The Mystic Rose Read Online Free Page B

too.
    Cait sat listening to Alethea’s deep, regular breathing for a moment, and then reached out and rested her hand on the girl’s shoulder where the thin coverlet had slipped aside. The skin was warm beneath her palm, and Thea’s face appeared so peaceful and content, Cait was loath to disturb her rest. No, she thought, let her enjoy the last serenity she will know for a very long time. The grieving will come soon enough.
    She rose, moved silently to the sea chest at the foot of her bed, opened it, withdrew a clean mantle and small-clothes, and then left Alethea to her rest. She crossed the narrow companionway to her father’s quarters and went inside. She stood for a long while, just looking at the room, but apart from the sea chest and a pair of boots in one corner, there was nothing of Duncan to be seen.
    Cait lifted a large, shallow brass bowl from its peg and placed it on the sea chest, then filled it with water from the jar. She undressed then, and washed herself over the basin, letting the cool water sluice away the previous day’s sweat and anguish and tears. The water felt good on her skin and she wished the bowl was big enough for her to submerge her entire body—like the great enamelled basins of the caliph’s hareem her father had told her about once long ago.
    When she finished, she dried herself with the linen cloth from the peg, and then, succumbing to her exhaustion at last, lay down in her father’s bed. She molded herself to the depression left by his body in the soft pine shavings of the box pallet, and closed her eyes on the grim nightmare of the day that had been.
    But there was neither rest nor sleep, nor less yet any respite from the outrageous succession of misfortune that she had suffered in all that followed her father’s death. To recall the stinging injustice of her predicament made her blood seethe.
    For, presented with a corpse in their cathedral, the ecclesiastical authorities had fetched the scholae . When questioned by the leader of the troop, Cait had named the killer, and was immediately brought before a court magister , who listened politely to her story, and then conducted her forthwith to the Consul of Constantinople, a blunt, practical man with a short-shaved head of bristly gray hair. He sat in a throne-like chair beside a table prepared for his dinner, and listened while she repeated her charge; she told him everything, just as it happened—only to be informed that it was not remotely possible.
    â€œYou must be mistaken, woman,” the consul said frankly; his Greek, like that of the others she had spoken to, although different, could be understood readily enough. “Renaud de Bracineaux is Grand Commander of the Templar Knights of Jerusalem. He is a priest of the church, a protector of pilgrims, upholder of the faith.”
    â€œThat may be,” Cait allowed. “But I saw him with my own eyes. And my father named him before he died.”
    â€œSo you say. It is a pity your father died without repeating his accusation to anyone else—one of the priests, perhaps.” He glanced at the table, and stretched his hand toward his cup. “I am sorry.”
    â€œYou mean that you intend to do nothing.” She felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her and she was plunging into a dark, bottomless pit, helpless to prevent it.
    The consul gave her a thin, dismissive smile. “Even if what you allege was in some way possible, I could not take action against this man based solely on what you have told me.”
    â€œBecause I am a woman.”
    â€œBecause you are alone .” The consul frowned, and then sighed with exasperated pity. “Truly, I am sorry. But the law is clear: without the corroboration of at least two witnesses, I can do nothing.”
    â€œThe church was full of people,” Caitríona pointed out. “Someone must have seen what happened.”
    â€œWhere are these people?” the