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.'
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Rognvald rushed to Cait's side and knelt beside her in the snow. Alethea took a quick step and kicked the dagger from de Bracineaux's slack grasp. She stooped and retrieved the Blessed Cup, backing away as the Templar made a last scrabbling grab for it.
'My lady,' said Rognvald, 'you are hurt.'
'No,' replied Cait as she tried to get up. 'I -' The pain made her gasp.
Rognvald eased her down once more. 'Rest a moment. Let me look at the wound.' Dropping his sword, he shook the glove from his hand and pressed his fingertips to the side of Cait's neck just below the jaw where blood was oozing in a thin crimson sheet down her throat. 'It is a nasty cut,' he observed, 'but not deep, I think.'
'Help me to my feet.'
He was just gathering her into his arms to lift her, when there came a sudden rush from behind. Rognvald glanced back to see Baron d'Anjou bearing down on them-a savage leer on his face and a knife in his hand. He ran with surprising quickness, closing the distance in an instant. Rognvald spun around; knowing, even as he reached for his blade, that he would be too late, he placed himself between d'Anjou and Caitriona, shielding her with his body.
Yngvar darted in from the side, flailing with his sword as d'Anjou passed. The blade slashed, went wide. D'Anjou dodged the blow easily. Closing on them, he prepared to strike. Cait saw the baron's arm draw back, and then halt, its forward progress abruptly halted. The baron spun around and into Svein's fierce, bone-bending embrace. D'Anjou gave a little cry of surprise and Cait saw his spine stiffen as the Norseman's blade slid in beneath his ribs. The baron roared in anger and pushed himself away, slashing wildly with the knife. Rognvald snatched up his sword, stepped in behind, and with the action of a man putting a mad dog out of its misery, made a quick chop at the base of the baron's neck. D'Anjou staggered, the dagger spinning from his hand. As his knees gave way beneath him, he looked up at Cait with an expression of mild reproach. 'Damn it all,' he sighed, then pitched forward on to the ground beside the dying Templar.
Then everything became confused for Cait. It seemed as if a dense cloud descended over her, muffling sight and sound. She felt Rognvald's strong arms beneath her, sensed movement, and guessed that he carried her to the church. Alethea was there, holding the Holy Chalice, and several nuns flew around her, fussing and clucking while they cleaned and bandaged the wound at her neck.
Prince Hasan was there, too, and some others, including Brother Timotheus. There were voices, movement, and then she felt fresh air on her face once more, and saw the mountains gleaming in the sun… dead bodies in the trampled bloody snow… wounded men holding their seeping wounds… nuns with white hands binding brown Moorish limbs… horses, long winter coats lathered and wet, heads down, noses to the ground in exhaustion, their flanks steaming in the cold sunlight… And then it grew dark and when she awoke she was no longer in the church; she had somehow been transported to Dominico's house, and there were people talking somewhere nearby but she could not see them.
She raised a hand to her injured throat and felt the cloth of her bandage. She made to rise and the movement
