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

by Brendan Carroll

  “That’s pretty blunt.” Ramsay raised his eyebrows. He still did not remember anything about the secrets he was supposed to possess. If he had divulged anything to Valentino, it had been without his conscious knowledge, but this Knight would kill him anyway? Were his secrets so secret that even he did not know them? Hysterical laughter threatened to overwhelm him and he giggled, something that he felt sure he had never done before. The Knight raised one eyebrow at him.

  “And what if I destroy you instead, Brother?” Ramsay recovered and eyed him steadily. “I am the Knight of Death, the Chevalier du Morte, Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, Keeper of the Secret of the Philosopher’s Stone. I should think that would mean something to you.”

  “At this point, I believe it means more to me than to you though I do not understand why it is so. I must know. I will know. It is a risk I am willing to take,” the Knight sounded detached, unemotional. “If you should attempt to destroy me, then I will know that you are a traitor as charged by your own free will. In fact, if you are guilty, it is your only recourse. Further, if you are truly a traitor, then I am destroyed already unless I can correct the damage you have done. Let us use another worn cliché. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. As I have said, you must submit to me or I will simply have to take your head home in a box.”

  “I have nothing to confess but my love for the ‘fair-haired one’ as you call her,” Mark told him truthfully. “I can’t say that I truly buy into all of this Knight in shining armor stuff just yet. You and Valentino and the rest of them could be perpetrating some wild conspiracy to drag this so-called secret from me for all I know. Perhaps I am an heir to some fortune based on a secret formula or a secret family recipe for kippered herring. Maybe I am a pirate with a treasure map locked in my head or tattooed on my ass. I don’t know and right now, I don’t give a damn.”

  “That you would sit here and confess this to me with such impunity, with such innocent abandon is the very reason I have not struck you down thus far. It is not in your character to make up such preposterous hypotheses. Therefore, I must contemplate the possibility that you are not acting of your own accord. That you are not yourself, as it were. That you have, indeed, lost all or part of your memories. The Chevalier du Morte would never have said such a thing to me. To confess your love for this woman is not something that Mark Andrew Ramsay would do,” the man leaned forward slightly and Mark saw a brief flash of anger in his dark eyes. “You are not yourself! I had you twice at my mercy and spared your life. Never would I have been able to catch the Chevalier du Morte so easily. Never would the Prince of the Grave allow himself to become an actor in this unholy play. I could have beheaded you and taken you back to Italy in a cask as Brother Beaujold intends to do."

  "Your attitude and the sincerity with which you spoke to the woman tells me that something is dreadfully amiss with you. The Knight of Death, the Assassin, would not fall victim to the wiles of a woman no matter what she had to offer. You have lived too long for that to have happened without some outside influence. The Knight of Death is married to Sophia. Look at the ring on your left finger. That is your wedding ring, Sir Ramsay. You fashioned it in your own forge and you put it on your finger, yourself. You have not committed fornication, you have committed adultery. But you still yet may be saved."

  "You are a Soldier of the Cross. ‘Let the soldiers of the Cross shun all ladies’ lips’ thus spake our beloved Saint Bernard. The great whore of Babylon seeks to destroy all men. She comes in many forms, great, as well as small. She brings destruction on all levels. She breeds lust and discontent. Heresy and abominations. She sows seeds of jealousy and blinds men to the Truth of their Purpose. Sophia is your wife. Ma’at is your daughter.”

  “Merry is not a whore!” Ramsay stood up, blinking at the man in rage. Was it true? Was he married to someone named Sophia “You’re insane. Who would name their daughter Matt?”

  “Your words prove out my point.” The Knight laughed and placed one black-gloved hand on the golden sword, drawing it more closely to him. “Do not test me. You would kill me to defend her honor? And what of your mission, Brother Assassin? Have you lost sight of your purpose so thoroughly as that? Where is Anthony? Have you found him?”

