The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death

by Brendan Carroll

  “Where is Anthony?” Merry asked again.

  “He’s gone.” Cecile sighed and her shoulders slumped. They had been through this a dozen times. “And good riddance."

  “I liked Anthony!” Merry whined plaintively. “And I think he like me, too. Or at least, he was beginning to. This is not going to work if you keep finding fault with everyone I find! I’ll be a withered a woman in a few years and…”

  “Well, he’s gone,” Cecile retorted, cutting her off and allowing irritation to creep into her voice. “Merry, look, Anthony was just a gold-digger. We would have never been rid of him... well, that's not exactly true," Cecile laughed slightly. "Trust me, sweetie. You will have what you want and then we’ll live happily forever after.”

  “What are you talking about? You know I have a totally different taste in men than you do and... What do you mean that's not exactly true?"

  Cecile smiled and leaned forward. "Actually, there was more to Anthony than I knew. It seems he was more my type than you know. He was a fugitive.”

  "Whaat?" Merry's eyes widened.

  "Not a criminal. He was a Templar. An apprentice to one of the Knights. It seems he didn't care for their lifestyle after he joined up. Anyhow, he was on the run."

  "Why?"

  "Because this particular Order is the real thing, Merry. Blood in/blood out. Just like the gangs in LA. Someone was chasing him. Someone would have eventually caught him and killed him."

  “How…what are you talking about, Cecile?!” Merry cut her off and picked up her orange juice. Cecile loved drama and Merry was determined not to fall into the trap… again.

  “If you had been paying attention to the boy instead of just trying to get him in your bed…,” Cecile grumbled and took up her paper again. “He told me that he was not only an apprentice, but he was the Grand Master's apprentice. Don't you remember what I told you about?”

  “What? That there is an Order with a bunch of immortal members and they know the secret of immortality? What are they? Vampires?” Merry continued to irritate her with more questions.

  “No! Would you stop?” Cecile asked coldly. “They are not vampires. Good grief, you really take the cake, Meredith Nichole! Don't you see? If one of the immortals was after Anthony, he'll come here looking for him. And we'll be ready for him. I want to know about this Philosopher's Stone. According to Anthony, the one coming after him is called the Knight of Death. Strangely enough, he seems to also know all about the Philosopher's Stone. Can you imagine what that means, Merry?"

  "Sounds dangerous to me." Merry sniffed and allowed one perfect tear to escape the corner of her eye. "I liked Anthony and you ran him off. You run all of my prospects off. It's just because you're jealous, but you promised, Cecile. My clock is ticking and I want a baby before it's too late."

  Cecile put down her paper again, this time slapping it on the table hard enough to cause the dishes to jump.

  “Look!” she said angrily. “This Knight of Death will be here soon and maybe he will be suitable. I'll have to talk him into thinking that Anthony will be back somehow… I don't know. I'll figure it out. Anyhow, I'll get him to stay for a few days. If he looks promising, then maybe you can hook up with him. Think of it, Merry! Immortality! If we can get to the Grand Master through this guy and…"

  Merry sobbed in earnest and pressed her hands against her eyes.

  Cecile got up and went around the table in defeat. She patted Merry’s shoulder in an awkward attempt to comfort her, as she continued to cry into her napkin. The younger woman blew her nose loudly and Cecile cringed.

  “All right,” she relented. “I’ll tell you what. If he’s ugly or… or… OK, look. Let me check him out first and we'll see. Stop crying. You know I hate it when you cry. It’s so… messy.”

  "I want to make the choice, Cecile," Merry said. "You just don't understand!"

  "I understand that you are a spoiled rotten child and I waste my time trying to do anything for you!"

  When her words brought more tears and more nose-blowing, she rolled her eyes and bent over the blond curls, planting a kiss in the midst of the fluff. She suppressed the urge to say something she would regret and forced a softer tone.

  “Won’t you go on upstairs and take a bubble bath? Maxie has it all worked out. He'll be coming in from DFW this afternoon. Maybe you and Maxie can drive out and follow him back here. Make sure he doesn't get lost?"

