“Don’t you like cookies, Mr. Ramsay?” she asked.
“I’ve had enough. Thank you,” he found his voice and pushed his plate toward her. He put down the water and picked up his near empty glass of wine and drank it down as well. Cecile graciously signaled the waiter for a refill and he drank that as well. When he had recovered somewhat, he noticed that the room was spinning slowly in front of his face and the wine was not mixing well with the steak and potatoes.
Merry nibbled a cookie with a very satisfied smile on her face.
The conversation carried on throughout the final phase of the elegant meal. Mark was very anxious to get away from the table and tried to think of some way to leave, but it was hopeless. His condition was worsening with every passing moment. The dizziness worsened and he grew nauseous. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt ill to such an extent that he thought he would pass out.
Valentino stood up and the diners again took their cue from her, standing in unison as well. Mark leaned on the table and put one hand on his forehead while dabbing at the sweat on his upper lip with his napkin.
Valentino leaned close to his ear.
“What is your problem?” she hissed in his ear.
“I have a headache,” he told her. “In fact, I think your dinner conversation has poisoned me.”
“Nonsense,” she whispered. “The poison was in your soup. We are going to the patio for drinks and conversation. It would be better if you excused yourself for prayers or meditation and went upstairs now.”
“I don’t feel up to it,” he told her in truth and clutched his stomach. “Just let me sit here for a while.”
“All right then,” she agreed. “Drinks on the patio, everyone,” she spoke to the guests and then leaned a bit closer to him. “I’ll be talking to you again very soon.”
She looked for Merry who was exchanging words with another woman near the patio doors. “Merry! Mr. Ramsay isn’t feeling well. Would you see to it that he gets upstairs?”
“Sure, no problem,” Merry answered as she gladly disengaged herself from the woman who held her arm.
He looked up at her, grimacing at the prospect of trying to get out of the chair with grace and she laughed at him. His stomach felt full of carpet tacks. He should have chewed the steak a bit more, perhaps.
“You are an evil, evil woman,” he told her, but smiled in spite of his condition.
“I am not,” she protested and came at once to take his arm. “These things bore me to death. At least you kept my mind off that stupid conversation about alchemy. I get so tired of it all.” Her comments affirmed his earlier revelation. Merry knew nothing of Cecile’s goals and cared little to learn about them.
“In that case, I would suggest that we leave here now while they are preoccupied on the verandah,” he suggested hopefully. Black spots floated in the forefront of his vision and he did not want to risk tumbling down the back stairs with her on his arm. “I hope you won’t mind leaving your party.”
“Don’t be silly. Like I said, it’s not my party,” she smiled and dragged him toward the door, unaware of his growing infirmity.
“She really thinks I’m immortal,” he told her as they made their way upstairs. Now he felt drunk and disorientated. He had meant to head for the front door.
“Did you know that?” he asked inanely and leaned heavily on her arm.
“Yes, of course,” Merry frowned at him “and so you are, if she says so. What difference does it make what she thinks?”
“Who is Anthony?” he asked her, jumping to an entirely different subject. Had one glass of wine and a bit of hanky-panky done this to him? His thoughts scattered endlessly.
“You know who he is. He is your Grand Master d’Brouchart’s apprentice. We don’t have apprentices in our order. That word always reminds me of Mickey Mouse. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” she spoke to him as if he were truly witless for asking. “He apparently ran away from your… school or whatever it is. He doesn’t want to be a Templar any more.”
“That’s ridiculous. I'm not a Templar." Before he elaborated more, a chill shook him from his head to his toes and he tightened his grip on her arm.
“No. He really doesn’t. He said it was too rigid a lifestyle for him. He wants something a little less… demanding,” she told him in earnest. “But then you are playing with me, Sir Ramsay. Forget all that right now. Let’s talk about us.”