  “Anthony again!” Ramsay slapped the desk in frustration. “Why must I kill someone I don’t even know? Is that what a Soldier of the Cross does? Let Edgard kill him!”

  Mark frowned at his own words and another more sinister smile crept across the German’s face.

  “The Soldier of the Cross kills safely. He is the legal executioner appointed by Christ.” The Knight repeated the same words from Ramsay’s own memories. “And he…”

  “And he dies more safely,” Ramsay muttered, finishing the sentence for the man. He resumed his seat as his anger faded. He knew in his heart that the man was speaking the truth and there was no way around it, but he also knew that he had already lost his heart to the Pixie, whether she had any honor to defend or not. Whether or not he had a wife and six daughters with weird names. Edgard. Edgard d’Brouchart and he was on first name basis with him? How could it be so?

  “Yes,” von Hetz leaned back again. “That’s right. Sit again in the chair where you died for their amusement.”

  Ramsay blanched at the memory. How did this man know what had happened if he had not been present unless he was working with Valentino?

  The dark knight unfolded himself slowly from the chair.

  “Think,” he came around the desk to sit on the edge facing him. “Open your mind to me. Learn the truth. You have forgotten who you were, who you are and who you will always be as long as you shall live.”

  Mark sank back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was confused, angry, frustrated and extremely hungry. How could he open his mind when his stomach was so very insistent? Part of him wanted to cry and beg for forgiveness. But forgiveness for what? What had he done that was so terribly sinful? Surely nothing that would have caused him to be completely racked by grief and self-recriminations. He felt sleepy again, but the pangs in his stomach would have never allowed him to rest even if he had a bed to lie on. When he opened his eyes again, the man was looking directly into them.

  “Rest, my Brother,” von Hetz’ voice was soothing, comforting. He was already ‘seeing’ Ramsay’s thoughts. “You hunger for what you have lost. Your pangs are not for bread and meat, but for spiritual food. Remember and find relief from this grief. You are my Brother,” the Knight leaned to kiss him lightly on the lips and Mark felt none of the revulsion he had experience from a similar action performed by John Tellman. There was nothing perverse about the kiss. Nothing sexual. Only an act of recognition and brotherly love. Mark felt him draw a cross on his forehead. If the Knight of the Apocalypse wanted to behead him then and there, he would not have resisted. In fact, he would have welcomed the act as justly deserved.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “I feel ridiculous,” Dambretti turned back and forth in front of the mirror in their bedroom at Miss Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast. He was wearing a strange, quasi-military uniform belonging to Herr Schroeder, a crown of silk myrtle leaves and a rose colored baldric with a pair of doves encircled by an embroidered, heart-shaped wreath. At his side was a shiny metal Calvary saber with a red tassel and a cheaply enameled Schroeder family crest on the hilt.

  “You look ridiculous, my Brother,” Simon tugged on the baldric, smoothing it across the Italian’s chest. The Healer had carefully tucked and folded the excess material of Schroeder’s over-sized coat, securing it with a stapler borrowed from Miss Martin’s desk.

  “If I have to wear this, I'm not going,” Dambretti protested and frowned at the wreath. "I look like a silly version of Father Christmas."

  "Not really. You have no beard and no pet donkey,” Simon objected and glanced at Beaujold who was meticulously going through d’Antin’s bags. He picked up his own myrtle wreath and set it on his head before looking in the mirror doubtfully. “I believ
e I will wear my own sword. These are toys.” He pulled on the tassel of Dambretti’s saber.

  Dambretti took off the sword and tossed it on the bed where it rattled hollowly in its metal scabbard.

  "Pet donkey?" Dambretti muttered the question under his breath and grumbled more in Italian about improprieties and silliness.

