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

by Brendan Carroll

  “That is all well and good, but I am not that easily bought off. I need to be going. You can show your gratitude by allowing me to leave… with all my possessions, of course… and I will forget about this place. I am not given to frequenting bordellos, and I resent your attempt to use Merry as a bargaining tool. It is nothing more than prostitution.”

  “You really should watch your mouth, Mr. Ramsay,” her own temper flared and her eyes snapped with anger.

  “I do not barter in flesh,” he told her. “What was given to me was given. It is not negotiable.”

  “Those are high-sounding words from a natural born rapist. Do not lecture me about giving, sir. You took what was not given. In this country, in this day and age, when a woman is unwilling, it doesn’t matter what stage has been attained. If she withholds at the very last moment before consummation and her partner continues until the act is consummated, it is rape. Cut and dried,” she said in a low voice full of venom. “Of course, it is very hard to prove, but the woman knows and so does the man. If you thought you could get away with it, you would do it again right here and now. You would have done it yesterday when I came to your room, if I had not stopped you. And this morning only proves that I am right about you. Whatever you may think you are, whatever you truly are, you may want to add sexual assault to your list of accomplishments. I really don’t see what Merry sees in you.”

  Her words made him shrink back from her. It should not have surprised him to hear it. But more than that, he knew that her words were true. He already knew what he felt and he remembered the dreams very clearly. But how did she know about this morning? Maxie must have cameras in his room. Of course, Maxie had cameras in his room! The man was probably watching them right now. But the storm….there was no light, no electricity... generators? Batteries

  “If you think you can stand here in the bright morning sun and accuse me of such crimes to excuse your own behavior, so be it."

  “I didn’t bring you here to fuck you to death, Mr. Ramsay,” she said almost casually.

  Her crude language still shocked him. He thought perhaps that he was not used to having people speak to him in such a manner. Perhaps he was not just a man of some means, but possibly a man of some importance, political or clerical, he had no idea.

  The disembodied voice that seemed ever-present in the back of his mind pronounced more strange words to him ‘Above all whoever is a Knight of Christ choosing only holy conversation…’ Whatever he was, it was certainly a strange mixture of holiness and wickedness. He didn’t talk when he ate and he didn’t drink during meals and he didn’t participate in profane conversation, but it was all right to kill and to rape? His mind could not encompass the contradictions. Surely somewhere, someone was looking for him. His friends? His family? His… brothers? Were they also murderers? If he were a Templar Knight, were they so vicious and brutal? How could the Knights of Christ be so unholy? The Soldier of Christ kills safely, and dies more safely. He is the instrument of God for the punishment of evil doers and for defense of the just… and he is considered Christ’s legal executioner. How does one die more safely? And did the Christ really have legal executioners? If he was an executioner, who had appointed him?

  And, further, who were his victims? Who decided whom he would execute and when? Somehow the idea that Christ had legal executioners did not ring true. The Holy Wars. War was never Holy. The Creator was love, not hate. The Creator would never condone war and killing. These things were not true. They were shams, farcical facades invented by the enemies of the Order. Enemies of the Order. Valentino was an enemy of the Order. Yet, so many of them had died. The Order had a great number of enemies. Again, his mind filled with thousands of disconnected images filled with blood and gore and dust and heat. The fire scorched the barren earth and the smell of burning flesh was not one soon forgotten. He would never forget, but he had forgotten. He squeezed his eyes tight and then they were gone.

  Mark Andrew crossed himself before saying anything further. His hands were shaking and his vision was unclear when he opened his eyes again. She was still talking beside him, oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. Yet another of the scriptures sounded in his head: 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.

  “You can’t mean to compare lust and unbridled passion to love,” she was saying though he didn’t remember making any sort of comparisons at all. “Our order is based on love. We use what God gave us to please ourselves and each other, not as bargaining tools, but as a means of expressing ourselves as loving individuals. If it pleases us and it is a mutual exchange of pleasure, then what could be more natural as long as it is not an act of violence? And we have found that in the Orders of old there were many such instances of sacred love and sacred sex. What you did last night was not love. It was a violation of another human being in the most degrading manner possible. Is that how you Templars consummated your so-called sacred sex rituals?”

