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

by Brendan Carroll

  “Your brother’s apprentice shared his secrets with me before he left,” Valentino resumed her speech. “One of them was of particular interest, but unfortunately, Master, Edgard d’Brouchart, did not impart it to him in its entirety. It is Edgard d’Brouchart that I want to meet. You know where and how he can be found. Just tell me how to find Edgard d’Brouchart and I will cease bothering you.”

  Mark found it very difficult to concentrate on her words. If he had not been feeling such pain in his stomach, he might have felt very good… very, very good. The poison was in the soup. She had not been joking. He tried to swallow and found even that simple action becoming difficult as well. He continued to stare at the Pixie hoping inanely that he would not drool on his shirt in front of her. She was beginning to look more and more angelic against the fuzzy haze behind her and certainly an angel would not mind if he drooled a bit, would he? She… he… it? What were angels after all? Male? Female? Did it matter?

  He could no longer see the bodyguard and didn’t know if it was his failing vision or if the man had moved.

  Valentino leaned into his field of vision. He blinked and drew his head back wobbly on his neck, trying to focus on her face. “You're probably wondering what is wrong with you?”

  He nodded though there didn’t seem to be much of a question about it any more. He just wanted her to move so he could see Merry again. At least he could die with something pleasant in his mind.

  “You know full well that I can’t kill you with poison, but I can still give it to you just for grins and giggles. Remember? We may be able to defeat death, but we will never be able to defeat suffering. I’ve already seen that you can bleed like a mortal man and you can feel pain like a mortal man. Think of the unlimited research possibilities… the list is endless… and the subject would never die… at least not permanently. Just tell me where d’Brouchart is and I’ll take up my inquiries with him, otherwise I know people who would be very interested in such a research subject.”

  Mark looked at her whimsically and then winced when she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. He could feel his stomach still hurting, but it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered.

  The heat abated suddenly and he shuddered as the sensation of being dipped in icy water started at his feet and spread up his legs, finally gripping his heart in a vice momentarily before traveling rapidly up into his throat, choking him, making it impossible to draw a breath. He took a perverse consolation in the fact that, once he was dead, he would have proved, once and for all, that Valentino was wrong about his immortality and Miss Meredith Pixie would weep over his body when they buried him. He was neither immortal nor rational. He would be dead and then she would feel foolish. He used his last few seconds of lucidity to smile at Cecile before he slumped in the chair.

  “I know you are past answering me now,” Valentino continued talking to him.

  He wished his ears would also stop working. Would he have to die with her voice ringing in his ears?

  “This is just a little preview of what is to come. I am particularly proud of this potion. I created it to kill rats. I do hate those bastards. Don’t you?”

  Her voice was finally fading. He heard Merry call his name one time before his ears popped and then there was silence, though he could still see his lap through a fog. He felt something warm fill his mouth and he thought his teeth were falling out in his lap.

  “Sir! Sir!” a dirty ragamuffin’s face peered closely at him in the dim, filtered light.

  He slung his head and water flew from his hair in all directions. New pain stabbed his side as he gasped for air.

  “Up here. Give me your hand,” the boy spoke to him in Latin.

  The urchin reached down one grubby hand and he stretched his free hand up to take it feebly, nearly pulling the scrawny boy in the water with him. The boy braced himself expertly against the rocks in front of him and strained with all his might, pulling Mark slowly up the rough wall toward the cramped opening in the side of the well. The sounds of shouts and screams echoed down the shaft from the street above. He slipped and fell back in the bloody water and the boy shifted positions to get a better grip on his arm, pulling off the armored glove in the process.

  “Sancta Maria! You must come out of there,” the boy shouted at him urgently in broken French. “They will be back for your body. They’ll want to hang it over the wall and put your head on a pike pole!” The boy was from Europe. Not one of the natives of Jerusalem.

