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

by Brendan Carroll

  The pairing of Beaujold and Dambretti was probably an effort on the Master’s part to balance Ramsay’s chances of returning alive. Beaujold’s cockiness would not hold him in good stead against Mark Ramsay's deadly efficiency once the Knight was in a fit of rage and, for some reason, Beaujold had the remarkable ability to provoke Ramsay with very little effort. Simon, of course, was there for mediation, of course, but he felt they were headed for disaster and he, Konrad von Hetz, would have to try to stop it before it started.

  He drove down the twisting, winding road with one last thought foremost in his mind. He had to get to Ramsay before the others. If not, he might have the dreadful duty of returning three Knights of the Temple to the Grand Master in boxes.

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  Mark Andrew wandered around the little dormer room, waiting impatiently for the arrival of John Tellman. He had already decided not to leave under any circumstances even if the opportunity presented itself. He would stay and play out Valentino’s game to the bitter end. Tellman was a pitiful pawn in her game and he would not want the man’s blood on his hands. Valentino was trying to maneuver him into another setup for her ‘special hypnosis’. It had come down to one decision: go or stay. Something told him to stay and without the benefit of any better point of reference, he had made his choice. Listen to the inner voice. Always a good way to go when all other means had been exhausted. Certainly all of his memory would return eventually and the entire situation would make sense. Supper was long gone and he was hungry again. If he ever got away, he would head straight to the nearest steak house and order everything on the menu.

  When the door finally opened, it was not John Tellman, but Cecile Valentino who looked in at him. She carried a bottle of white wine under one arm and, of all things, a basket of fruit. He watched her curiously as she closed the door and set the fruit on the desk.

  “I thought you might want a snack or something,” she announced. “Merry told me that she didn’t think you had gotten enough to eat at supper. You should have said something.”

  “That would have been rude.”

  He crossed the room and took a bright yellow apple from the basket. He looked at it suspiciously before biting into it.

  “I just keep forgetting what an appetite you have,” she commented while she watched in amazement as he devoured the apple. “Have you always had such a high metabolism? I would be as big as a house in no time.”

  He just looked at her as he finished off the apple. He dropped the core in a small wastebasket and eyed the basket again.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.” She smiled indulgently as he picked up a banana and peeled it with a bit more dignity. “No talking. You know that is a strange habit and one that has its roots in the old school of monastic thinking. Are you sure, you’re not a monk or something?”

  He shook his head. He wondered what had motivated her to come to his room bearing gifts. He had no intention of drinking the wine.

  “Merry has taken a great interest in you, as you well know,” she continued to ignore his vow of silence and had a seat in the chair in front of the desk. “I still don’t understand it. I can see no purpose in it. I have asked you not to encourage her and now I have to insist that you actively discourage it.”

  He ate the banana in two bites, grimacing after each one. He did not care for them, but they went down easy enough.

  “I never encouraged her,” he objected as he dropped the banana peel on top of the apple core and stood looking down at her. “I told you that before. She is a grown woman with her own mind. It’s not for either of us to tell her what to do. She will make her own decisions as all men… people do.”

  “I will not have her throw her life away for you,” Valentino’s tone changed. “She doesn’t understand what she is doing.”

  “And you do? Exactly what is she doing?” He leaned against the desk and folded his arms over his chest, eyeing her now as if she were the next fruit on his list of things to eat.

  “She wants me to take you into our order,” Valentino fought to retain control of her anger. “She wants you to become one of us and she knows nothing about you.”

  “She apparently knows something,” he smiled at her. “She must see some good in me that you don’t.”

  “She is blinded by her desire to have a baby!” Valentino blurted. “The one thing that I cannot provide for her. At least not by conventional means.”

  “Aha!” He stood up straighter. “And you think that she would use me for this purpose? That’s preposterous.”

  “Is it?” Valentino raised one dark eyebrow.