  Beaujold came up with yet another myrtle wreath and sighed audibly. It seemed they would all be wearing the silk leaves in their hair. Christopher could not stifle a giggle as he surveyed the Italian. He looked like a fairytale prince in the light blue, double breasted coat with its high, stiff collar, gold buttons and satin fringed epaulets. Red stripes ran down each pant leg, disappearing into the tops of shiny knee boots. The uniform must have fit the big German, Schroeder, like a glove, but it hung on the Italian and the boots were a couple of sizes too wide and half a size too short. He kicked the boots off and sat down on the bed, reaching for his own boots. He carefully pleated and tucked the pants legs down inside the boots. When he stood up again, Simon checked the gathered waist of the pants and tightened the belt one more notch. One wrong move and Lucio would lose his pants, no doubt.

  The Italian cast a disdainful look at the apprentice and then winked at him. Beaujold came up with a box full of medals of every conceivable description. He brought the box to Dambretti and began to take out different ribbons, holding them up in front of his chest, admiring them. Each one was an elaborate, miniature work of art embellished with crosses of varying designs, triangles containing different emblems, circles, scrolls, roses and myrtle leaves. Very impressive. All were made of gold and attached to colored pieces of satin ribbon.

  Beaujold found a pair of slacks and a light brown sports jacket for Christopher in d’Antin’s bag. Everything he needed except for shoes. None of the shoes at their disposal fit the apprentice. He would have to wear his black combat boots. Judging from the colors of their uniforms the ‘Holding of the Rose’ promised to be a colorful affair if nothing else and Christopher would stand out like a sore thumb, but it could not be helped.

  The bed and breakfast had become a veritable hive of activity. People from all over the outlying areas, as well as, several countries had congregated there before traveling out to the mansion. The dining room and both sitting rooms were full of people dressed in uniforms, suits and formal dresses. They all wore myrtle wreaths on their heads or carried them in their hands. It seemed that attire was a matter of personal taste after all for most of the attendees. Some of the women wore uniforms similar to the three Knights of Solomon's Temple while others opted for formal gowns. Most of the men were dressed in suits and ties, preferring to display their various medals and medallions on their lapels or on ribbons. The four interlopers descended the stairs hesitantly at first and then with more confidence as they took in the scene below them. It took them fifteen minutes to make the short trip from the foot of the stairs to the front doors, a mere half dozen steps. They had the chance to practice their greetings in force, as the members of the Order of the Rose stopped them again and again.

  “That went very well,” Beaujold told them as he slid under the steering wheel of the van. “Let us hope that the rest of the evening goes as well.”

  “Spes mea in Deo est,” Simon muttered and pulled at his high collar. His face was burning and he wiped at his cheeks where he still felt every kiss he had received on his way to the door.

  “Amen to that,” Beaujold agreed as he started the van and put it in gear.

  They were greeted at the mansion like a monarch and his retainers. A troupe of servants met them at the drive and escorted them into the house to a parlor decorated with fresh flowers and banners of every color and description. The smell of roses permeated the house. Garlands of red, yellow and white roses nestled in dark green ferns in every nook and cranny. They found themselves seated on a brocaded sofa drinking sweet, red wine in the formal sitting room. Silver and gold candles burned in an elaborate centerpiece in front of them on a white and gold coffee table.

  Presently a short, dark-haired woman dressed in a shimmering, opalescent gown came to greet them. She resembled a hummingbird as she flitted into the room. A rose red baldric was draped over her shoulder, bearing almost the exact same crest as Dambretti’s. A gold belt encircled her waist and a small lady’s dagger with a bejeweled handle was tucked on her left side. She took them in at a glance and decided that Dambretti was the one she had been dreading to meet since he wore the symbol of the High Priest. His face lit up when her dark eyes met his and she visibly flinched. They stood as she entered and she addressed herself to Dambretti first by kissing his cheeks and clasping his arm in the fashion they had rehearsed.

  “The Ritter von Schroeder, I presume?”

  "Ja! Yes!" he answered enthusiastically. "Und meine Kollegen"

  Celia rolled off something to him in German that his 'kollegen' did not understand and proceeded to introduce herself to each of them in turn, with the accompanying kisses and hand clasps and patting.

