'No, no, no! Not you! You must run to Master Pedrino at the bakery and tell him we will need twenty chickens roasted for tonight's feast.'

'Yes, uncle,' replied the youth, visibly disheartened. 'Twenty chickens – is that all?'

'For heaven's sake! Must I do everything myself? It is to be a feast, Grieco. Tell him we want three sheep as well.' He paused, considering the quantity of meat to be provided. 'Yes, and a pig-a big one, not a skinny runt like last time. Oh yes, and five dozen loaves. No, six dozen, tell him.'

'Yes, uncle.'

'Why are you waiting? Go! Hurry! There is everything to get ready.' The young man made to dash away. 'Wait!' cried his uncle. 'Go to Tomas at the inn and tell him we want wine for sixty guests. He is to bring it to the banqueting hall. And olives, too. Everything!' He fluttered his hands at the havering youth. 'Be off with you now! Hurry!'

The gangly Grieco flapped away down a side street, leaving Cait and Alethea and Carlo to proceed at a more leisurely pace to the magistrate's house where they were received with all cordiality by Carlo's sister, Manuela, who acted as housekeeper, cook, and companion to the busy official. The ladies were conducted directly to places on a low bench under the leafy boughs of a lime tree in the corner of a terracotta tiled courtyard. While Manuela saw to the refreshments, Carlo, drawing up a greenwood chair, settled himself in the pleasant company of his captivating guests.

'Now then,' he said expansively, 'about these tiresome concerns please, tell me everything that troubles you.' Cait smiled and opened her mouth to reply, but her host held up his hand, and said, 'Remember, it is the Magistrate of Palencia you are speaking to by authority of the Castilian Crown. Therefore, tell me everything, and we will see what can be done.'

He waved his hand imperiously, settled back in his chair, and closed his eyes. 'Please to begin.'

'My dear archbishop,' said Commander de Bracineaux smoothly, 'I am very pleased to meet you at last.'

'And I am astonished to meet you at all,' answered Bertrano, eyeing the Templar narrowly. 'You are supposed to be dead.'

De Bracineaux laughed. 'Then I think you will find me a most corporeal ghost.' As if to demonstrate his material presence, he reached out and took the churchman by the arm and squeezed it. 'I assure you, my lord cleric, I have a good deal of life left in me yet.'

Archbishop Bertrano, seated in his throne-like chair outside his hut, regarded the hand on his arm; his flesh seemed to squirm under de Bracineaux's hand-as if he had been touched by something from beyond the grave. 'Indeed, sir,' replied the archbishop, pulling his arm away. 'But how am I to know you are who you claim to be?'

'Ah, yes, of course,' sighed de Bracineaux as if the question had plagued him down the years. 'What proof will you accept?'

'It is not up to me,' grumbled the archbishop.

'Perhaps you would not mind telling me how you came by word of my demise,' suggested the Templar commander.

'But I do mind, sir,' snapped Bertrano. 'I do not see that I owe you any explanations. It is for you to prove yourself, or get you hence.'

'A moment longer, if you please,' said de Bracineaux. 'I do not know how this confusion has come about, but I can guess: there was a woman-not pretty, but young still, with dark hair. She had a letter-your letter-the one you wrote to the pope asking for help to save a treasure called the Mystic Rose. This woman told you I was dead.' Regarding the churchman closely, he said, 'I believe I am close to the mark.'

Archbishop Bertrano fingered the wooden cross at his belt, but said nothing.

Turning to d'Anjou, the commander said, 'You see, baron? It is as we feared – the thief has already been here before us. We are too late. The damage is done.'

'Be of good cheer, my lord,' answered d'Anjou with practised, if slightly oily, sympathy. 'All is not lost.' He turned sad, imploring eyes to the archbishop. 'With God's help we may yet be able to recover the holy relic.'

'You are right to remind me,' replied de Bracineaux glumly. 'We wait upon God's good pleasure-and upon this prince of the church.' Turning once again to the archbishop, he said, 'It rests with you, noble cleric. We are in your hands.'

Bertrano frowned and pulled on his beard. He gazed long at the two men before him and made up his mind. 'Then I will not keep you waiting, my lords. I tell you now I want nothing more to do with you.'

'I protest -' began Baron d'Anjou.

The archbishop cut him off. 'Hear me out. You come galloping into my city with your horses and men, covered with dust and stinking of the trail. You come making demands and shouting orders at everyone, raising an unholy turmoil in the streets. You command audience and bully my monks until I abandon my work to see you.' He glared at his two unwelcome visitors.

'Well, I have seen you,' concluded the archbishop brusquely. 'And I do not mind telling you that I do not like what I have seen.' He rose from his chair and stepped from the table. 'Now, sirs, I will thank you to excuse me. I have a church to build.'

D'Anjou made to object once more, but de Bracineaux waved him off. 'I see we have provoked you, my lord archbishop,' he said. 'Pray forgive us. If we have acted in haste and without sufficient forethought, it was because we have been long on the trail with but a single thought burning in our hearts-to recover the holy relic for the good of the church.'

The archbishop's scowl turned to anger. 'So say you,' he answered. 'But I do not know you. The Renaud de Bracineaux I knew perished in a Saracen prison!' He stepped toward the door of his hut. 'I bid you good day, gentlemen, and Godspeed.' With that he stepped through the door, slammed it behind him, and was gone.

'How extraordinary,' remarked d'Anjou quietly. 'I do believe the man is insane.'

'Perhaps,' agreed de Bracineaux. 'But there is more to this matter than we know. We must consider carefully what has happened before we decide how to act.' He rose stiffly from his chair and rubbed his hand over his face. 'I am tired, d'Anjou, and in dire need of a drink.'

'Come, de Bracineaux,' replied the baron rising at once. 'I sent Gislebert to secure rooms for us at the inn across the square. Follow me, and we shall have wine and meat before you know it.'

The inn was as much stable as hostel, with rancid straw on the floor and a grubby, ill-kept fire on the hearth. It was crowded with rough-handed labourers from the nearby cathedral who sat in dull exhaustion with pots of warm ale between their thick paws, drinking quietly to ease the throbbing in their joints. Several knights from the town had heard about the Templars' arrival and had come to see for themselves what manner of men they were. They were talking loudly and drinking wine as they took the measure of the much-vaunted Grand Commander of Jerusalem.

'This is a noisy place,' grumbled de Bracineaux into his cup, swallowing down the wine in gulps. 'And it stinks. Trust Gislebert to find the worst.'

'I have seen better, certainly.' D'Anjou gazed around the room with mild disgust. 'We could try somewhere else,' he suggested. 'Or would you rather stay at the monastery with the men?'

'Good Lord, no. I have had a bellyful of simpering, damp-eyed monkery.' He drank again and set the cup down heavily. 'We will stay here the night and if all goes well tomorrow we will not be forced to endure another night in this pesthole of a town.'

Baron d'Anjou refilled the cups. 'Have some more, de Bracineaux, and tell me how you plan to persuade this disagreeable priest of your sincerity.'

The commander pushed aside the cup. 'No more of this vile stuff. See if the innkeeper has anything better.'