  "Really? Maxie can't be that good," Merry frowned up at her. "He's stupid."

  "Maxie knows people at DFW. And I have my own connections. You don't think I've searched for these people for so long without results, do you? It was no accident that we ran into Anthony on that cruise, sweetie."

  “Oh. What does he look like?” Merry looked up at her, wiping at her eyes. “How will we know it’s him?”

  “OK,” Cecile’s features changed to one of relief and she sat down next to the blond, taking her hands in her own. “Here’s what I’ve been told. He’s six foot two, dark blue eyes, black hair. Supposed to be long according to Anthony and he’s an outdoorsy type, you know? He’s supposed to be Scottish, but I doubt he’ll be wearing a kilt.” Cecile attempted to make a joke, but Merry nodded again, missing it. “He reserved a black El Dorado at the airport in Dallas. Anthony says he likes black. Wears it all the time, apparently. You can’t miss him. Oh, and he’ll be wearing the rings I told you about, but I doubt you’ll get close enough to see them.”

  “But won't he be dangerous? You say he is an assassin.” Merry was still not satisfied. She was never satisfied.

  “He is,” Cecile told her matter-of-factly. Her ever-changing face quickly showed signs of reverting to anger. “Maxie can handle it. Now go on upstairs and I’ll be up shortly.”

  Merry allowed the woman to pull her from the chair and push her toward the patio doors.

  Merry stopped on the stairs and looked back toward the patio. If she was going to have her way, she would have to act fast. If this so-called immortal had prospects, she would just have to take matters in her own hands. Cecile just fucked things up every time she found someone suitable for a father for her child. Maybe not this time. She hurried to her room and rummaged through the desk drawers for Cecile's personal journal. It was where Cecile kept all her notes about the elusive Templars.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Blood trickled down the side of Mark Andrew Ramsay’s face, mingling with the perspiration staining the collar of his once neatly pressed white shirt. He could feel the sweat running from beneath his hair onto his forehead and into the cut above his eye, adding a stinging sensation to the pain that was already there, but that was minor in comparison to the multitude of other pains he felt in various parts of his body. He raised his head slowly and blinked rapidly, trying again to clear his blurred vision as the leering face of his tormentor came into view again. The heavy features of the man would have been unpleasant under any circumstances, but the scowl there now and the decidedly twisted gleam in his murky blue eyes portended a very bad afternoon to come.

  He closed his eyes against the sight of the smile that crinkled the ugly scar on the man’s left cheek and prepared himself to receive another round of kicks, blows or punches.

  “Yeah, better close them baby blues, dipshit!” The man laughed in his face, close enough for him to smell his breath. “You don’t want to see what’s comin’ next.”

  Mark waited. He could hear the man crunching around in the dried leaves, rocks and crisp grass of the pecan orchard. Once again, he tried to remember how he had gotten here, but he could remember nothing at all. He didn't really remember his name. He only assumed that Mark Andrew Ramsay was his name because the man told him it was so.

  When nothing else was forthcoming, he opened his eyes again to see the hulking figure walking away from him under the trees. Perhaps he was going to get something more interesting to beat him with like a mace or a morning star. He hung his head and tried to concentrate on what might be holding him in place.
Long, dark hair cascaded from his shoulders, hanging loosely on either side of his face, startling him into the realization that he had no idea what he looked like. For all he knew, he could be as ugly as his captor or worse. His hands were behind him; he could feel the bite of rope or cords cutting into his wrists when he tried to move them and the pain in his shoulders indicated that his arms were stretched back and around the sides of the tree behind him. He sat on the ground at the base of the tree with his feet in front of him. Black socks, no boots or shoes.

