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

by Brendan Carroll

  Beaujold hearkened back to Christopher’s one fatal word blurted in the last Council meeting just as Armand had warned him. It had not gone without notice and would not go without punishment. But he was also obsessed with the idea that everything ‘Merican’ was evil.

  Christopher could make out what looked like a white van parked on the side of the road several hundred yards away.

  “You are worse than an Infidel’s dog. Lower than the belly of a snake,” Beaujold picked up his string of insults as they walked down the shoulder of the road.

  The man suddenly tackled him bodily, rolling him down the sloping ditch, using him as a mattress when a black BMW raced by on the highway. Numerous sticks, pokes and prods from the prickly vegetation and rocks in the ditch added to the apprentice’s misery and the young man made a vow to make the Knight pay if he lived long enough.

  When they were within a few dozen yards of the van, the Frenchman suddenly erupted into a string of epithets in his native tongue and Christopher was thankful that these were directed at someone else. After what seemed forever, they reached the van where Lucio Dambretti was just tightening the lug nuts on the spare tire. When d’Ornan and Dambretti had finished telling the disgruntled Knight of the Sword how the herd of domestic cattle had attacked and disabled them, the man fell to speaking Latin, having apparently exhausted his store of French obscenities. The trip back to Miss Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast was excruciating for all of them under his unbridled rage.

  Chapter Seven of Twelve

  Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonour: mine adversaries are all before thee.

  A small fire burned between two immense limestone boulders high above the pecan groves, oaks, prickly pear and cedars that filled the valley below. Konrad von Hetz sat on top of the tallest of the two boulders, his long legs dangling over the side as he watched the lights in the house below. He was disgusted. Never underestimate the enemy and never underestimate the power of God. Right was not always on the side of might and the Bible was full of such instances of victory in the face of overwhelming odds. Konrad chastised himself soundly for having forgotten to ask proper guidance for this mission. None of his Brothers would have ever believed that he, of all people, would have forgotten to pray for himself.

  A coyote yelped in the distant rocks. All around were the sounds of night birds and thousands of insects infesting the wild hillside, but he paid them no mind. A snake slithered silently from the prickly pear patch on the south side of the boulder onto the rock with him, paused briefly and then slid away quickly to find another place to hunt. Hundreds of bats flitted and darted through the air above the trees surrounding the house. In the distance he could hear the sounds of cattle lowing in the darkness. Briefly, he wondered what had upset them.

  He sensed the presence of his three Brothers from the same direction. He had passed them on his way to this secluded lookout. If only there had been some chance of enjoining their assistance, but Beaujold was beyond reaching. He went back over the entire incident in his head. He recalled each move the young apprentice had made. His moves had been calculated and deliberate, his eyes had never wavered as they had faced each other over the body of his Master. He wondered how many more such young men were left in the world in this day and age. Ramsay had done well to employ the young Stewart as his apprentice even though the Grand Master had suspected the boy was less than desirable simply for having come from America. America had become such a great disappointment over the years for the Order. He tore his mind away from the big picture and concentrated on the present mission.

  The enemy would be expecting him next time causing his mission to take a decidedly more dangerous turn. Still he resolved to bring his Brother out alive and in one piece. If another chance presented itself, he would enlist the aid of the apprentice. Stewart must have believed him to be of the same mind as Beaujold. He would have to change that image first.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Christopher slumped glumly in a chair in the brightly lit, pink floral bedroom at Miss Martin’s Bed and Breakfast. Lucio Dambretti leaned against the delicately gilded, French provincial dresser with his arms folded over his chest, feeling as if he had just invaded Cinderella’s bedroom and found it full of Musketeers and burglars. Simon was stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head still wearing the black outfit, including the knit cap that covered his blond hair, staring at the flowers on the ceiling. Beaujold had changed into a pair of dark blue pajamas over which he wore a matching satin smoking jacket with an embroidered fleur-de-lis on the lapel. The jacket flared out behind him like a short cape as he paced back and forth in front of Christopher, stopping now and again to glare at the young man. Dambretti was fascinated by Beaujold’s choice of attire. He had imagined the man sleeping in sack cloth and ashes. The Italian preferred sleeping fully dressed when on the road and when at home, he was a bit more natural. He was losing patience with the self-righteous Frenchman.