“I don’t think Anthony is a Templar anymore,” Mark muttered, ignoring her suggestion. Valentino had referred to him in the past tense as if he were dead. Poor Anthony. I thought he was immortal. “I think he’s dead,” he added then wondered why he had blabbed his suspicions to Valentino’s closest companion.
“Noooo, no,” Merry shook her head. “He’s gone. That’s all. Cecile sent him away because you were coming for him.”
They passed her door and she tugged his arm.
“I don’t think that would be very wise, Merry.” He suddenly felt as old as she said he was. “I really am feeling sort of… well, I don’t think it would be wise. I need to… take a shower and revive a bit and they’ll be looking for you.”
“Who cares? I’ll give you a bath. You liked that, didn’t you?” she said. “I suppose you should get some rest, huh? I keep forgetting how old you are.”
He wanted to slap his forehead in frustration, but he held his stomach instead. It was really beginning to hurt now and they still had another set of stairs to make.
“Yes, some rest would be nice. Peachy.”
He still had the little talk with Valentino to look forward to and he had a very bad feeling about it. Maxie was waiting for them in the hall on the third floor, proved it. His hopes of getting some rest were dashed when Maxie opened the door for him and followed him inside, leaving Merry in the hall. The urge to fist fight returned fleetingly, but Maxie stayed well away from him.
“That was a very interesting dessert you had down there, dipshit. I guess you know that all the security in this house is under my… watchful eye?”
"Really? A regular Mr. Manners, you are,” Mark retorted.
“Who the hell is that? You should cooperate. Things could be a lot better for you. You could have your cake and eat it too, pardon the pun.”
Mark’s expression cut him short and he shrugged again.
“Have it your way.”
“That would be agreeable enough.”
Mark sat down at the desk. His stomach revolted and he forced down the urge to vomit. What was next? Another pain, more intense than before struck his midsection and he winced involuntarily.
“I’ll be back for you in a little while. When you’re feeling a bit more… obliging.” Maxie grinned at him and opened the door. “Miss Valentino wants to see you tonight.”
Mark was left alone again, and he was not a happy man. Too much had happened in too short a time. All he understood was that these people wanted something from him that he could not give and he doubted that he would have handed it over even if he knew what it was. He also understood that their accusations might have some foundation in truth, which left his brain swimming in a sea of conflicting emotions and contradictory feelings. One moment he wanted to fall on his knees and pray to God for forgiveness, and the next moment he was trying to kill someone. Could he be as crazy as they were? Did he suffer from multiple personality disorder? Was he possessed by demon spirits?
His nerves were on edge and his feelings for the Pixie were a mixture of fatherly affection, carnal lust and intense hatred. These were not the thoughts or desires of a rational man. What had they done to him? Surely, he had not been a psychopath before he had come here. His clothes and his appearance pointed to a man of some means. His education must have been extensive. He spoke and understood several languages. He had understood three very different conversations at the table. One in English, another in Spanish and a third in German and not only had he understood the languages, he had understood the subjects. It made no sense. None of it made any se
nse. And who was this Anthony character? Who was Lucio Dambretti? And Louis? And this d’Brouchart that Valentino kept talking about? Would the dark-haired man he recalled as friend and brother come looking for him? Would he recognize him?
His illness progressed, and he threw up the entire meal. While he still could, he washed his face, changed his clothes, and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. When he drifted into a fitful sleep, he dreamed of the burning city again.
He was running through the streets. Someone was chasing him. The sand-colored walls of the closely packed buildings closed in on him; the streets became narrower and narrower until he could go no further. He was exhausted from the exertion and breathing was becoming harder and harder as the smoke swirled in around him, choking him. He stumbled, caught himself with one gloved hand and tried to get his bearings. A low stone structure loomed in front of him. A well! His throat was parched and his thirst was all-consuming, but the enemy was right behind him. No time to stop here. He climbed onto the stones beside the dark opening in the ground, stumbling again, almost falling into the well, and they were upon him. He turned and raised his sword wearily. A tall man in a turban screamed at him in the tongue of the Saracens.