  Sacred sex? All acts of sex were sacred, guided by the very Hand of God! Even rape had been used by the gods to achieve destiny. But he was not a god. He could not excuse his actions, but neither did she have the right to spout moralistic rhetoric at him. Her order was Heretical. Her accusations stung him with a physical force he’d not thought possible. She was the criminal here. Merry had come to him of her own free will. Merry had initiated every one of their liaisons.

  Merry was his first thought and his last since he had come to this place, but she spoke heresy. What she described was free love, not Sacred Love. Not even Sacred Sex. That was the Celtic way. Pagan. No, not Pagan. Sacred. Holy and not rape. Not criminal. Not Heresy. He saw many more images of times long past and then his mind jumped forward. Not Celtic. Roman. That was the Pagan Way. The path to Gehenna was through Rome. The Roman Church was the Great Babylon. The Cathars were Heretics. No. Not the Cathars, the Catholics. Perhaps his victims were Heretics with a capitol H. Heretics? Was he a damned Inquisitor? No, the Inquisition was over and he had been on the wrong side of the rack, but he was Catholic, wasn’t he? Did he not cross himself? Did he not pray the Rosary? His slapped his forehead in frustration.

  “Sweet Mother! You don’t know what violence is, madam,” he said her in a very low, barely controlled voice that sounded strange even to his own ears. “You have never seen violence. You have never seen your companions hacked to pieces, stretched on the rack or disemboweled in front of a howling mob. You have never seen your precious Brothers roasted over a slow fire while the mob laughs and shouts insults at their anguish. You’ve never seen innocent women and children hacked to pieces until the streets filled with blood. So much blood that your horse’s hooves slipped on the stones and could go no further. You’ve never smelled it. Never heard it. You have never felt violence.” His vehement tone caused her mouth to fall open in shock. He grabbed her by the arms and picked her up slightly, speaking directly into her face. “You are profane and obscene. You would do well to watch your tongue, lady. I have killed men for much less than what you have done.” He released her and turned away from her, looking out at the garden, shaking with rage and trying desperately to keep from breaking her neck.

  “Then you are saying that you are exactly who I thought you were?” The wicked smile he had grown to hate returned.

  He had made a serious mistake.

  “You are the one who follows these practices that have been taken and perverted from the old orders of chivalry and honor,” he spoke very slowly, gauging every word carefully. “You call yourselves Knights and put on the trappings of Heraldry, but I am not without some measure of knowledge concerning these things. I am, after all, from Scotland and Scotland is an old country. Not new like this place. We fought off the Romans at Hadrian’s wall. Scottish history is full of honor and glory and struggle and defeat. You do not know what it means to have your country invaded time and again. To have everything taken from you in an instant. I am not who you think I am, but then, neither are y
ou who you pretend to be. If these Templars you like to speak of come riding over that hill, you and your precious brothers and sisters would run and hide in the basements and do well enough by it. You have no idea what it means to be free. You take freedom for granted and abuse it ruthlessly. This precious commodity that was bought with the blood of others. You have no appreciation for life, or liberty, or the rights of others.”

  Valentino narrowed her eyes and seemed to be considering his words.

  He had not actually said that he had personally witnessed any of the acts of violence he had listed. Perhaps there was still a chance he could recover from the terrible faux pas. The thought occurred to him that he should not have spoken harshly to her about blood and torture, but women were different now as opposed to when? The Dark Age as it was called? It seemed that most of his dealings with women dated from some time long past. He watched TV, drove cars, knew everything he needed to know to function properly in the world. He had knowledge of her world, but… where had he been? Everywhere? Nowhere?

  “So what shall we do then, Mr. Ramsay?” She asked finally.

  He had to appease her before he found himself back in her lab with Maxie at his throat.