  Dambretti raised one had and studied his fingernails carefully. Too carefully. D’Ornan glanced at the Italian apprehensively. He had seen the man lose his temper once or twice. It was not a pretty sight. One thing the Healer remembered about the Knight of the Golden Eagle, was that before he went into a murderous rage, he became extraordinarily quiet. Like now. Dambretti pulled his dagger from his belt and began picking at his fingernails thoughtfully. The knife was a gift from the Chevalier du Morte. Simon suspected that Ramsay had made the knife himself. A stylized image of the Egyptian god Horus with inlaid onyx eyes served as the hilt. The smooth gold gleamed in the light of Miss Penelope’s crystal light fixture while Beaujold went into another one of his low-keyed, but highly insulting rages against the hapless apprentice.

  ���When we return to Italy, I intend to request… nay, demand, Monsieur, demand that you be excommunicated and sent to the eastern frontier. Such impudence cannot be tolerated. You not only endanger yourself, but you endanger the lives of your betters. Inexcusable.”

  Simon had tried to intervene twice to no avail. Christopher had suffered in silence for over an hour displaying only a sullen attitude while he picked cactus spines and gravel out of his skin and clothing.

  He winced audibly as he pulled a long bloody spine from his wrist and then looked up defiantly at the Frenchman. The young man finally reached the end of his tolerance. He perked up in the chair and looked the Knight of the Sword directly in the eyes when he stopped in front of him.

  “And you, excellent Master, would dismember your Brother and take him home in a box. Such loyalty! Such devotion. If that is what it means to be a Knight of the Temple, then I will gladly pack my bags and be off to Siberia.” As he spoke, he rose slowly to face the enraged man until they were eye to eye. Beaujold froze and his face turned an even deeper shade of red at the challenge. The Knight spun on his heel and grabbed his sword from the dresser. He flung the scabbard against the wall as he drew the blade and advanced on the apprentice.

  “You irascible upstart! I should run you through and be done with you right now. I would gladly dismember you and your traitorous Master together. By the power of God…”

  Simon emitted a short shriek as Dambretti snapped forward. This was what the Healer had been dreading. The Italian closed the space between himself and the Knight of the Sword in the blink of an eye. Before the second blink, he had the blond man against the wall with the Egyptian dagger at his throat. Beaujold still held the hilt of his sword, but made no move to raise the blade. Miss Penelope’s chandelier tinkled in the aftermath of the shock produced when Beaujold’s body struck the wall. The phone on the dresser began to ring immediately.

  Dambretti leaned his face to within a hairsbreadth of the tip of the blonde's nose and spoke through gritted teeth, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly.

  “You are getting on my nerves, Signori. You dare to set yourself up as divinely inspired by the Power of God? The great Michelangelo was inspired by the Power of God. The genius
of da Vinci was inspired by the Power of God. Giordano Bruno was inspired by God and they burned him at the stake. But you, Sir, remind me of another famous Italian, Benito Mussolini and you need well remember what I did to him before they hung his carcass up for the crows. And that too, was just because he got on my nerves with his ranting and raving. Now you are very close to receiving the same treatment, no? I will carve you like a ham and serve you with pesto sauce.”

  D’Ornan had already crossed the room, shoved the apprentice aside in order to reach the Italian. He placed one hand on his shoulder, saying his name softly. He could feel the enormous tension in Dambretti’s muscles. The Italian wanted to kill Beaujold and may have done it without the Healer's intervention.

  “Please, Brother Lucio,” he said. “We are all under a great deal of pressure here. Some of us do not contain our thoughts as well as others.”