  With a great groan and an even greater effort, he lifted his foot and planted it on the wall, reaching up with his other hand to grip the edge of the ledge where the boy waited frantically. The boy counted to three and he pushed up with all this strength while the child pulled on his arm. He fell into the passage on his stomach and the dagger still stuck in his side pushed deeper, causing him to scream in the boy’s face.

  “Get up! Get up! Come on, Master! Sancta Maria! In the name of God, hurry!” the boy shouted in his face and tugged on him, refusing to allow him to rest. Mark struggled up on his knees and used one hand to crawl haphazardly down the dank, stone hole with the boy pushing him from behind. He could smell the stench of the dead, the newly dead and the long dead. His chain mail jingled and grated against the stone over his back. He clutched the hilt of the dagger in his hand to keep it from moving as much as possible.

  The battle was lost. The city had fallen to Saladin’s warriors. The sounds of the slaughter in the streets above were fading as he moved on as quickly as he could into the ancient stone foundations of the Holy City. The dagger burned as if it were super heated. Blood ran over his hand and dripped onto the rock beneath him. He realized that the boy was no longer behind him, but pushed on as best he could. A few moments later, the boy was back, more frantic than ever.

  “Hurry! Hurry! Don’t stop. The city is burning!”

  Without warning, he was falling again in the darkness, deeper into the bowels of the catacombs to a lower level. He tumbled down rough steps, screaming with each bounce he took. He didn’t think he could make it to wherever they were going before the knife disemboweled him. The boy was suddenly beside him in the greenish darkness. The glow from the well’s hidden passage barely illuminated the child’s dark face. How had he come to be in the well? Who was he?

  “This way,” the boy spoke perfect Latin, explaining that they would be safe in the catacombs as he pulled and tugged him.

  When he heard the echoing shouts of more assassins behind them, Mark hobbled after his unlikely rescuer with one more tremendous effort. A distinctive scraping noise echoed in the passage. The boy had gone back for the weapon in the face of incredible danger and was dragging the heavy weapon along with them. Mark’s feet felt like lead in the wet boots and his armor felt as if it would crush him. He dropped the chain mail leggings and the gauntlets as he went. He had his mace, his shield and two of his three knives. He couldn’t pull off the chain mail hauberk under the tabard due to the dagger in his side. Tangled in the small loops, it actually pinned his armor to him. He stopped and leaned against the wall, gasping for air.

  The boy came back, taking his arm again.

  “You can’t rest here, Sir."

  After a few deep breaths, Mark stumbled forward again. Soon they came to another ledge and below, in the blackness, he could hear the sound of water. He leaned against the wall again, supporting himself with one hand. There was absolutely no hope of making it down another set of stairs alive.

  “I can’t,” he said simply in Latin. "Give me the sword."

  The boy bobbed about him like a small monkey squinting in the dimness at the dagger’s hilt protruding from his side. Presently, the glow of a torch illuminated their surroundings. He squinted at the clever boy who was now examining the hilt of the dagger in the light of the torch. The child apparently lived in this horrid place. There were pots and blankets, leather bags and sacks strewn about the floor behind him. He jerked away from the child when he touched the knife.

 
“Stay still, Sir. You must be strong, Master,” the boy told him and took hold of the hilt of the knife.

  Mark Andrew knew what was coming next and he knew that it was necessary if he had any hope of surviving. There would be ransoms to be had. Negotiations to be made. He steeled himself, took as deep a breath as he could, wrapped his free hand over the boy’s smaller hands and nodded to the boy. The pain was more than he could bear when the dagger came free. He instinctively took a swing at the street urchin and they went over the side of the ledge, both screaming all the way down to the cold, black water below. The icy liquid enveloped him, freezing him instantly as he breathed the water into his lungs. The world went black and then brilliantly white.

  Mark snapped his eyes open. It took several moments for him to realize that he was looking into his own lap. The blood from the wound inflicted by the Saracen’s dagger stained his clothes and made him wince at the sight of so much of it. He couldn’t have much left. The smell of the gory mess was sickening.

