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

by Brendan Carroll

  “Whose name on the receipt?” She kept her eyes on the dark one.

  “Mine,” he continued to smile at her as if he knew full well the effect he was having on her.

  She turned the book around to get the spelling of the name. “I see and you are Looseeo Dambretti? That’s Eye-talian?” she asked as she copied the name on the receipt.

  “Loo-chee-o. Si`, signorina,” he nodded to her. “How did you know?” His accent matched his looks and confirmed her assessment of his nationality.

  “You look Eye-talian. That’s an Eye-talian name, isn’t it?” She shrugged slightly, obviously pleased at her correct assumption. “So you speak Eye-talian?” she pronounced the word with the long I as her own Texas drawl demanded.

  He rolled off a line in Italian telling her that he spoke the word of God in many languages, ending by calling her a lovely dove. He could have said anything.

  Beaujold remonstrated him sternly in French not to encourage her.

  He asked in Italian what was wrong with being friendly and reminding him that he was being rude.

  Beaujold told him that the woman was obviously quite taken with him and that it was embarrassing, not to mention disgusting, reminding him that Simon was present as if the presence of the Healer changed anything significant. Dambretti looked at the embarrassed healer and laughed shortly before asking Beaujold if he had forgotten how old d’Ornan might be on his next birthday. Beaujold retorted hotly that Simon was the Master’s favorite and that if they did not set a good example for him, they would be held responsible. Dambretti laughed at the absurd assumption. Had it not been he, himself, that had taken the Healer on a tour of Rome’s red-light district, though it had ultimately been a waste of time as far as Simon was concerned, it had been fun.

  Miss Martin’s eyes widened as she perceived that they were arguing. One in French, the other in Eye-talian. It was very disturbing and exciting and she could have listened all day.

  Simon spoke up at the mention of his name a third time. He interrupted their exchange with his softer voice, also speaking in French, admonishing both of them and reminding them that they were upsetting their hostess. He turned his sad eyes on her and smiled apologetically before speaking to her in English. “Excuse my friends, Madame, they are… tired.” He reminded her of a priest somehow.

  “Of course.” She nodded and almost called him ‘father’ from long habit. “Mr… ah, Dee Ornan,” she added hastily after glancing at the third name written so elegantly in bold dark lines in the registry. Dambretti’s script was as pretty as he was. Her curiosity was definitely piqued.

  She handed the keys over to the sullen one when he reached for them and they stood up together.

  Dambretti reached across the desk and took her hand, kissing the back of it in spite of Beaujold’s distemper. “Thank you, signorina,” he said gravely. “It has been a pleasure to work with you.” He might as well have been whispering love poems in her ears. The simple gesture left her speechless.

  The two Frenchmen nodded curtly to her and filed out of the room with Dambretti trailing behind. He turned at the door and looked back long enough to wink at her.

  Miss Martin sat in her wicker peacock chair without moving for several moments before letting out the breath she was holding. One more smile and another wink and she would follow him anywhere. She jumped physically when he suddenly stuck his head back in the office.

  “We may have others joining us,” he told her and then he was thankfully gone.

  Miss Martin fanned her face absently with one hand until she had recovered somewhat. She went to the window overlooking the parking lot and watched them unload their van. They seemed to be arguing again. Each one carried a garment bag over his shoulder while the short one and the Italian hefted a large wooden chest between them and started inside with it. They reminded her of spies from one of the novels she kept in her bedside table. She loved spy novels. Especially the ones set in exotic places like France and Italy. Perhaps the chest was filled with electronic spy equipment, but it didn’t look modern. It was old and bound with black bands like a pirate’s chest. Perhaps they were treasure hunters. Perhaps they were like Indiana Jones or something. She couldn’t wait to get on the phone with her friends!

