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

by Brendan Carroll

  “He is not himself,” the voice of Konrad Hetz startled them when he raised his head and then slid from the table and back into his chair.

  Most of the apprentices jumped at his sudden reanimation and one of them coughed loudly. Of all the assemblages they had attended, this animated behavior on behalf of the Knights was unprecedented in the presence of the Master. They had to wonder what would happen in the Council if something of enormous proportions should occur.

  “He has been evilly influenced by powers beyond his control,” von Hetz concluded. It seemed he might smile at the commotion he caused, but it was only an illusion.

  “He must die!” Beaujold glared at the Apocalyptic Knight and pounded one fist on the table to emphasize each word. The nearby goblets jumped on the lacquered surface, sending the nervous valet hurrying around the table, wiping at the spilled wine that sloshed out.

  “Enough!” The Grand Master stood up and the men fell silent. The Chevalier d’Epee resumed his seat angrily and the Healer sat down quickly as well, blinking rapidly, looking as if he would be ill. “The man is our Brother until proven otherwise. You will remember that, Chevalier Beaujold. If there is a chance of recovery, I want the opportunity to be had. He will be afforded the right to repent and be saved. Repent and be saved! Thus sayeth the Lord God Almighty!”

  Each of the men and all of the apprentices crossed themselves and said ‘Amen’.

  “Sir d’Ornan, Sir Beaujold and Sir Dambretti, you three will go to Sir Ramsay and bring him back. Tomorrow you will leave for America. You will bring back our Brother by whatever means necessary. Sir Barry will see to the needs of your journey. Chevalier d’Epee?”

  Beaujold bowed his head. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “I trust you are up to the... mission? Perhaps I should call it a crusade as, indeed, the very fiber of our Order is in jeopardy at the hands of these… infidels… you will find Chevalier Ramsay a challenge, if he is unwilling to return with you.”

  “I am prepared, Your Excellency.” Beaujold raised his eyes to look into the face of the Master with just the slightest a hint of defiance.

  “You had better be,” the Master said doubtfully. The man would need his courage and perhaps his arrogance, as well, if he were to encounter the Knight of Death in a foul mood. Beaujold was an expert swordsman and strategist though something of a hot-head, but he’d never gone up against Ramsay. They were, after all, usually on the same side.

  Another of the Knights at the table cleared his throat. William Montague, the most recent addition to their assembly indicated his desire to speak as his discreet, British manner required. He was a quiet, reserved gentleman of about forty years of age dressed in a dark business suit. He had been an apprentice until 1944 when his master had been killed in Italy during the second Great War of the century. The Grand Master excused his strange, modern ways and beliefs, but had little faith in his untried abilities in the field. He was a good enough accountant, but had tasted little of the rigors of the battlefield.

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.” Sir Montague stood up.

  The Master looked at him as if he had never seen him before. He cleared his throat and spoke in perfect, well-refined English, also disdaining the French as his well-bred British upbringing demanded.

  “The treasury is not what it used to be. Not that we are straitened or anything near it, but if we were to incur considerable expenses such as those recently discussed with Sir Dambretti for additional support facilities in Jerusalem and expanded operations in Bhutan and Nepal, it may well deplete our reserves in short order. I would like to expand upon one item in particular brought up by Brother Beaujold, Your Grace, and that is that Sir Ramsay does indeed keep the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone as well as the Key of Death. It has been over twenty years since he has added even one gram of gold to the account. Of course, he never lets us run short, but, as you know, we live… rather well. If anything should happen to him and the secret were to be lost… need I say more?”

  Montague eyed Beaujold thoughtfully. Montague’s Master had been Beaujold’s friend as well as his Brother. They had both been present when Ramsay had dispatched Beaujold's former Master into the ether. There had been no other choice. He would never forget it, but he also would never forget the scene between Ramsay and Beaujold either. At the time, he had thought that they were going to kill each other had it not been for the intervention of Dambretti and d’Ornan. Things had never been right between them after that. Montague felt the Master’s decision to send the Knight of the Sword to bring Ramsay home was an error in judgment. He doubted seriously that Ramsay would be afforded a fair hearing if Beaujold had anything to do with it.

