Free The Mystic Rose by Stephen R. Lawhead

us.”
    The soldiers bound their captive securely hand and foot and quit the chamber. When they had gone, de Bracineauxmoved to the head of the sarcophagus. “Many noble and illustrious men are interred in this crypt,” he said, leaning on his elbows. “Of course, they were dead before taking up residence here—but I do not think anyone will mind if we make an exception for you.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to tell you?” said Philippianous. “You want to know where the women went? I will tell you. Let me go, and I will tell you everything.”
    â€œIn God’s good time.”
    Gislebert arrived just then, carrying a small iron brazier filled with burning coals and suspended by a length of chain. “Ah, here is Sergeant Gislebert now,” de Bracineaux said. “Put the coals there.” He indicated a place on the stone beside the young man’s head. “Where is d’Anjou?”
    â€œD’Anjou is here,” said a voice from the doorway, and a bleary-eyed baron staggered into the room. “God’s wounds, but my head hurts, de Bracineaux. What is so almighty urgent that a man must be wakened and dragged from bed at the crack of noon?”
    â€œWe have an interesting problem before us,” replied the commander. “I thought you might like to see how we solve it.”
    The baron tottered to the sarcophagus for a closer look. “What has he done—stolen the keys to the palace?”
    â€œI have done nothing!” shouted Philippianous. “In the name of God and all the saints, I beg you, release me. I will tell you anything. I do not even know the women. I never saw them before.”
    The commander drew the gold-handled dagger and handed it to d’Anjou. “Exquisite, is it not?”
    â€œI took them to the harbor,” Philippianous said. “I remember now.”
    â€œIt is a very fine weapon,” the baron agreed.
    â€œI took them to Bucoleon Harbor. That is where they wanted to go.”
    â€œIt was made by an armorer in Arles—a very artist with steel,” de Bracineaux said, taking up the knife once more. “It has served me well so many times over the years, yet still looks as good as new.”
    De Bracineaux thrust the dagger into the burning coals. “You know,” he said, as if imparting a closely held secret, “one must be very careful not to allow the blade to grow too hot—gold melts more readily than steel; or, so I am told. In any case, it would be a shame to damage the handle.”
    â€œI think they had a ship waiting for them,” shouted the young Greek, growing frantic. “For God’s sake, let me go. I can find them for you.”
    â€œIt never ceases to amaze me, d’Anjou,” said the Templar commander, pulling on his gauntlets one after the other, “how very talkative people become when they finally grasp the utter hopelessness of their position.”
    â€œPositively garrulous,” replied the baron with a yawn.
    â€œBut then it is too late.” De Bracineaux pulled the knife from the burning coals; the blade shone with a dull, blue-red glow. “The problem now,” he continued, “is turned completely on its head.”
    â€œTurned on its head?” inquired d’Anjou idly.
    â€œYes.” He spat on the blade and the spittle sizzled as it struck the hot metal. “They simply will not shut up.”
    â€œListen to me,” said Philippianous, his voice tight with desperation; sweat rolled from his face and neck in great fat beads. “Wherever they went, I can find them. I have friends in many places. They hear things. Let me go. I will talk to them. I can find these women for you.”
    â€œYou see?” said de Bracineaux. “A very fountain of information.” He nodded to Sergeant Gislebert who, stepping quickly around the sarcophagus, seized the Greek’s hands which were bound at the wrist, and