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

by Brendan Carroll

  She had studied absolutely everything she could find about the Templars and even though they had ultimately failed in their attempts to retain control of the Holy Lands, she could not help but admire their courage and their conviction. They were a bit too righteous for her, however, and the vow of chastity was laughable. Ramsay, it seemed, had no trouble breaking that one. Ah, well, nobody’s perfect, are they? Perhaps he had grown worldlier and less religious through the years. Perhaps he had been watching too much television. She almost laughed at the thought of the Chevalier du Morte hiding away in some secluded old castle, lying on a tattered sofa, watching soap operas day after day. Briefly she wondered what he did do with all his spare time between missions of death and working in his lab.

  It just wasn’t fair. The concoction Anthony had given her had been only half the secret, but even so, she had benefited from its rejuvenating powers. The torn ligament in her knee had healed in less than three days without surgery and her gray hairs had vanished. The chronic dark circles under her eyes were gone. The blow that Ramsay had dealt her should have left a terrible bruise, possibly even broken a bone, but it had vanished after a few hours. She felt better and looked better than she had in years. Even Merry had noticed the change in her, but it wasn’t enough. The leukemia was progressing right on schedule. Her latest appointment had shown no signs of improvement. Within weeks she would be hospitalized and after that?

  Ramsay would lead her to his Grand Master and she would have the secret to immortality. She deserved it as much as the pretty Knight sleeping upstairs. She deserved it more than most people she knew and the rest, she cared nothing about.

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  Christopher Stewart dashed across the open expanse of grass between the shadowy hedgerow and the patio at the rear of the red brick mansion. He leaped nimbly over the banister on the verandah and flattened himself against the wall between two large floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping that there was no dog in the house. He edged his way carefully to the double glass doors leading into the house and checked for electronic devices. Finding none other than a disconnected motion-activated video monitor above the door, he worked on the latch with his dagger and then pushed the door open gently. His considerable skills at breaking and entering was successful once more time as he slipped silently into the darkened room. He was surprised that such a home would not have an elaborate alarm system, but then it was in the middle of nowhere.

  The room in which he found himself was some sort of library. He could see a hallway beyond another set of double doors and shadows indicating people there. He hurried through the room with expert stealth and ducked behind the desk. A short woman entered the room muttering something about cleaning the carpets and caterers. Two men followed her into the room, but none of them turned on the lights. The two men supported the limp figure of another man between them as they crossed the space from the hallway to the patio doors. The woman opened the doors and they carried the unconscious man outside.

  Christopher waited a few seconds and then followed them out. He had recognized the form of his Master immediately. He stayed in the shadows as he followed them, watching as they hauled him to a pair of double doors set at an angle to the wall of the house. The basement no doubt. The woman opened the heavy doors with some difficulty and then followed them down as they struggled, cursed and grunted under the considerable weight of their burden.

  Christopher let out the breath he had been holding and walked quietly to the doors to peer into the dark recesses of the stairwell. It would be doubly difficult to rescue Sir Ramsay now. He was obviously in distress and unconscious, but at least he was still alive and in one piece. He would have the two men to contend with and… then he would have to carry his Master out? It was not a good situation, but time was flying. The three Knights who had been sent to find the Chevalier du Morte were somewhere nearby and for all he knew they could already be on the property, even watching him. The thought made him shiver. They would kill him, no doubt, if they caught him. He had committed a great breach of policy by failing to communicate. But surely he was innocent of treason, if he was a prisoner here! If Beaujold found him, he would most likely kill him. The man was nuts! Armand de Bleu had warned him about tangling with the Knight of the Sword before he’d left the Academy. He will cut off your balls, my friend, and feed them to you, Armand had warned him. The man may be an idiot, but he is an expert with the sword and many other weapons. As if Christopher did not already know this.

  He crossed himself, looked up at the moon’s waxing disc and whispered the words that never failed to comfort and strengthen him spes mea in deo est. Some of the few Latin words he had managed to learn after four years of apprenticeship and hearing it repeated thousands of times. It was the one thing that connected him to his brother apprentices and to the world that had almost swallowed him alive before he had time to realize what was happening to him. One of the most frightening memories of his life, aside from being arrested and thrown in jail for his nightly burglaries, was the sight of Sir Ramsay’s face when he had come to bail him out of jail. Sir Ramsay had promised to return for him, but he’d not believed it. One thing he’d learned for sure was that when Sir Ramsay said he would be back, he always came back. He never wanted to see that look in his Master’s eyes again. But, of course, Ramsay had not been his Master then, just his benefactor… his guardian angel. It was probably the first time in his short life he had ever really considered that he might die. He didn’t know which would have been worse, spending the night in the tank with a bunch of freaks or leaving with Ramsay. Sir Ramsay had not killed him, of course. He’d not even bitched him out for getting arrested. In fact, he’d seemed almost sympathetic, almost, but not quite.