  The two Knights stared into each other’s eyes for several more seconds before Dambretti stepped back, releasing him. The Knight of the Golden Eagle turned his back on the Knight of the Sword as an added insult and smiled at d’Ornan before winking at him. He sniffed loudly and looked at the ringing phone.

  “Someone should answer that. It will be our lovely dove calling,” Dambretti told the Healer.

  “I would not have harmed the boy,” Beaujold said quietly as he straightened his collar. The attack had taken the wind from his sails. He had overstepped his bounds and he knew it. He also knew how close he had come to losing his own head.

  Dambretti opened the door and left them without saying more.

  “It was not that he was worried about the boy’s welfare, Brother. He knew you would not really hurt Christopher,” d’Ornan told him in a low whisper. “It was the remark you made about Sir Ramsay. You called him a traitor. You have convicted our Brother without a trial. That is not the way we do things. You know that.”

  “Ah, oui, I am sorry for that, Brother, but I take my vows seriously.” Beaujold nodded thoughtfully. “Sir Dambretti must face the fact that his friend and Brother may have come to the end of his service.”

  “That is something I, too, must face… if it is so.” D’Ornan gazed at the man unblinkingly. “But until we have determined that there is no hope, I will not think of it. Let us keep the faith, Brother.”

  The Knight of the Sword glanced once more at Christopher with bloodshot eyes. Christopher quickly averted his eyes. It would not do to gloat in the man’s face and now he was without the Italian's aid to protect him from Beaujold’s temper. He was unsure of the Healer. Another Frenchman.

  “Go to bed, boy!” Thomas said gruffly and jerked his head to one of the beds.

  "Allo?" Simon's softer voice was muffled in the background. "Ahhh, Mademoiselle Martin, how can I help you?"

  Christopher got up and sat on the bed staring at him a moment before lying back on the pillows with his hands behind his head. The flowers on the ceiling were almost hypnotic and though Christopher had no intention of going to sleep any time soon, he found himself awakening much later to the sound of a ringing phone.

  It was just after six the next morning when a shrill ring from the elaborate replica of an antique telephone startled them from their sleep. D’Ornan picked up the phone gingerly and looked at Beaujold who had gone to sleep in a chair with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The Frenchman rubbed his eyes and took time to give Christopher his first frown of the day before nodding to d’Ornan.

  “Oui, allo?” the Healer spoke hesitantly into the receiver.

  “Mr. Boojoe?” Miss Penelope Martin’s voice was bright and friendly.

  “No, ah, no! This is Simon… Mr. D’Ornan,” he nodded to Beaujold inanely.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You both sound so… French,” she giggled. “I’m sorry to wake you, but the men here in the lobby insist.”

  “The men? What men?” Simon’s smile faded, replaced by a deep frown. Beaujold got up and quickly crossed the room to sit on the bed beside him.

  “Two of them are from Paris and one is from Germany,” she said. “Wait. Let me read their names to you. Monshoor Dee Villyay, Monshoor Danteen and Herr Schroeder.”

  “And what do they want from us?” Simon asked bluntly. He shook his head at Beaujold and shrugged.

  “They are here for Miss Valentino’s celebration. The initiation,” she whispered these last two words. “You know. Out at the mansion? Aren’t you here for the same thing?”

  “Ah, oui! Yes, tres bien,” D’Ornan’s face lit up as an idea suddenly took form in his head. “How many rooms do they require?”

  “Two,” she answered. “The Frenchman are together. Herr Schroeder is alone.”

  “Tres bien. Give them rooms 303 and 304, se’el vous plait.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I hope you are all coming down for breakfast. Today’s specialty is Belgian waffles… too bad none of you are from Belgium. I should have changed the menu to crepes.” She laughed and d’Ornan laughed with her. “Bye, bye now. See you at breakfast.”

  Simon hung up the phone and smiled at Beaujold who sat frowning at him.

  “What is it?”

  “We are having Belgian waffles for breakfast,” Simon told him and then added “and I think that God may have just intervened in our favor, Brother. Do you like Belgian waffles, Thomas?”