  Mark thought for a moment what he would have done to her if he had been in possession of his sword, but he didn’t need his sword for this one. Her smug expression enraged him and the red haze hovered around the edges of his vision. His attempt to provoke her had backfired.

  The very idea that the Pixie would do such a thing was outrageous. Would a woman really use a man in such a way? He had never given it any thought. He had never had a reason to think of it. In fact, he had never given much thought to relationships between men and women at all. Especially relationships that produced children as by-products. Children were far more dangerous than women. The thought disturbed him greatly.

  “Certainly you are living in the Dark Ages, my friend.” Valentino laughed. “Lots of women have babies without the entanglement of having Daddy around to complicate matters. It’s just that Merry has it in her head to do it the natural way. She’s one of those people who drinks all-natural orange juice and eats breads made without preservatives and makes her own yogurt. So, you see, you are just the instrument of her latest whim. A necessary evil, so to speak. Her interest in you, personally, is a fleeting thing. What worries me is the depth of its present state. I can’t have her mooning over you for too long because you will be gone and then she will have another psychosis to cling to… the abandoned woman. She loves to act out. Role-playing every part for the best effect. If you leave while she is still ‘in love’ with you, then she will be able to throw it in my face for months, maybe years and I just don’t want to put up with it.”

  Mark was trying to reconcile what he was thinking with what she was saying. He searched his memory for something to draw on. The only thing that came to mind was the story of Lot’s daughters. They had actually seduced their own father just to have children, but they had thought that they were the only people left in the world! Somehow that particular story did not seem to apply here.

  “Don’t take it so hard, pilgrim,” Valentino told him lightly. “She would not make a good wife for you anyway. She is too unsettled. Too… her tastes are too varied. You would have a hard time keeping her home.”

  Mark considered her words carefully. The Pixie did not seem to be the motherly type, that was true enough, but motherhood was instinctive in women, was it not? He still could not grasp the idea that he was some immortal, ancient Knight of a long dead order. It was just not possible.

  “Perhaps,” he said after a moment “she is looking for something else.”

  “Like what, for instance?” she asked in her most condescending manner.

  “Love,” he said simply.

  “Love?!” She laughed and he cringed inwardly, immediately regretting what he had said. “No one… male or female… could love her more than I do. I would give my life for her in an instant.”

  “Perhaps,” he shrugged. “But perchance there is a love of which you have no concept. Perhaps you have no frame of reference having never experienced the love between a man and woman.”

  “And are you telling me that you are in love with Merry?” she asked incredulously. “I hardly think there is much of a difference between such relationships and the one she and I share. They may differ a bit physically, but the emotions are the same. I can do anything you can do, except for that one little detail.” She wiggled her forefinger suggestively.

  Mark blinked at her in disbelief. He tried to imagine her doing some of th
ings he could do and shuddered.

  “I disagree,” he told her. “Love between men and women is ordained by God. What you are describing is an abomination in the eyes of God. It is written that…”

  “Don’t give me your holy roller bullshit, Ramsay!” she snapped and her composure was gone. “That shit is dead and stinky.”

  Mark Andrew closed his eyes. What had he been doing? Preaching to her? OK, so he was a murdering, raping, burning and pillaging priest who carried a sword made of gold and fell in love at the drop of a hat. That explained everything. A sort of religious Viking berserker with a romantic streak. That was it.

  “But back to the other question,” she calmed down as quickly as she had exploded and leaned her chin in her hand, propping her elbow on the back of the chair. “Are you in love with Merry or not?”

  “No!” he said quickly and then recanted. “Yes… maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What?” She sat up and frowned. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” She got out the chair and threw her hands over her head. He watched in fascination as she danced a little jig around the room repeating his words over and over. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. She danced very close to him and leaned down to look in his face before grabbing his ears and kissing him forcefully on the lips. She might as well have tried to rip his head off. He actually cowered back from her. No woman had ever treated him this way. Never. “Doesn’t matter? That is just so typical

  “Exactly what does matter, Sir Ramsay?”