  “Bravo, Sir Ramsay,” a woman’s voice cut through his mind like a Saracen’s dagger. “Twelve minutes. Twelve Knights. Twelve Disciples. Twelve months. Twelve signs in the Zodiac. What a coincidence. What else do you do in twelves, Mr. Ramsay? Truly remarkable.”

  Valentino was overjoyed. Her tone clearly indicated it.

  Someone pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. He leaned his head all the way back and closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth, as the memory of what had occurred came back to him in a terrible rush. He felt much better than before, but he was hungry again incredibly enough, his stomach growled. He opened his eyes and saw the Pixie’s worried face above him. Crystal clear. It was Merry who was washing his face.

  “Could I…” he said with difficulty, his mouth full of money. “Could I have a drink of water?”

  “Oh, sure, why not?” Valentino answered him. “Whatever you like, Mr. Ramsay.”

  The Pixie disappeared for several seconds. She came back and held a small glass of water to his lips. It tasted wonderful. He found Valentino with his eyes over the edge of the glass. He felt strangely empty, hollow and clean in spite of the mess in his lap. She was still leaning on the desk in front of him. It seemed that hours had passed since he had gone to sleep, but from the looks of things, it could not have been more than a few minutes at most, unless they were perpetrating an elaborate hoax on him. But why? Did they really expect him to believe that he had died and come back from the dead? He knew he hadn’t died. He remembered dreaming.

  “Now we can talk,” she told him. She twirled a pencil on the tip of her index finger. “I really did have my doubts about you. But now I know that the immortals really exist.”

  “What?!” Merry spun on her. “You mean that you didn’t know for sure? You took a chance on killing him just to prove a point?”

  “So?” Valentino shrugged and then stood up slowly. “And if he had died, would it have mattered so much? Exactly what is it about him that you find so damned interesting, Merry? Are you in love with him?”

  Her comments only confirmed Mark’s suspicions that the woman intended to kill him for real sooner or later. He distinctly remembered the dream about the well. He determined not to miss his next chance to leave, if one ever arrived.

  Merry's angelic face was a mask of horrified disbelief as tears streamed down her cheeks. Mark focused his attention on the exchange between them. She still believed that this Anthony character was alive and he was quite convinced now that ‘poor Anthony’ was dead. Stone cold dead.

  Merry realized for the first time that Cecile was not playing with a full deck. They argued and shouted at each other while Maxie stood by silently smirking. It was also quite evident that Valentino was running the show. She suddenly snapped and slapped the blond across the face. Merry shrieked in surprise and pressed her hand over the spot.

  “I’m sorry! You know how I feel about you, Merry. I can’t stand the thought of…”

  “I’m not in love with him!” she shouted, and then added more calmly. “It’s just… well… I didn’t know you had doubts about the immortality thing. That’s all. We’re talking about a human life, Cecile.”

  “I’m sorry I slapped you, Merry. I was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure, you know? I mean it’s just human nature not to believe, like it’s human nature to be jealous,” Valentino tried to sound truly sorry, but narrowed her eyes sharply, studying the blonde's face closely. “We don't need any more of these outbursts. They are counter-productive. Is that clear, sweetheart?”

  She took Merry’s hands in hers and looked into her eyes. Mark could also see that Merry was totally under the influence of the older woman, perhaps even to the point of being mortally afraid of her or even brain-washed. Merry glanced at him briefly and then smiled sickly at Valentino.

  “I know,” she muttered. “I’m sorry I made you mad.”

  “Take her back upstairs, Maxie.” Valentino turned to the ugly man, who quickly changed his expression to one of concern. “I can handle this. He’s not going anywhere now.”

  “But I want to stay,” Merry protested.

  “You don’t have the stomach for it, little girl. I don’t want you upset for no reason. You will have nightmares if I let you stay. Go on up and take a bath and… hey, make us some hot chocolate and popcorn. I’ll be up in a little while. We’ll watch a movie… or something.”

  Merry sighed and turned away with Maxie following closely behind her. The ugly man looked back at him and smiled.