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Konrad von Hetz, venerable Knight of the Apocalypse who Sees, stood on a limestone outcropping overlooking the shallow valley where the red brick mansion lay partially obscured by the thick foliage of the oaks and cedars. He watched the lights in the windows, clenching and unclenching his jaw subconsciously. If anyone had seen him there, silhouetted against the deep purple backdrop of the sunset, they would have thought him some ancient sorcerer or perhaps a demon from remote legend. He was dressed completely in black. His long, dark hair flapped behind him in ragged strands as the breeze caught it up and the last rays of the sun glinted off the silver and black hilt of the long, broadsword at his hip. His trousers were tucked into his tall boots and he clasped his arms around himself as the rapidly cooling wind of evening plucked at his knee-length cloak.

  He could feel the presence of the Scot in the house below him. Something dreadful had happened to the Knight of Death. The images he had received from his Brother’s mind had been clouded and dim, but shocking. He had been unable to distinguish between his waking thoughts and his dreams. The idea that such a thing could have happened to the Chevalier du Morte was incredible. If it had been anyone else… but not Ramsay. Von Hetz knew Ramsay’s past too well to believe that he would fall easily. The images were jumbled, out of order and almost incoherent at times like a man with a high fever, but Ramsay could not have a fever. There had been a fight, a fierce, but brief struggle, nothing that the Knight of Death should not have been able to handle easily, but then had come excruciating pain and great confusion. The physical pain had faded, but the mental confusion had remained. The pain itself had centered in Ramsay’s eyes at first and the Knight of the Apocalypse who Sees, could not see.

  It had surprised him and filled him with terrible fear the first time he had checked in on the mission's progress at the Grand Master's request. Such requests were not made lightly. He had been stricken blind as he suffered the same distress as Ramsay. Pain in his back and his arms had come next and then numbness in his feet and hands, but then everything had changed dramatically and the Knight of the Apocalypse had been taken aback by feelings of intense pleasure mixed with pain. When he realized what had happened, he had withdrawn his thoughts in horror at having shared a particularly intimate moment with his Brother. At least no one would ever know and he would never be required to disclose what no one else knew he owned. The effect had been temporary, but profound and even now he felt outraged and, at the same time, shamed and embarrassed not only for himself but for his Brother.

  He knew that his Brother was in a great deal of trouble and yet, he had been unable to confide to the Grand Master the details of what had happened. Even the Grand Master did not understand what it meant to be the One Who Sees. More aptly named it should have been the One Who Sees and Feels. If he had chosen to reveal all he had learned concerning the Knight of Death, there would have been no hope for Ramsay.

  Von Hetz had come to ‘see’ for himself if there was truly no hope for his errant Brother. Though he knew more about the members of the Council than he cared to know, he was not ambitious. If he had wanted, he could have easily learned all their Mysteries, but he chose not to know primarily because the weight of the combined knowledge of their secrets would have crushed him. Treason. Blasphemy. He did not question the Will of God. When he was satisfied one way or another with Ramsay’s condition, he would make his recommendations to the Grand Master and the Grand Master would listen to him. He always did in such matters.

  The contention between the Chevalier d’Epee and Ramsay was a danger to all of them. If he had to take Ramsay’s secrets and hold them for a while, he would, but not before fully understanding what had happened to him. What made this partic
ular situation critically different was that Ramsay would have to be forced to deliver up his secret before they could kill him. Von Hetz shuddered at the thought of the gruesome task. He had only been forced to commit such an act once in his long existence and he had hoped and prayed never again. He would make certain that Ramsay’s precious secret was not passed along to the volatile Knight of the Sword even temporarily. That would never do. Beaujold did not have the temperament for such a burden and Ramsay’s young apprentice could not be trusted with such knowledge.

  “Spes mea in Deo est,” he whispered into the wind and drew his cloak tightly about him.