  When he looked up, he found that the man had disappeared from his line of sight. Perhaps, if he could get his feet under him, he could at least raise himself from the sitting position to where the tree trunk might be small enough to give some relief to his wrists and shoulders. Drawing up his knees slowly, he tried to find enough leverage to lift himself and felt the rough bark of the tree grinding into his back through his shirt. With desperate resolve, he pushed upwards and felt his arms slip up the trunk just a bit. Gritting his teeth against this wave of different pain, he pushed again and slid a few more inches up the tree before the rope snagged on something, stopping his progress. It would not work. He let out the breath he was holding and tried to ease himself back down without doing more damage, but the big man was back suddenly, kicking his feet from under him. It seemed impossible that he could have raised himself to the height indicated by the bone-jarring crash precipitated by the vicious kick. He was sure his spine was broken by the slight fall and surely there would be no skin left on his back. He heard himself groan as he settled back into this former position at the base of the tree.

  The man took a handful of his hair and slammed his head against the tree. Stars danced in front of his eyes and blackness threatened to take him away, but unmercifully did not, leaving him looking up into the ugly man’s face again.

  “Where’re you goin’, dipshit?” the man asked. “Somebody else wants to talk to you. You be a pretty boy now and don’t try that again.”

  He let go of the hair and Mark’s chin dropped to his chest. He was beyond thirsty and wondered how long he had been there in the orchard. It seemed like a very long time and, in fact, may have been. The tree was all he could remember. As far as he was concerned, he had been there all his life. He heard the leaves and old pecan shells crunching again as more footsteps approached, but he refrained from looking up to see who was coming to visit him now. Strangely, he heard his stomach growl and a new sensation made its way into this brain. He was starving… literally. He must have been here for days.

  “Mark Andrew Ramsay?” a pleasing female voice surprised him. He raised his head too quickly and the stars came back to entertain him. Dizziness joined the repertoire of unpleasant sensations and sweat ran into one eye, cutting his restricted vision in half. Death surely could have finished the sideshow at any moment and he thought that it might have been a good thing. He decided against looking for the woman that belonged to the voice. The effort was too great and she was probably as ugly as her companion in spite of her pleasant voice. “Knight Templar. Master of the Key of Death.”

  This caused him to frown which caused the cut to bleed more which brought new pain which caused him to groan involuntarily. His vision cleared a bit and the image of a woman dressed in a flowered summer dress danced in front of his eyes while the trees behind her moved in a great circle.

  When she smiled, he thought she was an Angel, come to welcome him to Paradise, but the pain in his shoulders and the pain in his wrists and all the other pains he felt indicated quite plainly that he had not crossed over just yet.

  “Won’t you talk to me?” she asked.

  She knelt beside him and brushed his hair from his face before leaning close and looking into his eyes. He could smell her perfume and see the tiny golden hairs on her cheek in the dappled sunlight. She held a bottle of water to his lips and he drank it without thinking, spilling it over his chest. The water was cold and sweet and he nodded his approval without taking his eyes off her face where clear blue eyes and cherubic cheeks were framed by short golden curls.

  “The company of women is a dangerous thing, and the devil has turned many men from the path to Paradise by providing female company," he said without knowing why. His own voice was strange to his ears.

  He wondered why he would say such a rude thing to the best sight he had seen in his extremely brief life.

  “Spoken like a true knight, but you don’t have to worry about all that right now,” she said and her smile widened as if the rude comment pleased her somehow. She traced a cool finger down the trail of blood on his face. “Such precious blood should not be wasted.”

  When she leaned closer, he realized that the thin frock was almost the only thing she wore over a lithe, tanned body. His mouth fell open slightly and his eyes almost crossed at the sight of so much smooth feminine flesh. At least the view was pleasant, or would have been pleasant under other circumstances… perhaps. She followed his gaze with her own eyes and then pursed her lips thoughtfully before sitting back on her heels.

  “Do you like what you see?” she asked and then rocked forward just enough to brush his face with her own as she whispered directly in his ear. “There is such a fine line between pleasure and pain, Mark Andrew. Don’t you agree?”

  “Who are you?” he asked and turned his face away from her. Her perfume smelled like she looked, soft and expensive. Whatever her game was, it was far worse than being beaten by her brute of a companion. He knew how to safely react to a good beating. This was much more diabolical and cruel. Not an angel, but a devil.