  Christopher crossed himself again before slipping into the stairwell and making his way like a shadow to the bottom of the steps, where the light was better, but a new problem presented itself at once. Three corridors led off in different directions and he had waited too long. He had no idea which way they had gone. He drew a deep breath and took the only logical choice. “Forward,” he whispered to himself.

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  Konrad von Hetz stood in the deep shadow of a massive weeping willow, staring at one window in the red brick mansion. . Von Hetz was still astounded that Ramsay could have allowed himself to be taken prisoner by these people. Ramsay was dreaming now, unaware that he had been moved downstairs. Meaningless bits and pieces of information in visual form bombarded his mind when he reached for the Knight’s thoughts. If he were going to subdue the man with minimal effort, now would be a good time. He could easily carry him out and away while he was incapacitated and from the looks of the men who had carried him down, they would be of little consequence. Before following them inside, he had to make a quick check of the house, finding the young blond woman asleep on the second floor and the servants watching television in the recreation room.

  His plan was simple. He would overpower the men, disarm them, tie them up and carry Ramsay out bodily. His car was parked in a dry wash just beyond the stable. By the time Ramsay woke up, they would be safely away from this place and he would confront his Brother privately. He would learn what had transpired here.

  When he stepped out into the open lawn, he drew his silver and black sword from its scabbard. The blade made a comforting, singing sound as it slipped free. The blade flashed in the moonlight and he stopped briefly, frowning down at it. It had been many, many years since he had drawn the blade with the intent to possibly use it, but it seemed like only yesterday. Swords had thankfully fallen from common use in battle as well as its modified version, the bayonet, but for stealth, bladed weapons could not be beat as far as he was concerned. He found the open doors to the basement and started down the stairs cautiously.

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  “Do you really think this is a wise idea, Brother Thomas?” Chevalier d’Ornan’s soft voice drifted to the rear of the vehicle as he watched Beaujol
d unroll the cheap Oriental rug in the back of the panel van. They were speeding along the highway with Dambretti at the wheel, heading deep into the lonely expanses of the Texas countryside. They knew they would find Mark Ramsay on a secluded estate owned by one Meredith Nichole Sinclair, one of the more distant relations of the ‘Oil Sinclairs’ as Beaujold called them. Meredith Sinclair’s permanent house guest, one Cecile Valentino, was a key member of the local chapter of the Order of the Rose, a semi-secret organization related to the Freemasons. The Apocalyptic Knight had given Sir Beaujold the location of his last known whereabouts albeit reluctantly and Beaujold had filled in the rest with a bit of research and a couple of Templar operatives working out of Dallas.

  Now the Knight of the Sword was aggravated beyond measure. The carpet was too big to unroll properly in the jostling van.

  “Would you kindly slow down a bit, Brother?” he called out to the driver who looked back at him with both eyebrows raised.

  “I am already going like the snail.” Dambretti frowned at him in the rearview mirror. “What is it you would like? To stop altogether?”

  D’Ornan groaned inwardly. Had they not argued enough already? They had fought endlessly about the incident concerning the woman at the hotel. Beaujold had scolded Dambretti again and again for having openly flirted with the woman. Dambretti had argued that the attention was harmless and that he had served to further their cause by endearing himself to her. This excuse he had told the irate Frenchman with a flourish, placing both hands over his heart to emphasize his insincerity.

  After that, they had argued whether to eat meat or not at supper when the lady had served up some very appetizing fried chicken and pork chops. They had argued who would go into town for the rug. They had argued about what to wear on this little jaunt. Dambretti seemed indifferent to Beaujold’s wrath, insisting that sometimes a softer approach was in order when dealing with laypersons as he called anyone outside the Order. Simon agreed with Lucio, but he remained silent on the issue, refusing to take sides. Arguing usually made him ill and served no purpose.

  “You know, my Brother,” the Knight of the Serpent addressed Beaujold “I once saw a movie about three idiots who were trying to deliver a piano. It was very funny. By the time they had finally put the piano where it was going, they had destroyed an entire building of considerable proportions and had injured themselves quite seriously in the process.”

  “How can that possibly have been funny, Brother?” Beaujold turned an angry glance on the healer. “Are you comparing us with those idiots?”

  He went back to work while Dambretti laughed under his breath. Simon shrugged as if to say ‘I tried’ and rolled his eyes. Lucio shook his head and began to hum an Italian aria from his favorite opera. He was in a hurry to get to where they were going. His good-natured flirting and joking were nothing more than covers for his underlying thoughts. Although he was more than glad to be engaged in any action with his Brothers again, even Brother Thomas, this mission was not what he had expected. He had become complacent, almost lazy, lying on the roof of his apartment building in Naples drunk, lying in the sun at the Villa’s swimming pool drunk, lying on his sofa drunk, lying in Amelia’s bed… drunk.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he had been called upon to actually do something other than file his reports with Sir Philip Cambrique for the Master’s perusal. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last seen his friend and Brother, Mark Ramsay, and now, to be coming here under these circumstances, was not what he would have wished at all, but he was extremely glad to have been sent on this mission. He did not trust the Knight of the Sword, and he was irked that the Master had once again overlooked his seniority and made an underling OIC. But Beaujold was French. Beaujold was serioust and Beaujold was sober and Beaujold was by the book whereas Dambretti was none of these things. As if this grievance was not enough, Beaujold was hell bent on taking Ramsay’s head at the first opportunity and Dambretti was not.

