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

by Brendan Carroll

  The rider jerked slightly and the horse took another step or two and stopped again. Not dead. She watched in silent fascination as this process was repeated again and again. He wasn’t dead, nor was he quite asleep. It was unbelievable. He was close enough now that she could see narrow stripes of darkly glistening liquid running down the saddle and under the horse’s belly. This was the source of the spots that she had been following along the trail. She tried to remember how much blood was in the human body. Certainly he could have none left.

  She stood up very slowly. Valentino’s stallion had always made her nervous and the feeling was mutual. He was high-strung and given to bolting at the slightest provocation. When he saw her, he stopped and took a tentative step backwards, rolling his eyes in alarm. His rider jerked again and he regained the step.

  “Raven!” she called softly and the horse snorted. The smell of Mark’s blood already had him spooked. She clucked to the horse like Valentino always did. “Come on boy. Come on, Raven.” She held out one hand, pretending to cup an apple in it. He loved apples and was always ready to take a chance that there might be one even when it was a ruse. The horse turned abruptly toward her and she heard the rider moan softly at the sudden movement.

  She backed up the bank slowly, staying out of reach of the horse’s muzzle, as he came nearer and nearer, tossing his head and nickering softly. Mark made a strangled sound when the horse climbed jerkily from the rocky stream bed to the softer ground beneath the cottonwoods.

  “Come on, boy,” she coaxed the horse to her. “Good Boy!” she said as she grabbed the reins and the horse seemed to calm down at once. She looked up at Mark Andrew, trying to judge his condition.

  When Raven stopped, he jerked again and tried to make the horse go in the same manner as before, completely unaware of his surroundings or her presence. His eyes were tightly closed and his face was smeared with blood. There were ghastly clots on his hands and in the horse’s mane. She could see the hilt of the golden sword protruding from the left side of his lap. It was incredible. No one would ever believe it. But now she had another problem… How would she ever get him off the horse? And what would she do after that?

  “Mark!” she called his name, but he did not stir. Instead, he jerked again to make the horse go. She held tightly to the reins to stop the stallion’s movements. “Mark Andrew!” she said more loudly. “It’s me, Merry!”

  Nothing. He was on automatic pilot. She took hold of the hilt of the sword, pulled gently and her heart gave a lurch when she thought it might be stuck in him, might actually be the cause of his injury. But it couldn’t be. He couldn’t have gotten onto the horse with a sword stuck through him! Could he? Before she could decide what to do next, he reached down suddenly with his left hand and grabbed her wrist, simultaneously jerking himself upright and slamming her bodily against the side of the horse. Raven stumbled and tried to rear. Merry had to wrench herself free of Mark’s grasp and jerk down on the reins forcefully to keep the horse in place. She spoke rapidly to the horse, trying to calm him before chancing a look at Mark.

  He was sitting straight up on the saddle with his face turned up to the heavens as if drinking in the sunlight. The colored orbs had returned. They buzzed around his head so fast they left blurs like comet tails as they crisscrossed each other’s orbits. She forgot about everything else and let go of Raven’s halter in order to step closer to the spectacular sight, but her movement caused the lights to fly off in every direction again, emitting tiny whines, whizzes and shrieks. Mark’s serene face crumpled when the pain of the movement registered on his mind, he let go a blood-curdling scream into the sky before toppling onto her, sword and all.

  Merry didn’t know what was worse. The scream or the tumble into the dirt under his weight. She’d never heard anything like it before in her life. When she tried to dislodge herself from beneath him, she discovered that one of her silver filigreed earrings was tangled in his hair. She worked the thing loose from her ear and then gingerly pushed him over on his back. He was completely unconscious and that was probably a good thing. Another good thing was that the sword had fallen free and was lying a few feet away, bloodstained, but the blood was dry. She extricated herself carefully from beneath him and tied Raven next to the bay before he wandered off.

  The horses snorted and jerked against their reins, sensing her fear and agitation. The last thing she needed was to lose their only form of transportation. When she went back for Mark, the sword glittered dangerously in the dappled sunlight and she picked it up carefully. It was a fascinating work of art. Smooth and cold with the appearance of molten gold without a single scratch or blemish on its surface. The blade itself was fashioned out of three distinct pieces woven together like braided flames. Merry had seen a number of swords in her travels with Cecile and Gavin. Gavin was particularly interested in medieval weapons and they often traveled to festivals celebrating the renaissance period. Gavin had even taken part in some of the mock tournaments, duels and sword fights and was forever dragging them into the shops and tents where such weapons were sold. But never had she seen such a weapon as this, beautiful and deadly at the same time. The edges were extremely thin and incredibly sharp, but there were no signs that would indicate that it had ever been honed. The hilt was not separate from the blade, but made of the same smooth metal with inlaid white stone. A round disc made of the same metal adorned each end of the guard and a third disc at the end of the tang was inlaid with white stone bearing a red cross pattee embedded seamlessly in the center. There were no telltale marks or seams of any sort which might indicate that it had been made of separate pieces put together. The red cross was made of something opaque, not glass, not ceramic or plastic, but red, deep red like the bloody stains on her hands. Merry was mesmerized by the feel and sight of the magnificent weapon that seemed to vibrate in her hands, but when she thought of how many people might have felt the raw edge of the blade on their necks, she laid it quickly beside the boulder and returned to the more urgent business at hand.