  “You should have been more cooperative with Maxie,” she frowned sympathetically and turned his head back to face her. “He can be such a brute at times. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “What was the question?” he asked.

  Mark felt the dizziness return as he gazed into her eyes. What did she want? What did the big, ugly man want?

  “Do you like what you see?” she asked again.

  He nodded. This was not right at all, but perhaps a little cooperation might be in order until he could get his bearings.

  “Maxie asked you a lot of questions and this is the first one you have answered so far. Maybe his methods of interrogation are too crude. Perhaps you would respond better to a softer approach.” She leaned forward again, pressed her lips to his and he closed his eyes tightly. Not right. Not right. She took his head in both her hands and he allowed her to run her tongue over his lips and between his teeth.

  Mark could not believe what was happening and winced as yet another sensation coursed through him causing him a variety of new pains as his entire lower body convulsed involuntarily in response to her attentions. She sat back and looked at him in surprise. “You see? A very fine line. We can make all this other stuff just disappear.”

  He could do nothing but sit staring at her as she worked one hand under his belt, inside his waistband and down to where the latest in a long list of unexpected sensations was developing in direct contrast to what his mind was saying about this bizarre situation. She moved into a very compromising position, settling down on his lap, causing more pain in his legs.

  When he involuntarily tugged on the ropes holding him in place, he realized it was not an attempt to escape, but rather an attempt to embrace her. He mumbled an incoherent objection to what she was doing when she unzipped his pants and then made another attempt to reach her, but this time he wanted to rip her apart for reducing him to such a sorry state.

  “How long has it been for you, Sir Ramsay?” she whispered and ran her fingers through his damp hair.

  “How long for what?” he heard himself ask stupidly, afraid of what she was referring to.

  “You won’t regret breaking your vows with me,” she told him and leaned back to work on his belt buckle. Within seconds at least one part of him was blessedly free and he cursed it for betraying him so blatantly.

  “What language was that?” she asked as she maneuvered into place, but
he was in no mood to answer. He didn’t know or care what she was talking about.

  None of it made sense to him, but she was right about one thing. He was no longer worried about anything except what she was doing now. He wondered vaguely where her companion had gone and if he was watching them. No matter what he could not remember, he felt this 'assault' was something that he had never experienced before. She adjusted her position once more and an involuntary noise escaped his lips as she lowered herself onto his lap and adjusted her skirt to cover what was occurring and covered his mouth with her own, kissing him deeply. Mark leaned his head against the tree and closed his eyes. This had to be a dream, a nightmare. There was nothing he could do to help himself or her efforts, but she needed no help whatsoever.

  The pleasure was very short-lived and before she could get his belt fastened again, everything had returned to its former state of intolerable pain. She kissed him once more and he dropped his head on his chest breathing hard while she made him a bit more presentable. When she stood up, he realized that he could no longer feel his feet.

  “These ropes are much too tight,” she said as if noticing for the first time that he was in a bit of trouble. She turned slightly and whistled as if summoning a horse. The mount in question turned out to be the scar-faced man, who showed up shortly, wearing the same ugly scowl as before. If he had witnessed the strange event that had just occurred, it had not helped his temperament.

  “Let him go,” she told the man brusquely.

  “That wouldn’t be very smart,” the man growled and frowned at her as if she were crazy.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” she said. “I said let him go. Now! He can barely breathe.”

  Mark waited for what he knew would be another unpleasant event. The man stomped angrily behind the tree and cut the rope that held him against the trunk with a wicked hunting knife. The man did this work none too gently and gave one last jerk before letting the rope go. This second release was even more gratifying than the first and more than welcome. Mark dragged his numb hands around in front of him very slowly and laid them in his lap. Surprisingly, no fingers appeared to be missing, though there was no sensation in them and they were a distinctively unhealthy, purple color. As the feelings began to return to his fingers, the accompanying stinging tingle gave him something else to appreciate.