  Chapter Five of Twelve

  Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not sink: let me be delivered from them that hate me, and out of the deep waters.

  Armand d’Bleu stood in the open doorway of Christopher Stewart’s cell. The bleak light of an oil lamp filled the gloomy little room with deep shadows.

  “What are you doing, mon ami?” he asked after a few moments of confused silence.

  Christopher jumped and then let out a sigh of relief at the sight of his dark-skinned friend.

  “What’s it look like?” he asked irritably and continued to stuff clothes in the open duffel bag on his cot. “I’m packing.”

  “Where are you going, Brother Christapoo?” Armand used the nickname he had adopted for Christopher for use during their unofficial meetings. One that never failed to infuriate his friend.

  “To America. Ahh....Mer…Eek… Ahh, muss yoor Blue Cheese,” he answered the jibe.

  Armand’s golden eyes bugged and he quickly closed the door. He sat on the end of the cot staring at Christopher in disbelief. He picked up a tattered, black tee shirt with a picture of the Grateful Dead on the front.

  “Hmmm. I don’t recall his most excellent hiney including you in the list of Knights traveling to that foreign land,” he mused and frowned up at the bare ceiling. “It will never happen, cherie.” His English was heavily accented. French was Armand’s native tongue. He was an unusual looking young man with golden-brown skin, amber eyes and soft hair that lay tight against his head in golden curls.

  “They won’t know I am going until I am gone, and then it will be too late,” Christopher assured him with a shrug.

  “They will know,” Armand’s expression changed to one of serious concern. “They will be expecting it, my friend. Prepare yourself. Your outburst in the assembly did not go unnoticed. Everyone was talking about it afterwards, especially when you did not show up for study hour. You know that apprentices are not allowed to speak in assembly.”

  “I only said one word. And that not very loud,” Christopher muttered. He was clearly aggravated. He had been unable to restrain the ‘no’ when the Grand Master had upended Ramsay’s cup. He had no idea what the meaning of the symbolic spilling of the wine might be, but it did not look good to him. “And I am prepared. Look!” he added and held up a black wallet. A plastic accordion filled with shiny cards unfolded in front of Armand’s eyes. “American Express. Visa. Master Card. Discover. You name it. I got it. Master Ramsay always says that one should be prepared for every contingency. He gave these to me just before he left and he said ‘Just in case’. I ask you, Armand, what better ‘just in case’ than this particular case can there be?”

  “Just in case what, my friend?” Armand frowned.

  “Just in case something just like this happened. Do you believe the charges that Sir von Hetz brought before the Council?” Christopher stopped to frown at his friend. He had been horrified at the dark Knight’s words. Fornication? Lost soul? Whore of Babylon? He’d never heard the man speak so indelicately in Council. He could not believe that von Hetz knew what fornication meant.

  “I don’t know. It is awful. Master Ramsay, a traitor. It is very sad.” Armand started to shake his head, but suddenly found himself with his neck stretched back and a razor-edged dagger pressed against his throat.


  “You will retract that,” Christopher breathed in his ear.

  “Mon dieu!” Armand held out both hands in surrender. “I am sorry. I apologize. Se’el vous plait! Do not kill me. I am your friend, your brother, your sister, your mother, your wife and your daughter!”

  Christopher let go of his friend’s hair and shoved him off the bed. The young man looked up at him in surprise and then grabbed his ankle, jerking him to the floor. They rolled about briefly, punching and slapping each other and then got up laughing.

  “You had best be quiet, my friend. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?" Armand asked when he caught his breath. "We could stay here and you could teach me some more American cuss words.”

  Christopher shook his head. The French boy took him by the shoulders and gave him a kiss on the lips in the style of the Templars’ greeting among Brothers. “I will cover for you as long as I am able, little Brother.”