  Beaujold looked at Dambretti coldly and then watched Christopher with a discerning eye as he received and delivered his kisses. The Knight of the Sword was obviously displeased with the apparent ease with which his Brother and the apprentice performed this profane duty. D’Ornan, himself, had to resist the urge to cross himself before kissing her. With this distasteful ordeal out of the way, they relaxed a bit, but did not dare look at each other. Each one of them would have to confess this sin as soon as possible. They were not exactly used to sinning so blatantly… at least not in front of each other.

  “I am so glad you gentlemen decided to come early,” she told them, but her attitude said otherwise. She was obviously put out by their arrival before the scheduled time. “Perhaps I can give you a short tour around the grounds so that you can get an idea of where everything is.”

  She took Dambretti’s arm when they all agreed, and led them around the ground floor of the house and then outside, across the patio and into the garden. All the while, she talked about the Order and the growth of the local Chapter and how proud she was of the progress they were making and so on and so forth. Dambretti managed to keep her talking with barely more than a few nods and shakes of his head coupled with several ‘ja’s’ and ‘nein’s’. It was the smile that did it. She had never seen such a beautiful smile on a man and especially a man with a hellish scar running the length of his left cheek. The two French Knights followed behind them taking mental notes, speaking to each other in low whispers and prompting each other to look at this or look at that as they passed various points of interest that might be helpful later on.

  Christopher tagged along behind the two Knights, sullen and quiet. All four of them kept their eyes open for signs of Ramsay or the dreaded Knight of the Apocalypse or even the traitorous apprentice. When they came to within view of the slanted doors leading to the basement, Christopher caught D’Ornan’s arm and directed his attention to the doors with a nod of his head.

  Valentino took them to the gazebo, which would serve as their temple for the Holding of the Rose ceremony. She showed them the altar, the candle sticks, the registry books, the ceremonial sword and other symbolic tools and emblems that were to be used for the initiation ceremonies. Dambretti surveyed the cozy little place with amusement and studied the unfamiliar items with the proper gravity. Mid-summer’s Eve. An especially auspicious night for ceremonies… pagan and otherwise.

  He remembered his own initiation into the Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. There had been no flowers, no candles and no chairs for the spectators or participants. In fact, there had been very little light at all in the cold, stone chamber beneath the cathedral. The participants had carried guttering torches and covered their faces while he had been stripped of almost everything he held dear and then bullied into a state of mental and physical exhaustion, questioned, mentally browbeat and buffeted soundly with fists when he hesitated to answer the questions. All the while, the Masters tried to force him to recant
his faith and perform profane rituals with an idol. He had passed the test, but just barely. Before it had finally ended, he had almost been convinced that they actually wanted him to break his vows and fall from grace, but afterwards, he understood that it had only been a test of his devotion to the Order’s purpose and a preparation for things to come. The Brothers had designed the initiation in such a way as to serve as a barometer for each new member, to learn whether they could trust him to uphold the tenets of the Order, even in the face of the enemy. Had he capitulated and given in to his fears in the face of their heretical demands, he would have been thrown out of the Order in disgrace. He winced audibly at the sharp clarity with which he still remembered that terrible night from so long ago. They had turned his faith up-side-down and then brought him right again in a very short space of time, but his participation in the initiations of succeeding members of the Council had shown him that the Initiation was necessary and right and he had seen some very unlikely fellows cry like babies. But that was not what this was about. Faith had nothing to do with Valentino’s order.

  This celebration or ceremony was, indeed, just a social gathering and meant nothing. There would be no blood, no sweat and no tears unless, of course, the caterers had put too much pepper in the appetizers. He smiled at her as she showed him where the High Priestess would stand and then his smile disappeared as she showed him where he would stand in for Gavin Nash, their absent High Priest. Lucio glanced at Simon who shrugged. They would have to make their move and get out of there before the induction ceremonies began. He would never be able to pull off the part of the High Priest.