  Christopher yawned and stretched his arms over his head. Beaujold shot a bleary glare at him and then eyed the Italian suspiciously. Dambretti was sprawled across the foot of Christopher’s bed, fully dressed with both arms hanging over the side. He held the dagger in one hand and an empty cognac bottle in the other. The phone had not disturbed his rest in the least. Thomas was quite disturbed to learn that the Italian had returned to the room during the night without waking him. The man could have slit his throat. He would have to be more vigilant.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “Up and at ’em!” Merry banged through Mark’s bedroom door carrying a large tray brimming with all sorts of delicious smelling things.

  Mark raised his head… again. He was forever finding himself waking up from unexpected sleep. He did not remember going to bed after Tellman left. He lay across the bed, still fully dressed; face down, both arms hanging over the side. Cecile’s wine bottle lay empty on the new rug. He didn’t remember drinking it. The covers were tangled and his shoes were kicked across the room near the door. He sat up and ran his fingers through his tangled hair. His head hurt and his eyesight was not what it should have been.

  “You must have had a rough night,” she commented brightly as she surveyed the condition of the bed and looked at him in surprise. “I slept like a baby. It’s a wonderful, beautiful morning. A rare treat from the heat, the weatherman said. A nice little cool front has moved in ahead of a tropical storm in the Gulf and we’ll have a bit of respite from the heat today. Don’t you just love weather? I like clouds, myself. High today 82. Low tonight 76. It should make tonight’s party just perfect."

  Mark made no attempt to speak just yet. His mouth felt full of cotton and he was sure that this new tray contained some kind of poison. His stomach growled.

  "How is the weather in Scotland? I heard it’s really cold there in the winter and I looked it up on the globe. Do you realize that Scotland is further north than Newfoundland. Why it’s right at the Arctic Circle. It’s a wonder you’re not an Eskimo. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live up north. I just don’t understand it. Freezing cold. Snow and blizzards. The only blizzards I like are M & M’ Blizzards from DQ. What kind do you like? Oh, I’ll bet you’ve never had a blizzard from Dairy Queen, have you? You don’t know what you’re missing. Do they have Baskin and Robbins in Scotland? I just love Baskin and Robbins lemon ice cream and it’s so pretty, too. Bright yellow. Almost too pretty to eat. Do you like ice cream, Sir Ramsay?”

  Mark shook his spinning head, licked his dry lips and made a cursory effort to keep up with all the questions, none of which she paused in the least to allow him to answer. He got
up without speaking to her and went into the bathroom, splashed water in his face and looked at himself in the mirror. She followed him inside the small room and wrapped her arms around him from behind. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It had a most disturbing effect on him. He needed to shave… among other things.

  “Merry,” he spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “I need to take a shower and I would like to shave and… and… uh. If you don’t mind…”

  “Certainly not. The food will keep,” she smiled at his reflection over his shoulder, but did not let go of him. He turned around in her arms and kissed her forehead lightly. He jerked his head toward the door and raised one eyebrow.

  “All right then, first things first,” she let go of him and went to turn on the water in the shower for him. “Everyone has gone into town. The entire staff is running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. This will be our only chance to be together before… well, for a while.”

  He turned back to the mirror and picked up the razor on the sink. He really had to do something about her. His feelings for her were a mixture of lust, amusement and something he did not want to identify. He made up his mind to ignore her for the moment. He couldn’t continue to just fall into bed with her every few minutes. It just wasn’t right in any way, shape or form. She gave him another hug and left him alone. He could hear her fluttering about the bedroom as she made the bed and picked up his belongings from the floor. The entire time she worked in the bedroom, she chattered about the initiation ceremony, the raising of the Knights and the reception they were planning.

  His mind drifted as he shaved. He was thinking again about the strange dreams from the night before and the stupid game Valentino was playing out with John Tellman. It was too early to try to sort out his feelings for the Pixie. His headache faded and he realized that he actually liked the sound of her voice though he heard nothing of what she said.