagging and chastising. In Caitriona's forthright opinion, Thea was flighty and inconsiderate, too easily taken with whims and capricious fancies, and all-too-often indulged when she should have been corrected. Indeed, Alethea should