“Death to the Infidel Dogs!”
“Praise be to Allah, the one true God!”
The first man to fall on him received the entire length of Mark’s sword through his midsection just as he raised his own blade above his head. Blood poured from the screaming man’s mouth as he fell forward. Mark Andrew pushed at him with one booted foot, desperately trying to dislodge the blade from him before the others reached him, but the second man was on him before he could accomplish the task. He let go of his sword and reached for his dagger. Too late. The dead man’s blood made his hands slick inside the armored gloves and the dagger slipped away from him, falling into the well. He raised his arm as the second man fell on him and he felt a sharp pain in his side as his attacker brought a short, curved knife up in a wicked undercut just below his ribs. The blade grated through the links of the chain mail armor he wore under his surcoat and entered his stomach below his ribs, taking his breath away as well as his desire to wrestle with the man barehanded. He scrambled backwards, clutching the hilt of the knife that impaled him. His boots slipped on the bloody stones as he came dangerously close to the yawning black mouth of the well. The ugly, turbaned man with rotten teeth picked up his discarded broadsword and drew it back over his right shoulder with the clear intention of taking Mark’s head from his shoulders with one deadly blow. At least it would be quick. He threw up one arm instinctively when the man swung the blade, but the man vanished before his eyes as he fell backwards into the depths of the well. Screaming in terror, he clutched the dagger in his side, trying desperately to dislodge it before he struck bottom. It was hopelessly entangled in the armor and blood-stained tabard bearing the Red Cross that he wore. He struck the water on his back and sank immediately into the cool liquid. He felt it cover him, lifting his helmet from his head, loosing his long, prohibited hair.
The Order forbade overlong hair. It flowed across his face, obscuring his view of the bright patch above him where the Saracen leaned over the brink, squinting into the darkness. The water was soothing, cold, numbing. Drowning would be far preferable to having his head cut off in the baking heat of the dusty street above, but the well was only a few feet deep. He stood up and slapped the hair out of his eyes before looking up in time to see part of a nearby wall collapse on the Infidel crushing him, sending down a spray of blood mixed with dust in his face. A flaming bomb slung from a catapult by the Saracen's own army had saved him. The pain in his stomach had eased, but it returned with a vengeance as he fell back under the water again. He tried to scream under the water and kicked at the slippery stones beneath him while the water above him turned red with his own blood.
Chapter Four of Twelve
I am become a stranger unto my brethren
Mark Andrew sat straight up in the bed, gasping for breath, clutching at his side. He pulled up his shirt and stared at the puckered scar there. The wound was healed, but the pain was real. His breath was coming in short gasps and the room was spinning. Before he realized where he was and that he had been dreaming, the door opened and Maxie came in, closely followed by Valentino. He blinked at them in confusion.
“Watcha lookin’ for? Fleas? Get up, dipshit!” Maxie already had the shotgun pointed at him. “Time to go.”
Valentino, still dressed in the dark suit, one eyebrow kicked up in what appeared to be detached curiosity watched dispassionately. His first thought was that Maxie must have shown her a recording of the little incident under the table, but this thought was quickly pushed aside as waves of nausea assaulted him. He leaned over the side of the bed and puked on the floor… again.
“What was that performance at my dinner table about, Mr. Ramsay? You don’t look so tough or amusing now.” She backed into the hall and shouted for one of the servants.
Mark did not answer her, and Maxie shoved him from the bed onto the floor.
Mark Andrew pushed himself up slowly, and pulled his shirt down, trying to will away the effects of the poison. Maxie yanked him brutally to his feet, and shoved him toward the door.