  “So you still think I’m a Knight?” he asked. “What happened to the mistaken identity story? Are you trying to confuse me into an early grave?”

  “An early grave? That’s a laugh,” she laughed hysterically. “If you had died five hundred years ago, it still wouldn’t have been an early grave and I am beginning to wish that you had. Are you on such a higher plane than the rest of us that even love is irrelevant to you? Are you so superior that the greatest emotion of all is inapplicable to you? Or could it be that you are such a dumb fucker, you don’t even know if you are in love or not?”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t know. I just said it didn’t matter,” he looked at her in wonder, surprised by her vulgarity and the depths of her insanity. “I don’t belong here. I may stay a day or I may leave tomorrow. I may stay here the rest of my life as your prisoner, but I will never belong here, so it does not matter whether I love her or not.”

  “I fail to see your reasoning,” she frowned at him, her dark eyes still full of contempt. “Is that some kind of guy thing?”

  “She belongs here,” he said and shrugged. The conversation was pointless. “I would take her away with me, if she would go, but I don’t think she would. I have to assume that she belongs here with you and therefore, it matters not one whit whether I love her to distraction or think her an ugly old crone unfit to wipe my boots.”

  “There, you see?” She put her hands on her hips in satisfaction. “She would have to leave her home. You would go on with your life, whatever it is, and she would have to change hers. She would end up sitting in some big, drafty house somewhere in Scotland, and there’s a man’s country if there ever was one, and you would have your assistant schedule a few hours for her on your busy itinerary. Oh, Jeeves, pencil Meredith in for ten o’clock. I should be back from hacking off Sir Pencildick’s head by then and have my kilt pressed, won’t you? The green and yellow one, aye! I’m in the mood to wear a skirt today,” she mimicked his voice and his accent and Mark stared at her with his mouth hanging open. It was almost laughable and caused him to smile in spite of her language and the situation. Especially the part about the kilt, his colors were red or blue, no yellow. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s just so typical. Go ahead, laugh! But you are basically right. It doesn’t matter whether you love her or not. She’s not going anywhere with you. And like I said to begin with, I want you to discourage her infatuation for you. Do you understand that?”

  “And so we are back where we started from,” he said tiredly. His mind focused on the word ‘assistant’. He did have an assistant. The face of a young, bright-eyed man with very short dark hair smiled at him from the sands of a snow-white beach. The sight of the same young man sans smile in handcuffs with a chain wrapped around his waist and shackles on his ankles cropped up next. Rapidly following these images, he saw the boy in a dark alley, scuffling with a gang of ruffians. Who was this young fellow? Why was he in chains? This was the same young man that had taken him to MacDonald’s. Christopher. Christopher Stewart. Yes.

  Valentino stopped talking.

  “I hit a nerve didn’t I?” she asked, seeming quite pleased with herself.

  “I’m tired,” he told her truthfully. “What do you know of my assistant? Is he a hostage here as well?”

  “Hostage?” She blinked at him. “Now there is a new word. I rather like the sound of that better than kidnapping victim. You don’t look like a victim. Hostage suits you better.”

  “You are bloody insane.” He shook his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t know anything about your assistant. I suppose he must help you in the forge, right?”

  He was relieved to hear it and believed that she was telling the truth.

  “Enjoy your fruit basket, Mr. Ramsay,” she said with finality and turned toward the door. “It’s getting late and I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  She left him abruptly and he heard the key turn in the lock. Still a prisoner, but not nearly so confused as before. He went to inspect the remains of the fruit in the basket without thinking. He picked out an orange and began to peel it thoughtfully. Where was John Tellman? He wanted to be done with the little weasel. Perhaps he would take the key from him and throw him down the stairs… two or three times for good measure.

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  That she had been forced to take John Tellman into her confidence was distasteful to say the least and she despised the little shithead personally, but he was the perfect accomplice. No family ties, insignificant in every way. He would not be missed even by the members of the order, when, and if, Maxie had to get rid of him.