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “It was Latin,” Valentino told Maxie with authority and shoved the little yellow notepad across the desk for him to see. “Spes mea in Deo est,” she repeated the words written there. “It is the by-line of the Templars so to speak. ‘My hope is in God.”

  “He probably talks in lots of languages,” Maxie shrugged, totally unimpressed. “I don’t see the importance of it.”

  “He said it to me this morning,” she said and leaned back in the chair, taking up her cup of chocolate, smelling it thoughtfully.

  “This morning?” Maxie frowned and looked about the patio in alarm. It was only seven o'clock. “You’ve seen him already? You shouldn’t go up there without an escort. He’s real dangerous, Miss Valentino. We didn’t get the power back until five. The surveillance equipment was out last night. I don’t know why he ain’t kicked down the door and got out already. You and Miss Merry keep on going in there with the key and expect me to show up and save you. That room ain’t exactly a secure place, you know. You hired me to protect you and I’m doing the best I can, but you ain’t helping me none.”

  “It was all right,” she smiled wickedly. “But don’t you see? He doesn’t want to leave. He came here for a reason. Just because we headed him off and brought him here a bit early, doesn’t mean much to him. He’s still looking for Anthony. The bastard. He thinks he’s playing us for fools. If he has no memory of his Templar associations, then why would he quote that line to me? I believe that the hypnosis session was a real failure from the beginning. It didn’t work on him. He may have mind control capabilities that I don’t know about. He may not have been responding to the stimulus properly.”

  She tapped a pencil against her perfect teeth and stared into the distance. Maxie had no idea what she was talking about. When she went into her intellectual modes, he closed his mind completely to keep from getting mad at her superior attitude. It always drove him crazy.

  “Why did he quote that line to you anyway? If he’s insisting that he ain’t one of them, wouldn't it give him away?” Maxie raised both eyebrows. “Exactly what made him speak Latin to you? Was he talking in his sleep or a trance or something?”

  “No, he wasn’t asleep,” she laughed and hugged herself. “Quite the contrary. People say a lot of things under… stress.”

  Maxie eyed her suspiciously. He must have missed something very interesting, but he had to sleep sometime. Too bad he’d gotten drunk and fell asleep before turning on the video recorder for the monitor in Ramsay’s room. But it didn’t matter. The power was out most of the night and the generator was on the blink. In fact, he needed to check on that problem. He didn't want to risk running into their 'guest' in a dark hallway.

  “Anyway it gave me an idea,” she said mischievously, trying to ignore the stupidity of her co-conspirator. Why had Gavin Nash gone off just when she needed him? Gavin would have known what to do. “If he really is suffering from a memory loss and he really not respond to the treatment like I expected, then we might be able to trick him into telling us where d’Brouchart is. We can send a ‘brother’ to see him. He's got me confused and that's a fact. Maybe we can confuse him as well.”

  “You mean a spy?” Maxie’s frown deepened.

  “Yeah, sort of,” she continued. She wished Maxie had a brain, but if he did, he probably would have gotten a better job. “We’ll set someone up to contact him. They can give him the not-so-secret codes, say this phrase and convince him that they are brothers of the order. They can plan his escape. I think I can modify the hypnotic techniques to use the fake brother to make him think he is with one of his own and he will answer the imposter’s questions. He may not be as clever as he thinks. I am quite sure that he is suffering some sort of effect from the elixir you used on him, but I still don’t buy the complete amnesia bit.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Maxie agreed. He had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but it was his job to agree with her and agree with her he did. “Then after that, we can interrogate him some more and then get rid of him before he kills one of us, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Valentino sighed and then smiled condescendingly at the big man. He really didn’t have a clue. “You can have him.” She repressed a shudder. Ramsay would eat him alive. Where had Gavin found this so-called 'security expert' anyway? She almost felt sorry for Maxie, but she would have to get rid of him no matter what the outcome of the situation. He knew too much in spite of his stupidity.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Mark Andrew was starving again. Actually starving. He finally began to beat on the door of his room. He had already hurt his foot trying to kick it open, but he was on the wrong side of it for kicking and the doorframe was exceptionally well made. Real hardwood. Real brass hinges and hardware. He could find nothing in the room with which to pry the hinge pins. The window opened, but the bars were set too close for him to squeeze through. There was nothing in the toilet mechanism that would work on the lock. He had tried to dismantle the bedpost to make a weapon, but it, too, was made of solid wood. It would have taken days to dismantle it. The antique bed frame was put together with pegs and wood screws. He didn’t have any tools to work with and he didn't have days to figure it all out. He would be dead of starvation in a few hours. No one answered. What were they doing? Where had the Pixie gone? He’d let her get away again. If he kept allowing his hormones to win out over his common sense, then he deserved whatever happened to him. He was disgusted with himself though the depression had lifted a bit.