  He knew the heart of Mark Andrew Ramsay. A true and noble Knight, if a bit given to violent outbursts at times. Sir Ramsay’s thoughts were always first and foremost distinguishable from the other nine due to the infinitely multifaceted nature of his mind. The Knight of Death always seemed to be thinking on several different levels at the same time… except now. A standing joke among the Brothers was that Ramsay, who claimed to hate thinking about anything, actually did more thinking than all of them put together. His alchemical duties required a great deal of thinking, planning and doing. It made little difference that the Knight of Death held several collegiate degrees; he still claimed to be nothing more than a simple Scotsman. The personal thoughts of the man had always filled him with dread and he had rarely spent more than a few seconds concentrating on him. A few seconds was all he could stand and he never plumbed the depths to the lower levels which strangely reminded him of the legends on the mariner’s maps of antiquity which read ‘here there be monsters’.

  Whereas the Knight of the Apocalypse’ words struck dread and terror into the hearts of the other members of the Council of Twelve, the mere thought of Ramsay left them all hollow and drawn and if there were monsters in the depths of his mind, Ramsay could no doubt hold his own with them. The others did not know how fortunate they were in that they could only think of him. They could not See his actual thoughts. It had been many years since he had needed to reach the man and intensely regretted the need to do it now. Especially in light of the circumstances which included the involvement of not one, but two women. The others thought that his own work as Apocalyptic Knight was a dark and foreboding purpose, with his studies of the ancient scrolls and his predictions and warnings, but Ramsay’s primary purpose made even the Apocalyptic Knight shudder. He did not think he could have borne Ramsay’s occupation for long, but he knew Mark Ramsay would never stray from his mission, nor abandon his vows, nor profane his oath without good cause.

  Only Simon seemed to have some idea of the burden Mark Ramsay bore in his head. Something terrifying had happened to Ramsay and the time had come for a decision. None of them could last forever; even immortality had its limitations in the physical form. True immortality of the spirit was a given, but immortality of the body was not as immortal as one might think or eventually want. Surely a stone would last throughout the eons, but not without scars, not without continual danger of being completely annihilated and changed into a different form. The body could only heal itself within reasonable limits, but the mind’s capacities for healing were unknown.

  The Ritter von Hetz felt great compassion for Ramsay, though they did not look on each other as friends. They were Brothers of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold, but they had never had anything more than a cordial relationship in all the years they had known each other. The German Knight felt more compassion for each of his Brothers than they felt for each other with the exception of Simon, of course. None of them had the dubious honor of seeing into the others’ minds. Only he knew what they suffered because he suffered it with them whether they knew it or not.

  But therein lay the problem at hand. He could no longer see the thoughts of the Mark Ramsay he had known. These new thoughts were those of a stranger and the multi-layered effect was gone. This was someone entirely different from the Chevalier du Morte of the past. Different, yet the same. It was as if a wall had been erected between not only himself and Ramsay, but between Ramsay and his own deeper consciousness. Ramsay no longer knew or fully comprehended who he was. He seemed almost a man possessed of multiple personalities now with each one operating at different times unaffected and unaware of the others. The wall was perhaps more aptly described as a series of shutters which opened and closed randomly. He saw radiant light occupied by ephemeral beings made of mist like what he might expect to see in Simon d’Ornan’s mind. Then he saw a yawning abyss, full of smoke, darkness and the glow of hellish fires. Within this unholy place he saw profane demons of monstrous proportions. He saw beautiful crystal grottoes with flowers made of precious stones. He saw deep green forests, almost primeval, filled with shadowy dancing shapes and strange blue flames. And at one point, he had seen the Great Pyramid at Giza in the man’s mind. Not the Pyramid as it stood today, but rather as it must have looked when it was new with the gold capstone shining in the sun and the white marble casing, polished to perfection. Beautiful canals and date palm trees had made the desert around the pyramid look like a lush tropical park. These were disturbing images and he put them down to dreamstates rather than conscious thoughts or memories. The Knight closed his eyes, drew a deep breath and reached for Mark Andrew’s mind one more time. The near proximity would hopefully lend more clarity to the visions and he consciously braced himself.