  “I must apologize for my behavior. You can understand that I am under a little stress here, can’t you? I would like to consider your invitation to stay for a while as a guest. I have been known to misjudge people before, especially women,” he shrugged and forced his best smile for her. “I would like your permission to spend a bit of time with Merry. I do enjoy her company and I realize that the two of you have a… an understanding, but I like to talk to her none-the-less. I believe we have gotten off to a bad start.” The understatement of the century.

  “Apparently so. Merry is like a child, in many ways, Mr. Ramsay, as I am sure you have noticed. Please don’t let her enthusiasm for your attentions lead you astray. She is my responsibility and her welfare is my concern. Don’t forget that. Merry knows what is best for her though she may not act like it. She is spoiled and it’s my fault. She is used to getting what she wants, but ultimately, she belongs with me and I am willing to die for her.”

  It was not an answer, but it was not exactly a flat denial of his request. The implications of what she said seemed to point to the fact that Cecile Valentino was allowing the Pixie to indulge herself with him in order to keep her happy. The situation at the mansion was very intriguing; he was actually beginning to think he would like to stay for a while just to see what would develop, if they stopped poisoning him. Part of his mind still insisted that he had nothing to fear from them even though his logical mind screamed at him to run.

  They started back toward the house with Mark glancing around, searching for surveillance cameras or signs of Maxie in the shrubbery.

  “So tell me, Mr. Ramsay, what is it exactly that you do for a living?” She asked casually as they walked back toward the house.

  “If I tell you, I'll have to kill you.”

  She froze and stared at him like a deer in a headlight.

  “That was a joke,” he smiled at her carelessly. “Actually, I’m on holiday.”

  “Really?” She started walking again. “Going anywhere in particular?”

  “Not really, just driving about the countryside. America is best seen from ground level."

  “How long before you have to be back to work?”

  “Is this Monday or Tuesday? I’ve lost track,” he answered her question with a question.

  “Friday.”

  He decided to go along with the deception she thought she was perpetrating. He had to keep reminding himself that she knew about his memory loss, but that she did not think that he knew that she knew about it. Very confusing. No matter how ludicrous it seemed to him, some of her information could be true. Right now, she was treating him much better and he intended to take advantage of it. In the long run, he knew she would be trying to pry those presumed secrets from him again and he still didn’t know if he actually possessed them or if the whole thing was simply her imagination. They returned to the patio and sat down at the glass table under the shade of the umbrella. One of her maids brought them a pitcher of lemonade and glasses filled with ice. Cecile nodded to the maid and then poured lemonade in both glasses. She handed one to Mark and then took a long swallow from hers with the usual sniffing ceremony.

  “Man, it’s hot!" she commented and squinted up at the crystal blue sky. "Nothing like lemonade on a hot day,” she smiled and refilled her glass. “Do you have lemonade in Scotland?”

  Mark nodded absently as he examined the sparkling yellow liquid suspiciously.

  “I promise you, there is nothing in the lemonade,” she sipped her second glass and laughed softly. “You really have to forgive me for all that, you know. The Bible says you must forgive me.”

  “This is very good,” he lied to her after taking a drink from the glass. It was much too sweet and… bitter at the same time.

  “Yes it is, isn’t it? Sort of like sex,” she said.

  Sort of like sex. He frowned at the irreverent thought. Had he said that or had she said that? It was his last confused thought before his forehead smacked onto the wrought iron table and the glass crashed onto the patio.

  “It was in the ice, Mr. Ramsay.” Valentino made a wry face and stood up. She ran her fingers through his silky hair as she called for the maid to clean up the mess.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  He recognized the dancing patterns of candlelight through his eyelids before he was fully awake. A cool breeze touched his face and whispered through his hair. The intoxicating smell of roses tickled his nose and made him think of the Virgin's shrine in the courtyard. The courtyard in Italy came into view sharply and then faded just as quickly. The sound of the glass and pewter wind chimes came softly to his ears and made him smile at the memory of some long, lost place in another time and another life. And another Mary Magdalene. Mary Catharine. Mary… Merry… Merry. Her silk gown rustled as she hurried along the back stairs. She was too late. Too late. He drifted deeper into sleep.

