How, then, in the name of God's Sweet Son, could she endure the endless cycle of confession and forgiveness of weak-willed, selfish and unthinking offenders? The notion of shepherding a flock of nattering women, and officiating over the mundane concerns and petty grievances of an all-female fellowship left her cold as the snow-topped mountain peaks towering aloof and frozen in the distance.
And yet, she reasoned, perhaps this was precisely what it meant to be chosen. Perhaps God was calling her to a life of sacrifice: never to know the love of a man, never to hold a child of her own in her arms, never to see her dear ones again, to surrender her considerable will and live in continual, everlasting submission to the One Great Will, and never allow herself to be herself ever again.
Thus, she had come to an impasse. She stood gazing at the trail as it passed between the towering shoulders of the mountains, and it was as if the steep and rocky descent signified her dilemma. To answer the call was to go down into the valley of despair, from which there was no return.
God in Heaven, she thought miserably, it is a fate worse than death. What should I do?
The soughing of the wind in the high rocks made a distant whispery sound, as if their ancient voices would speak to her.
And they did speak. For, as she listened, she heard the sound of storm-roused waves on the rough shingle of the bay below Banvard. She heard the rustle of bracken on the low sun-splashed hills; she heard the driven rain rippling through the dry stubble of the grain fields. As a child she had roamed the green wilderness of Caithness; in the long years of her father's absence, she had come to love the land and the people who lived in it.
Caithness was the place that stirred her heart, even now, and nothing-not even the Stigmata of Christ-could ever change that. To live and die in a land not her own and never to see the high wild skies of Caithness again-the thought was almost crushing.
I cannot do it, she concluded. The abbess said I have a choice. God help me, I cannot do it.
Cait was all too aware of her many failings, but self-deception was not one of them. She knew herself. She knew her mind. And where some women might cheerfully resign themselves to serving the simple needs of their sisters and the people of the village, Cait knew she would quickly tire of the tedium, the dull routine of the daily round, the endless repetition, the deadening sameness. Life in the abbey would begin to chafe. Sooner or later she would begin to resent the choice. Resentment would harden into loathing, and loathing into hate. She would end up hating the abbey and, in time, that hatred would come to poison and pervert the very thing she was honour bound to uphold and protect.
No, it was impossible; she knew it in her heart and soul-not that knowing would make the telling any easier. She drew a deep breath and made up her mind to tell Abbess Annora at once. Better by far to end it now, before things went any further.
Cait turned and started back along the trail to the abbey, intent on relating her decision. She had taken but a few steps, however, when she heard someone calling from the valley trail behind her. She stopped, looking back, and saw a small figure toiling up the last incline to reach the abbey path.
It was a young girl; she had begun shouting as soon as she saw Cait on the path. Cait quickly retraced her steps, reaching the girl as she collapsed at the end of the trail to lie gasping in the snow. That she was from the village, there was no doubt. Cait thought she recognized the young girl as the eldest of Dominico's daughters.
Her lips, fingertips, and cheeks were blue from the cold. In her haste, she had come away without her cloak, or had lost it along the way. Her hands were scraped raw, and through the holes in her mantle Cait could see that her knees and shins were bloody where she had fallen and skinned herself on the rocks.
Cait rushed to the child and flung her cloak over the trembling body, gathering her up as she tried to rise. 'What is it? What has happened?'
The child, gasping, clutched at her and jabbered in her incomprehensible tongue. Cait could neither understand the girl, nor make herself understood. Taking the child's hands in her own, she rubbed them and blew on them to warm the thin, freezing fingers. 'Come,' she said when the girl had calmed somewhat, 'I will take you to the abbess. She will know what to do.'
Cait helped her to her feet and together they moved off along the path. Upon reaching the second barn, the nuns who had been carrying firewood heard Cait's call and came running to her aid. At sight of the nuns, the girl started babbling excitedly again. 'I found her on the path,' Cait told them. 'Can any of you make out what has happened?'
One of the nuns knelt down in the snow in front of the child, and took her hands; another stepped close and put her arm around the slender little shoulders. The first nun spoke quietly and, as Cait watched, the sister's expression of concern deepened. 'Brother Timo says to come quickly,' the nun explained. 'A great many soldiers have arrived in the village; they have put all the people in the church, and the priest says the abbess is needed at once.'
'What do the soldiers look like?' said Cait. 'Ask her.'
The nun holding the girl's hands asked and listened to the answer, then raised her eyes to Cait. 'She says they are very big, and ride horses.'
'What about their clothing?' demanded Cait impatiently. 'What are they wearing?'
Again the nun asked and received the answer. 'They are wearing cloaks.' The child interrupted to add another detail to her description. 'The cloaks are white, she says, and have a cross in red just here.' The nun touched the place over her heart. 'And on the back.'
The other sisters regarded one another in bewilderment. 'Who can it be?' they asked one another.
1 know them,' Cait replied, fighting down the fear spreading like a sickness through her gut. 'The Templars are here.'
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
'Templars?' Abbess Annora repeated the word uncertainly. 'Is that what you called them? But who are they?'
'They are priested knights,' Cait answered, realizing how little the Grey Marys knew of the events beyond the protecting mountain walls. 'They belong to a special order called the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, but they are known as the Templars, and they are dedicated to the protection of pilgrims and travellers in the Holy Land, and the defence of Jerusalem.'
'They are renowned warriors,' Alethea added.
'Fighting priests,' mused the abbess, shaking her head at the strangeness of it. 'Whatever can they want with me?'
'They have come for the Sacred Cup,' Cait told her.
'Have they indeed?'
'It is true,' replied Cait. 'I am sorry.'
This admission caused a sensation among the gathered nuns. They all began talking and crying out at once. 'Silence!' commanded the abbess. 'Silence-all of you. Return to your duties. Those of you who have finished may go to the chapel and pray.' The sisters did as they were told, leaving Cait, Alethea and the abbess alone. 'What else do you know about this?' asked Abbess Annora when the others had gone. She regarded Cait sternly. 'And I think I had better hear it all this time.'
'You led them here,' declared Alethea accusingly. 'They followed you.'
'So it would appear,' admitted Cait unhappily. To the abbess she said, 'I should have told you everything from the beginning. But yes, I knew about the Templars. Their leader is a man called Renaud de Bracineaux; he was the one who murdered my father in Constantinople.'
The letter,' replied the abbess, adding this information to that which Cait had already told her. 'It belonged to him.'