  Just when he decided that he might have to hang himself with the bed sheets and take his chances in hell, he heard a key scrape in the lock.

  The door opened slowly, almost timidly. Mark narrowed his eyes and waited.

  A smallish, balding man slipped inside the door and closed it quickly behind him. The fellow stood nervously near the door, staring at him wild-eyed. He reminded Mark of one of the rats from his dreams. Maybe this man was supposed be his breakfast. He almost laughed at the thought of killing and eating the weasely-looking fellow.

  “Spes mea in Deo est,” the man said expectantly. Even his voice was squeaky like a rat’s, but he was taken aback by the man’s words that carried a familiar ring.

  “No comprendo, mi amigo,” Mark replied and advanced on the man a step or two causing him to cringe backward. He had the key to the door, but Mark Andrew wondered what other weapon he might have concealed in his pockets. Every time he decided to do something, things would take another twist. “Go away. Bring food, little man.”

  “Go away?” the man frowned in confusion. “Chevalier du Morte. My Brother. Don’t you remember me? Spes mea in Deo est!”

  “I said ‘no comprendo’,” Ramsay repeated. What were they up to now?

  “But I thought you knew I would come,” the man backed up a step and bumped the door. “I've come to take you home. To help you escape.”

  “Oh,” Mark smiled at him. Of course. He suddenly remembered where he had heard the words before, but did not know their significance. Latin. ‘My hope is in
God.’ He remembered saying the very same to the Pixie just after the…. It had just popped out. “Let’s go then.”

  The man dashed forward, caught Mark’s shoulders and kissed him on the lips. Mark shoved him away forcefully and raised his fist threateningly above the man’s head.

  “Whattar ye doin’?” he asked incredulously. “I need breakfast, not love! But if ye do thot again, I’ll ’ave ye with me eggs Benedict.”

  “It is the kiss of the Templars, Brother. Are you sure you don’t recognize me?” the man stammered. He was clearly frightened out of skin.

  “No! I dunna…” Mark caught himself. He needed to use the fellow for his own advantage. “I mean. I’m having trouble concentrating,” Mark told him quite truthfully and backed away from him.

  “I have a plan,” the man said in a low, conspiratorial voice, greatly relieved.

  “No doubt,” Mark mumbled and looked about the room. He really did not want to hurt the little guy, but the man was making him very nervous.

  “They are onto you,” he continued. “We have to be careful. They know who you are and they know that you are just buying time with the memory loss story, Brother Ramsay. We must get away from here as soon as possible. I’ll need to buy tickets and make the arrangements.”

  “Of course… Brother,” Mark almost choked on the word. He needed to find out what this new game was.

  “Just tell me where we can meet with Master d’Brouchart and I’ll make the necessary plans,” the man nodded his head and smiled and the nature of the game clicked into place. It was a very lame scheme to say the least. Mark almost felt sorry for the idiot. If this was the best Valentino could muster, then her resources were poor indeed.

  “Oh, we don’t need to bother the Master,” Mark told him. “You just get my car keys and get me out of the house and I’ll be on my way and you can go on with your work here… which is, by the way… commendable… Brother. Oh, and bring my stuff. The things they took from my car. Do you know where they are?”