  “Mark Andrew?” The voice was soothing, comforting and familiar calling him back.

  He opened his eyes and saw the octagonal pattern played out by rafters in ceiling above him and heard the silk banners rustling in the evening air. Crickets chirped in the garden and frogs croaked in the goldfish pond nearby. Night so soon? He turned his head slightly and saw the Pixie's face above him. She wore a white gown with hundreds of sparkling white sequins embedded in tiny gathers at the neckline. Her curly blond hair softly framed her face and the candlelight sparkled in her clear eyes. Intricately wrought silver earrings of Celtic design dangled from her earlobes. A matching silver necklace hung from her neck, but the pendant was obscured behind the dress. He needed to see it. She was truly a vision of divinity and she needed the protective medallion. Isis of Egypt. Semiramis of Babylon. Aphrodite of Greece. None of these could compare to her. He smiled at her languidly. She was his goddess and he was her god. He had come home and he felt better than he had in years, it seemed. He tried to reach for the necklace, but his hand fell back before it was halfway there.

  “Mark Andrew,” she returned his smile and leaned down, kissing him lightly on the lips. “Can you hear me?”

  “O’ carse, I can ’ear ye, lassie,” he frowned slightly, licked his dry lips and tried to move his arm again, but the effort was too much. He didn’t want to move and his arm didn’t want to move either. He didn’t need his arms anyway. She had two and that was all they needed.

  “The time has come for you to remember,” she whispered and ran her fingers down his cheek. “Your brothers are looking for you.”

  “I know,” he told her unconcernedly. “I dunna think they will foind me too soon. Me brother’s been lookin’ fur me fur years.” He raised his chin and she kissed him again. He thought he might need his arms after all. He needed some way to pull her down next to him, but he could not figure it out.

  “The Master i
s worried about you,” she told him. “He wants you to come home.”

  “Home? I am home and let ’im wonder. Why wud ’e care now?” his frown deepened. It was very difficult to speak. He wanted her next to him. He tried to raise his head, but like his arm, it refused to cooperate, but he didn’t care too much since she continued to fill in the spaces between her words with kisses and tender caresses. It didn’t matter. She slid her arm under his neck and placed a pillow behind his head. He could see her better now. She sat next to him and took his hand in hers, stroking it lovingly, though he could not feel it. He wondered if she would stick her tongue between his fingers again. That had been very pleasant though a bit shocking. He wondered if he would be able to feel it this time.

  “Yes, home.” She smiled and nodded. “I’m going to take you home.”

  “Wud ye, now? I thought we were ’ome oll ready. Oh, you mean my home,” he asked almost idiotically. What a nice surprise! And he thought he was going to have to leave with the silly little bald man that liked to kiss him. “Gud. Thot’s verra gud. I ’ave a place I’d loike t’ show ye. Ye’d loike it, Meredith. Th’ faeries visit there in th’ spring and ye can ’ear them singin’ their songs.” He closed his eyes and she brushed her fingertips over his eyelids.

  “That sounds wonderful, but I need your help, Mark,” she told him. “I need you to tell me where to take you. How do I get you home to the Master?”

  “Home? To the Master?” he asked again. “I ’ave no Master, lassie. I answer to God, ’imself.”

  The silhouette of a castle against a dark sky atop a stony cliff, overlooking a stormy sea filled his mind. Clouds of mist rose from the breakwaters and drifted up toward the flat green land surrounding the imposing structure. The spire of what appeared to be a chapel built on the roof of the castle speared the full moon floating above the keep. Red torch light flickered along the parapets and he could almost smell the ocean and hear the waves breaking on the rocks. Gulls circled the cliffs in the moonlight, crying out in their unusual night flight. The moonlight reflected off the dark waves and the tops of the drifting clouds of mist. The grass in front of the castle stretched away to the forest.