  “Now, as I was saying, you’ve made me very happy,” Cecile told Mark as soon as they were gone. She took a seat in the high-backed leather chair and propped her feet on the desk. “No doubt, you have made Merry very happy as well or tried to. I have faith in her, Mr. Ramsay. She knows the importance of the rituals as I’m sure you do as well. Timing. The great sacrifice. The Great Work. The Great Rite. All that. But the original question still remains.”

  “I don’t know anyone named d’Brouchart,” he said, but there was no confidence in his statement. He did remember the man, but that was all. He did not know exactly what d’Brouchart was other than the words ‘Grand Master’ which held no distinct meaning for him. He certainly did not know where he might be found. “Just because I did not die from your poison doesn’t mean I’m immortal. It only proves that I'm not a rat.”

  “Is that a double entendre? You know, I’m beginning to like you.” She smiled at him. “I’m surprised to see you still have your sense of humor. You died all right. No pulse. No respiration. Nothing for twelve minutes. And now you sit here as if nothing happened. People don’t die for twelve minutes and then just take a breath and wake up all by themselves. Next time, I’ll hook you up to an EEG. Do a bit of scientific research on your brain. You know, make sure you’re not just comatose or something. I still have that wee little bit of doubt. I have a machine in the lab, but I’m still reading the instruction book.” She laughed. “Those things are awfully complicated. Merry could probably do it better, but she’s so squeamish sometimes. She makes me mad at her. She shouldn’t do that…” her voice trailed off before she continued “at any rate, I’ll need to know for sure, but, trust me, I believe you were dead. I don’t think anyone could survive the poison I gave you.”

  “I only know what you tell me.”

  “I am not an inquisitor, Sir Ramsay, and I hardly consider myself a sadistic maniac. So I really don’t want to start doing anything along those lines. This was really more than I had bargained for to be perfectly honest. I am not particularly fond of blood and guts.” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. “It seems that no matter what I do to you, you are still going to sit there and deny everything, which is, by the way, highly commendable, but I don’t have time to waste on you. Every minute is precious to me. I have another, more civilized method I want to use. Now that I know you are immortal, I want to try the same thing with you that I used with Anthony. It worked very well on him, but he was not immortal. Not one of the great mysterious knigh
ts.”

  “Really?” Mark said tiredly. He did not want to hear it. “Did your poison work on him?”

  “I didn’t poison him. I used hypnosis,” she answered and then leaned back in the chair and put her hands behind her head. “Usually hypnosis does not work unless the subject is willing, but I use a method that does not require such cooperation on the part of the subject.”

  “And if you do this, you will get your answers?” Mark perked up a bit. Perhaps she could convince herself of the truth. He certainly couldn’t convince her of anything.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then I suggest we get on with it,” he told her.

  Maxie returned to the office and took up his stance by the door.

  “Maxie,” Cecile stood up. She kept her eyes on Mark, but spoke to the guard. “Get some towels from the lab. Clean him up a bit.”

  Maxie mumbled something about not being a nursemaid, but disappeared into the lab. Valentino followed him. This was not going to be pleasant. Presently, she returned with a gauze pad and a bottle. Maxie laid the shotgun on the desk and used a towel to wipe at his lap haphazardly, making a bigger mess than before.

  Valentino sighed heavily and grabbed the towel from him. “Just wait over there. We’ll take care of it later.”

  She poured some of the liquid from the bottle onto the pad and looked down at him. “This won’t hurt at all.”

  “Famous last words,” he said as he looked down at the bloody mess in his lap. It certainly looked like blood and a great deal of it. He looked up at her again and closed his eyes. He was going to have to kill both of them if they didn’t kill him first. Valentino walked around behind him and took his hair in her hand, pulling his head back.

  “You’d best make this work," he said. “I’m not in a good mood.”

  “You’re very funny, Mr. Ramsay.”

  She gave him one last smile and pressed the gauze pad over his nose and mouth. He resisted instinctively, but she was right, it didn’t hurt at all. Dreamless sleep came as a welcomed respite.