  Lucio did not know if he could stop him if he got a chance to take Ramsay’s head, but he had to be there all the same to try. He had no plan. He would do as he had always done, live for the moment. If they ever got out of this and things returned to normal, he was going to insist that Brother Ramsay take a vacation with him. Get him out of that damned dreary place in Scotland. It was time to get on with living and forget the past. Maybe go down to Tahiti or even Australia. He thought Ramsay would like the outback and he’d heard that the girls in the outback were tough. Tough enough even for Ramsay. Ramsay needed a girl. That was what he needed.

  “I think I have it. Are we almost there?” Thomas asked.

  “Another kilometer, I think,” Dambretti answered.

  “Good!” Sir Beaujold leaned forward and nodded at the speedometer. “At our present rate of speed, I estimate our arrival time in less than a millisecond.”

  The Knight of the Golden Eagle eased off the gas pedal and the needle dropped from eighty-five to forty. He had been going faster and faster without realizing it.

  “That’s better,” Beaujold let out a sigh of relief. “Brother Simon, your help please.”

  Simon climbed out of the passenger seat and went to assist him in the rear of the van. Beaujold lay down on one end of the rug and positioned his sword parallel to his left leg. Dambretti had tried to talk him out of taking the sword with him, but Thomas had pointed out that Ramsay would have his sword with him. Ramsay never went anywhere without the golden sword of the Cherubim.

  “Now roll me up,” he instructed his helper. “And be careful.”

  Simon squatted awkwardly in the cramped space and made a lumpy roll of the Knight inside the carpet. He stopped and frowned.

  “What is it now?” The muffled voice of the Knight of the Sword called to him impatiently.

  “Are you sure you will be able to breathe?” the Healer asked.

  “Of course. The ends will be open.”

  “Are you sure…” D’Ornan began only to be cut off by Beaujold’s cursing in French.

  “Look!” The man’s voice was loud even from within the carpet. “If it was good enough to fool Julius Caesar, it’s good enough for these idiots. Queen Cleopatra found it quite handy for getting past the entire Roman army in Alexandria. Now for the love of God, please get on with it.”

  D’Ornan smiled ruefully to himself and finished rolling the rug into a heavy bundle at the rear of the van.

  “Are you all right, Brother?” d’Ornan yelled into the end of the roll.

  “I’m perfect!” came the muffled reply. “For God’s sake stop screaming at me. I’m not deaf!”

  “So sorry!” d’Ornan shouted into the tube.

  Dambretti looked around to see a devilish grin on the Healer’s face. A very rare sight on the solemn little man. Simon drew back his foot and gave a mock kick at the center of the rug before resuming his seat next to the driver.

  Lucio smiled at him and winked. He pressed the accelerator and they were soon back up to speed, bumping and jostling along the road.

  “He does grate on the nerves,” d’Ornan remarked.

  “What was that?” the carpeted Knight shouted to them.

  “I said ‘hold on, there may be great swerves’,” Dambretti answered him and immediately jerked the wheel to the right bouncing off the road and back on again.

  Muffled curses emanated from the carpet.

  “His language is appalling,” d’Ornan whispered.

  “Dear, dear me. He’s going to be very angry.” Dambretti shook his head in mock sympathy.

  “What did you say?” Beaujold shouted at them.

  “I said ‘Deer! Deer! The beasts make me angry!’.” Lucio swerved again and the Knight of the Sword bounced in the rear of the van.

  It was amazing that either of them had the heart to laugh as hard they laughed when their Brother began to curse another blue streak.

  “You should watch your tongue, Brother!” d’Ornan called to him. “It is hurting my ears. I may
have to cut it out.”

  His threat was met with another outburst from the Chevalier d’Epee, but this time there was no profanity. Lucio wondered if Thomas Beaujold ever did anything just for fun or even knew what the word meant. Of all the Twelve Elect only the Ritter von Hetz seemed to possess less humor in his makeup than Beaujold. At least the Grand Master had not chosen von Hetz for this mission. Von Hetz made everyone nervous and every moment spent in his company was a painful one. Of course, everyone thought Mark Andrew a mirthless fellow as well, but Lucio knew better. Mark Andrew was quite capable of enjoying a good joke from time to time. It was just hard to get him out of his ‘den’ where he spent day after day just walking the land and talking to his great deerhounds as if they could understand him. Yes, he would have to insist on a vacation. He and the Chevalier du Morte were due for some time off. It was time to call a truce and let dead dogs lie and these dogs were very, very dead. They would go to Peru and see the Andes or maybe go to the Alps or even the Himalayas. With his talents and skills and the wonders of advanced technology, he could keep up with his work even in Antarctica if he wanted and e-mail his reports to Cambrique. It was time for the eagle to fly.