  Tellman lived on a small spread west of hers. Inherited land. Inherited money. Nothing to do with his time, but hang out and ruin someone else’s day. At least Maxie liked him or more like, his money. They often sat on the verandah, drinking beer, arguing over ball players’ statistics and barbecuing when nothing else was going on. John was expendable and, for that matter, so was Maxie. When she had what she wanted, she intended to get rid of him as well. She already had a place picked out to dispose of the body after she poisoned him. She would have Maxie bury him and dig a hole for Ramsay. Wouldn’t Maxie be surprised to learn that he had been tricked into digging his own grave? But she was becoming too good at murder and she did not really want to be a murder. Circumstances merely dictated that it had to be done for the greater good. And who was to say that killing John Tellman would not be for the better good of mankind? He might be another Jack the Ripper for all she knew.

  John Tellman, on the other hand, was flattered beyond measure to have been selected to help her gain the secrets of Isis and Osiris from the man upstairs even though Ramsay scared him to death and excited his interest at the same time. He would share in the gift. He become like the gods of ancient Egypt. Though he didn’t know exactly what that meant. She had promised him as much and she was the high priestess of the Order. She would never lie to another Initiate. It was the greatest honor anyone had ever bestowed on him. Furthermore, she had insinuated that Ramsay might indeed be interested in spending a bit of time with him if things worked out well. There was nothing that she would not do for him if he cooperated with her, including arranging a few hours with the Scot.

  “Do you have your part down, Brother Tellman?” She asked him again.

  “Yes, I know exactly what to do,” he told her gravely. “I’m honored to be of assistance to you, Your Excellency.” He had a
lready said this a dozen times, a dozen different ways.

  “He should be ready for your little masquerade by now.” She glanced at her watch. Rising from her chair behind the desk, she came around to place both hands on his shoulders then kissed him on both cheeks. She had to conceal her revulsion carefully. The smell of his cheap, spicy cologne sickened her and reminded her of her father, God rest his perverted soul.

  It had struck her as strange that Ramsay had smelled much like Merry… pleasant somehow like a warm summer’s day when flowers were in bloom and the bees and other insects flitted through the grasses… her mind wandered and then snapped back to reality. Probably because Merry kept bathing him in her expensive bath beads and oils. It was odd that she had seen no cologne or after shave in his bags. She had expected to see some of the more expensive brands, but he carried what looked like a bar of homemade soap and a double-edged razor like her father had used in the sixties. She had actually expected him to have body odor since he carried no deodorant or antiperspirant. Strange.

  But then everything about him was strange. He perspired. She had seen him do that. And he bled. She had seen that as well. The difference between Mark Andrew Ramsay and John Tellman was astonishing. How could they even be of the same race, let alone the same sex? She could tolerate Ramsay because she respected and feared him, but she could barely control her urge to squash Tellman like a fat, green fly. He was pathetic.

  She thought it was a terrible waste of manhood to have been bestowed on the likes of him. Not that she wanted to be a man. That would have been a terrible insult to her sensibilities though she had often wanted to learn what all the fuss was about. She had always disliked men in general, which was due in great measure to the hatred of her own father. Her analyst had told her that bit of shocking information for an equally shocking sum of money. Little good the therapy had done, but her curiosity had gotten the best of her this time and she swore anew that she would give up drinking altogether. Before her encounter with Ramsay, it had been their inherent attitudes of superiority that she had detested most in them. But Ramsay was a horse of a different color and she found herself strangely attracted to him in spite of the brutal way he had treated her. She was envious of him in more ways than one. Not only of his immortality, but of the life he had lived. To have witnessed everything that he had witnessed. What tales he could tell, but it was not likely that they would ever be on friendly enough terms for him to tell her bedtime stories in front of the fire. They had, after all, what had he called it? No common frame of reference? She felt her temper spike momentarily. Something else her wacky analyst had been concerned with. Her temper.