'Abbess Annora,' began Cait, 'surely I cannot -'

'Hush, daughter, I did not mean you-at least not yet. As I said, the choice is yours. I merely meant that I have been feeling my age of late. I know the time is coming when I must lay my burden down and step aside.'

'I see.' Cait nodded, brow puckered in thought.

'All in God's good time, child.' The abbess regarded Cait in the dim light of the barn's open door. 'But there is something else, I think.'

'I have a confession,' Cait said. 'Once you have heard it, you may change your mind about me.'

Abbess Annora laughed. 'Do you know how many confessions I have heard over the years?'

'I doubt you will have heard this,' Cait replied, frowning. There was nothing for it but to name the black deed and face her judgement. She drew a deep breath and blurted, 'The cup-the Mystic Rose -1 came here to steal it.'

An expression of wonder rearranged the elderly abbess's features. 'Well, you are right. In all my years I never have heard that. And now that I hear it, I am not at all certain that I believe it.'

'Oh, I assure you it is true. Sadly, I am no better than the worst thief who ever lived.'

'Neither do I believe that. Still, I suspect there is a tale here, and I would hear it. Come, you can tell me while we see to the pigs.'

They walked to the next barn to refresh the water in the pigs' trough, and while they went about this homely duty, the abbess scratched the old boar behind his large ragged ears and listened to Cait's long and rambling explanation of the events that had brought her to the abbey and to this decisive moment.

She told it all-about her father's murder, how she had gone to confront the murderer, to hold him to justice, but had been thwarted by the appearance of the White Priest, and had stolen the precious letter instead. The letter, she explained, described a great treasure. She went on to tell how, upon discovering the prize to be won, she had raised a company of knights, and travelled to Aragon with the intent of claiming the Holy Cup of Christ for herself. She told about the attack on the trail, and how Thea had been abducted by bandits, how they had searched and searched for her, and how they had at last been found by Prince Hasan Al-Nizar and taken to his palace in the mountains, the resulting skirmish with Ali Waqqar, and how Abu's dying words had led them to the village by the lake.

She finished, saying, 'I prayed to be God's instrument of justice. I thought to use the Mystic Rose to lure my father's killer to his doom. For that, I needed the Holy Chalice, and I came here to take it.' Overwhelmed by the enormity of her crimes, Cait lowered her head, awaiting the abbess's censure. 'You must think me a most brazen and contemptible sinner. The audacity of my deeds amazes even me.'

'Aye,' agreed Annora, observing Cait with a shrewd appraising eye. 'In truth, it does amaze me also. But I do not know what amazes the more – that you should hold yourself so low, or that you should fail to see the Swift Sure Hand at work in these dark deeds to bring about his glorious purpose.'

Cait made to object, but the abbess asked, 'Did you know that the Sacred Chalice was here?'

'Why, no,' replied Cait after a moment. 'When Brother Matthias was killed all knowledge of the cup was lost, and we gave up any hope of finding it. Also, Alethea and Abu were missing so we abandoned the search in order to rescue them.'

'You did not know the Holy Cup was here until you drank from it, and then its true nature was revealed to you.'

'Yes,' replied Cait. 'That is the way of it.'

'Why did you do that, do you suppose?'

Cait recalled the ceremony in the cave. 'I saw Alethea and the other nun drink from the cup, and it produced such rapture that it roused me to envy.'

'It is not envy to see the joy of the Lord manifest and want it for yourself. Rather, it is the voice of the Good Shepherd, calling you to himself.' She allowed Cait to think about that for a moment, and then said, 'Let us walk some more.'

Cait followed the abbess out into the bright sunlight and crisp cold air once more. Across the field, some nuns were taking firewood from the pile and carrying it to the abbey yard. 'We drink but twice from the Holy Cup,' Annora told her. 'Once when we begin our life in the abbey, and once when death's dark angel approaches to gather us to our rest. That is the same for all of us.

'But not everyone enjoys the same experience of the cup. Some see visions, it is true, but visions are very rare, and even more rarely the same. As each soul is different, each encounter with the Holy Cup is different, too. Neither Alethea nor Sister Lora saw what you and I have seen. And, of course, neither of them received the stigmata.'

Abbess Annora stopped walking, turned and took Cait by the shoulders. 'Do you not see that you have been led here? All that has happened is according to His purpose.'

'Perhaps,' allowed Cait doubtfully.

'Not perhaps. Not maybe. It is as certain as sunrise.' Taking Cait's hand in hers, she laid her fingertips lightly on Cait's wrist and the livid marks now hidden beneath the cloth of her sleeve. 'Tell me you cannot see that even now.'

Cait gazed at Annora, desperately wanting to believe what the abbess said might be true.

'Daughter, I said you were chosen.' She squeezed Cait for emphasis. 'From the beginning your feet have been directed on the path which has led you here.'

'All is as it must be,' Cait murmured to herself. At the abbess's questioning look, she said, 'It is something Abbot Emlyn used to say.' Recalling that old scrap from her childhood comforted her a little; she clutched at it and held on tight.

The abbess released her and stepped away. 'It is a beautiful day, but my old bones do not like the cold. I will leave you to think on this a while. We will talk again in the evening.'

The elderly woman walked back along the path, and Cait watched her until she disappeared behind one of the buildings. So wise, she thought, so patient and understanding. Could I be like that? she wondered. Perhaps, as an abbess, one might, given sufficient time, grow into such goodness.

She turned her face to the clear, bright, sun-washed sky. The blue was a pale and delicate bird-egg blue, and the snow-covered peaks of the mountains round about shone with an almost aching brilliance. Pulling her cloak more tightly around her neck and shoulders, she wrapped her arms around her chest and walked on. Lost in thought, she did not heed where she was going, but simply walked until the path ended and the trail leading down into the valley began. Although she could not see the village, she knew that the Yuletide festivities were continuing apace. And Rognvald was waiting for her.

The thought of him down there, waiting, knowing nothing of the extraordinary changes she was facing, produced a restlessness in her. Rognvald and the knights, her stalwart protectors and faithful companions-she had promised to lead them home…

Home-the thought of Caithness far away brought a confused welter of images before her eyes: the churchyard where her mother was buried, and where she had vowed to bury the heart of her father… the lands and fields and the wide, restless bay… the slate-coloured sea beneath storm clouds… the copper-coloured hills when the heather was red… Suddenly the idea of remaining for ever within the close confines of the abbey seemed abhorrent to her. It was astonishing enough that Alethea should choose this life; for herself it was inconceivable.

Raising her hand, she held her wrist before her face, and was again awed by the deep red mark emblazoned on her flesh. There, for all the world to see, was the indisputable sign of her calling.

The vision still burned in her mind with all the heat and force of a bonfire. There was no denying what she had seen-any more than she could deny the visible signs it had left in her flesh. But neither could she deny who she was-a proud, sometimes arrogant, often stubborn woman – yes, and vengeful-used to thinking her own thoughts, speaking her own mind, and having her own way. Her tolerance for fools, incompetents, and miscreants could be measured in the speed with which she dismembered them with a cutting remark or slashing reply. Anyone who knew her at all, knew the sharp edge of Cait's tongue was a cruel and ready weapon.