Valentino turned and led the way down the hall, down the back stairway, through the kitchen and outside. Mark limped along behind her, mentally kicking himself for not escaping when he had the chance. They followed a brick sidewalk along the back of the house to a set of double storm doors set at an angle against the base of the mansion. Mark’s spirits fell completely into his shoes. The basement! Of course. It was time to go to the basement. With nothing to lose, Mark turned back suddenly to face Maxie, swaying slightly on his feet. This might be the last time he had a chance to escape at all. The man was five feet behind him with the twin barrels of the shotgun pointed directly at his face. Cold sweat ran in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” the man eyed him coldly above the weapon. “Go for it.”
Valentino stopped to look at them briefly and then continued punching in a series of numbers on the keypad of the electronic locking mechanism. The lights on the box blinked and the sound of the lock disengaging echoed hollowly in the silence of the night.
Mark was no match for shotgun. He turned and froze again at the sight of the black rectangle in front of him. The cellar door reminded him of the well from his dream: dark and forbidding. The half-memory of another such place gave him a jolt. A stinking place full of people groaning in chains, torch light and rats. Hell, no doubt. And he was about to go there… again.
Reluctantly, he followed the woman into the entrance and down a flight of concrete stairs to a surprisingly bright hallway with a dark blue, tiled floor and florescent lights overhead. Their shoes clicked on the tiles, echoing through the stillness. Valentino stopped in front of one of the numerous doors and paused to unlock it with a key from her pocket. Inside the room, rows of sterile white florescent lights flickered to life, illuminating stainless steel lab tables, cabinets and an impressive array of lab equipment. Alchemy had come a long, long way from the caves and cellars of old. He caught himself on the edge of the nearest table and frowned. Alchemy. Alchemy.
“My lab.” Full of pride, Valentino waved one hand about the room. Pride was a sin. Pride was one of the seven deadly sins.
“I’m impressed,” he heard himself say. “Which way to the bloody wolfbane and bat wings?”
“Very funny, Mr. Ramsay. Maxie, would you please show our guest to the seat of honor.”
Maxie handed her the shotgun and Mark noted that she held it with professional ease in the crook of her arm.
Maxie shoved him along to another door beyond which was a much more inviting office with a large wooden desk, computer station and a high-backed leather chair. Wooden bookshelves filled with old leather-bound journals and books lined the walls. A single cherry wood armchair sat in front of the desk. This was the seat of honor. Mark was immensely relieved at not having found himself st
rapped onto a stainless steel table or a rack. Valentino stood behind the desk while Maxie pushed him down in the chair and attached a pair of cuffs to his wrists and the arms of the chair regrettably removing his ability to clutch his stomach.
He sat waiting for the latest cramp to pass, unable to do much more. Already, his arms and legs were growing heavier as the pain in his midsection increased to an unbearable stage and then receded. He went over the symptoms in his mind and tried to decide what type of poison was affecting him. In his fading condition he finally decided that he must have been a doctor or perhaps an executioner rather than an assassin…
Merry drifted into view and took up a position behind the desk. Her normally bright face was marred by a look of total. Mark was sweating profusely, shaking from continuous chills and, yet the room seemed unbearably hot. He could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his face and his neck, soaking his collar. Even his hands and arms gleamed with a thin sheen of water as his body seemed bent on evaporating altogether. The cool air conditioning from the vent over his head brushed his face, but he still felt as if he were in a sauna.
“Now we can make this as simple or as complicated as you like, Sir Ramsay,” Valentino spoke to him. Maxie had the gun again, but held it loosely. Mark was no longer a threat. “First of all…” she stopped talking and glanced back at the Pixie. “Merry, for Christ’s sake!” she addressed the sniffing woman beside her. Merry shifted her gaze from Mark’s face to Valentino. They were little more than blurs of movement now. “Would you please stop looking at him like that? You know what we have to do now and you know why. Straighten up.”
Merry’s brow puckered and she broke into unrestrained tears.
Valentino sighed and slid onto the desk facing him. He tried to focus on her, but his eyesight was dimming and blurring. He shifted his gaze to Merry’s face instead. A much more pleasant view if it was to be his last.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 10