  The image of a young blond woman with brilliant blue eyes immediately sprang to life in his mind. Her sensuous lips and coy expression made him cringe away from her and he swayed on the outcropping. He rejected this image and it was replaced by the same ghastly scene he had seen earlier in the day. The rain beat down in torrents, lightning flashed and thunder boomed around him. The wind whipped and roared in his ears. He felt the cold water running into his face and saw before him the figure of a woman with dark hair. She stood, eyes wide, drenched by the storm. He looked down and saw the hilt of the Flaming Sword of the Cherubim protruding from his stomach. He felt the pain. Saw the blood washed by the rain. He snapped his eyes open.

  It was impossible to say whether these were dreams, memories or actual events, but Ramsay had been sleeping for almost seventy-two hours prior. There had been a storm on Friday night. The night he had first arrived in this strange place. He looked up into the sky at the few purple and pink clouds that lingered above the horizon. Had the same woman that had poisoned him used the golden sword to kill him a second time?

  He was awake now and the dark Knight easily diverted his attention to the present moment that Ramsay was experiencing. The Knight of Death was pacing the floor. His mind was in a heightened sense of expectation as if he were preparing himself mentally for battle. The door opened and the dark-haired woman entered.

  Von Hetz withdrew immediately, not wishing to experience another moment of embarrassment. The dark Knight leaned forward against the pain in his head as he let go of his Brother’s thoughts.

  Von Hetz went down on one knee and focused his attention on the house where he concentrated on a lighted window near the roof. This was where the physical Ramsay could be found. He then turned his attention to the south and east, where he could sense the presence of the three Brothers that the Grand Master had sent to bring back the Knight of Death. They had finally managed to locate the last known whereabouts of Anthony Scalia, but they were inactive at the moment. As he turned to leave the ledge, he thought he caught sight of another presence. Weaker and indistinct, somewhere to the south and west. Who else would have come? He walked back to the narrow, dirt road where a black BMW waited for him. He folded himself under the steering wheel and started the car. His mind was full of thoughts. Dark thoughts of his own.

  Simon D’Ornan was the only one of the three he trusted as far as this mission was concerned. Simon would make the right decision, but Thomas Beaujold was filled with personal ire against Ramsay. A hatred that would impair the man’s professional judgment and jeopardize his moral responsibility for his Brother’s welfare. Dambretti posed a problem of a different
kind.

  Lucio Dambretti and Mark Ramsay had been companions, friends and antagonists for practically as long as they had lived. Ramsay had brought Dambretti into the Order upon returning from the Holy Lands after the fall of Jerusalem. The boy had apparently saved his life somehow in the midst of the debacle. Mark Andrew had been young, barely twenty-five at most and Dambretti had been but a scrawny boy of thirteen or fourteen. They had been almost inseparable for countless years afterwards, through numerous campaigns as servant and Master then apprentice and Master and then Knights on equal footing, until one day Dambretti had arrived bag and baggage at the Villa in Italy. Something drastic had happened between them. Something that neither of them was willing to discuss and the Ritter had never made an attempt to learn what it was. Some things were better left unknown.

  Dambretti had established a residence in Naples and there he had been for almost four hundred years while Ramsay remained in Scotland, the beloved home of his youth. They were still friends. They still spoke to each other warmly enough upon meeting, but there was an unresolved issue between them. The entire Council knew of it, but none knew the details and all left it at that. All, of course, with the exception of the Grand Master, but von Hetz had managed to elude the man’s curiosity for four centuries. He would not look into his Brother’s minds to satisfy curiosity, not even the Master’s curiosity.

  One thing the Ritter knew for certain was that Dambretti would never be able to subdue the Knight of Death if it came to that. He would not only be outmatched by the Knight, he would refuse to engage him, even if it became necessary. In spite of their falling out, the Knight of the Golden Eagle still held Ramsay in such high regard, it bordered on idolatry to the extent that a few of the French Knights had made unseemly innuendoes about them. Whatever had happened between Ramsay and Dambretti must have sprung from some rash behavior on the part of the Italian.