In a moment, Gislebert appeared with the churchman in tow. 'Sit down, Bertrano,' said de Bracineaux, kicking a chair towards him. 'The baron here thinks you should join us for a farewell feast. What do you say to that?'

'I say,' he replied, 'a shred of common decency still clings to the baron. Perhaps he may be redeemed after all.'

'I would not be too certain about that.' The commander pushed a bowl of stew across the table. 'I want you to tell me about the priest-this Brother Matthias.'

'I have already told you all I know,' said Bertrano. He bent his head, murmured a prayer, crossed himself, and began to eat.

De Bracineaux reached out and pulled the bowl away again. 'First the priest, and then the food.'

The archbishop looked up wearily. 'I can tell you nothing I have not already said before. The man was unknown to me before I received his letter. He roams about, building churches and preaching to the poor. That is all I know.'

'It will be a pleasure to see the back of your disagreeable carcass,' said the commander, shoving the bowl of stew towards him once more.

'You are too harsh, de Bracineaux,' said the baron affably. 'Our friend the archbishop is a very fount of wisdom and good will. The road will be a far more lonely and cheerless place when he is gone. We shall miss his merry japes.'

'Thanks to you, the building work will have fallen behind. Winter is upon us, and if the roof is not in place much of the work will be ruined.'

'Has no one ever told you that it is folly to store up treasures on earth where moth and rust do corrupt?' wondered de Bracineaux, bringing a snort of derisive laughter from Gislebert.

'And is it not written: "Because it was in your heart to build a temple for My Name, says the Lord, you did well to have this in your heart…" and, "The temple I am going to build will be great, because Our God is greater than all other gods"?'

'And: "Who,"' retorted the Templar commander, '"is able to build the temple of God? For heaven is his throne, and the earth his footstool."' He raised his cup in mock triumph.

'Even Satan can quote scripture,' replied the archbishop sourly.

De Bracineaux bristled at the jibe. 'Away with you,' he growled. 'Your self-righteous prattling wearies me.'

The archbishop finished his stew, raising the bowl to his lips and draining it in a gulp. Then he stood. 'How is it that a man can see the mote in his brother's eye, yet miss the beam in his own?' With that, he wished them a good night and went back to his room.

'Remind me to give him that lame horse when he leaves tomorrow.'

'Better still,' said Baron d'Anjou, 'why not give him an ass so he has someone of like mind for company?'

'Well said,' laughed Sergeant Gislebert. 'A man after my own heart.'

'You are only half the wit you think you are, d'Anjou,' de Bracineaux grumbled, shaking his head.

'Be of good cheer, commander,' the baron replied. 'Eat, drink, and rejoice – for tomorrow the search for the Mysterious Rose begins in earnest. With any luck, you will have it tucked safely away before the season is through. We can be in Anjou before the snow flies, and winter at my estate-what do you say to that?'

'I say,' replied the commander, 'we do not yet have the relic. I will not revel and make merry until I hold it in my hands.'

'Then let us drink to the quest,' said the Baron, raising his cup. 'May our joy be swiftly consummated.'

Their supper was pease porridge and black bread again-and for the next three nights-as each day's search took the party further into the wild, desolate mountains. The weather grew steadily worse, each day colder than the last, the clouds lower, darker, filled with mist and rain. Wind blew down from the barren heights, buffeting them by day, and invading their sleep by night.

One cheerless day they found one of Abu's markers in a broad, grassy glen. Nearby lay the remains of a campfire; there were tufts of wool on the bushes and brambles, and sheep droppings on the ground. 'Probably a shepherd taking his flocks down to the lower valleys for the winter,' observed Paulo, raising his eyes to the mountain peaks which now loomed over them. 'God willing, we will soon be going home, too.'

The next day they rode out in the direction indicated by the marker and promptly lost the trail. By nightfall they had not found it again. 'It is gone,' Paulo concluded dismally.

'We must have missed a marker,' suggested Yngvar.

'Perhaps,' allowed Paulo. 'But I do not think so.'

'We will find it tomorrow,' Cait said, 'when the light is better.'

'I am sorry, Donna Caitriona,' he said, shaking his head, 'the ground is mostly rock and chippings. If not for Abu, we would not have been able to trail them this long. Something must have happened to him.'

'If he was injured or killed,' said Svein, 'we would have found him on the trail.'

'The bandits must have caught him,' Yngvar concluded. 'This is what I think.'

'Then God help him,' said Dag.

'What are we to do now?' Cait asked, turning to Rognvald, who stood nearby with his arms folded over his chest to keep warm.

'I suspect they have a stronghold hidden in one of the high valleys,' the tall knight replied. 'We will establish a camp at the last marker, and then we will ride out from there and examine each valley in turn until we find them.'

The place Rognvald suggested was a grassy dell formed by the junction of two larger glens running either side of a great, jutting spur of a peak. A fresh-running stream flowed around the foot of the mountain, so they never lacked good water; there was a sizeable stand of trees on one side of the meadow where they could get firewood, and green boughs with which they constructed crude shelters to keep off the worst of the rain and wind. Not for the first time did Cait wish they had been able to bring the tents-and the extra clothing she had left behind.

The next morning they began searching out the many-fingered valleys, following the rough mountain pathways through one windblown canyon after another. It quickly became apparent that there were far too many canyons, gorges, dales, and hollows to be explored; so, to make the most of their efforts, they decided to pair off, each pair of searchers pursuing a different direction.

They changed horses every day, to rest the animals and allow them to graze on the lush grass of the glen. Each morning they rode out with hope renewed. This day, they were certain, their dutiful perseverance would be rewarded; but each evening they returned to collapse beside the coldwater stream, exhausted and frustrated, to spend another dank night on the ground. Each day Cait's hopes, like the late autumn sun, rose a littler lower than the day before, the light that much weaker, and more distant.

The horses ate their fill of grass and began to grow thick winter coats; but Cait and her company of knights were not so fortunate. They soon ran out of the most perishable provisions: eggs, cheese and bread; then the wine slowly disappeared, leaving only the dried meat, meal, and beans. Each night there was less to eat, and it grew increasingly apparent that if their efforts were not soon rewarded, they must abandon the search to return to the lowlands where they might find a settlement or town where they could replenish supplies.

'We have enough for ten more days, maybe,' said Dag, who had become cook and provisioner for the company. They had awakened to find a fine white haze of hoarfrost on the ground; a delicate coating of frost edged the stream and spiked the bare branches of the trees. 'After that… well, it is in God's hands, I think.'

'The supplies will not outlast the weather,' Paulo pointed out. 'Winter is on us. The snow is coming-it could come any day -tomorrow maybe, or the day after, but soon-and when it does, it will close off the passes and we will be lucky to get out of here.'