  The hardest part of her task was next and she was very glad that he was completely unconscious when she attempted the feat. Twenty minutes or more passed while she dragged him inch by inch up the sandy bank where she propped him against the side of the weatherworn boulder. She tore off the gauzy inner lining of her gown and wet it in the creek. Starting with his face and hands, she attempted to clean away the dried and not so dry blood. The stuff was everywhere, in and behind his right ear, clotted in his hair, soaked through his shirt, front and back. Even his pants were stiff and sticky. It was impossible to tell where it had all come from. Several rinsings were necessary before she could even make a guess as to the nature of his injuries. When she sat back on her heels and surveyed him thoughtfully, the overwhelming sense of relief that she had felt upon finding him faded only to be quickly replaced by another worry almost as immense: How would she get him from this stream bank to a place of safety?

  Judging from the rips in his shirt, it appeared that someone had stabbed him clear through… again!

  She shuddered and glanced apprehensively at the sword and the blood stains on the golden blade. Everything Cecile’s silly Order of the Rose had ever done, everything they stood for, seemed petty and inconsequential at that moment and the reality of what they had done to Mark crashed in on her. Cecile had delved into the unknown and it had come back to bite her. Not only would Cecile pay for it, she was feeling the teeth as well. She was acutely aware how wrong they had been to detain him, but that was the difference between her and Cecile. Cecile had no discernible conscience.

  When she was satisfied that she had done everything she could do to make him comfortable with what little she had to work with, she took off her sweater and rolled it into a makeshift pillow for his head. The sun was already chasing the chill from the air under the trees as she sat down on the ground beside him. He looked deathly pale, but his chest rose and fell very faintly every two to three minutes. The silver earring tangled in his hair spark
led in an errant sunbeam and she bent over it, carefully trying to work it out of his hair without disturbing him. In the end, she picked out a lock of hair near the tangle and braided it together until she had incorporated the earring into a braided lock like an ornament. He looked like a fallen Celtic warrior, his long hair framing his face and the warrior's braid decorated with an ornament from his love or a symbol of his status. She removed the other one from her ear and wrapped the thin silver hook around the braid near the first earring. There were distinct red splotches on his cheeks and neck, growing larger as the blood renewed itself. She wondered how she could hold onto her sanity. Mark Ramsay went against everything she had ever known or believed and even in this sorry state, he spoke to her of another time and another place, reminding her of the illustrations on the historical romance novels she kept in a box in the closet under the stairs. He was her prince and she was his princess and they had always known each other…. There had never been a time when she had not known him… She bent again and placed a kiss on his forehead, smoothing back the hair from his face.

  A squirrel barked in the tree above her and she jumped out of her skin before slapping herself quite hard on the cheek.

  “You stupid silly girl!” she spoke aloud to herself. “What is wrong with you?! He’s in big trouble and you’re daydreaming! Won’t you please grow up and give everybody a break?!” With this angry self-admonishment, she began to cry hot tears of desperation as hopeless anguish gripped her heart in an iron glove.

  “I’m not dreaming,” his voice was barely audible. “I’m just resting. I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. Just a few minutes.”

  She leaned toward him, wiping the tears away from her face and then her shoulders drooped in disappointment. He had not opened his eyes or moved. He was talking in his sleep. She knew that he did not belong here with her, that he could never have fit in with the ordinary people living around about Waco, Texas. Wherever he had come from, he had to go back and if he did ask her again, she would not hesitate to go with him.

  In the meantime, the only thing she could do was wait for him to recover and pray that it would truly only be a few minutes like he said. Someone from the house would come for them as soon as Cecile discovered her absence and put two and two together. She moved the horses to a less visible place in the grove and secured them to the trunk of one of the smaller cottonwoods. They couldn't ride as far as town. Over 35 miles? That would never work.

  What she feared most was Maxie finding them before Mark regained his strength. Her only course of action was to get him back to the barn, find the keys to his car and get away as soon and as far as possible and then plan something.

  She dragged the blood-stained sword closer to her when she sat down beside him again and then placed it between them with the hilt under his right hand. It was the best she could do. She curled up next to him and laid her head on her hands. Within seconds, she was sound asleep. As soon as she closed her eyes and her breathing became regular, a dozen or more green and yellow orbs, ranging in size from a few inches to more than a foot across, drifted down from the leaves of the willow tree. The orbs were ephemeral, quick-moving and silent as they danced about the Knight's head, zooming in and out.

  A tiny smile played across his lips when one of them paused in front of his face.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Noon had come and gone. Valentino walked down the corridor and onto the balcony in front of Merry’s room, carrying her cup of chocolate, yawning. She had lost one, but gained four. Not bad. She had four more bargaining tools to use on Edgard d’Brouchart. All she had to do was hold them. Since they could not die, she did not have to worry about feeding them or providing them with water and so on and so forth. All she had to do was keep them locked up. Keep them from escaping. Ultimately she had no real plans outside of getting to d'Brouchart. She believed that the Grand Master would be forced to show himself in order to bargain for their release.

  The thrill of her dangerous adventure boosted her adrenaline and the sleepiness dissipated. D’Brouchart couldn’t afford to lose four of them at one time and no matter how precarious her situation had become, she was closer than ever to achieving her goal. Her only real fear was the knowledge that Ramsay was out there somewhere. He was dangerous.

  “Have you checked on them this morning?” she asked Maxie when he met her in the library.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he lied. He’d not had the time. “They are all trussed up and waiting to be cooked like a bunch of Christmas turkeys.”

  “Take me to see them,” she got up from the desk and grabbed Gavin Nash’s old journal from the shelf before following the man outside.

  The four prisoners sat blinking in the glare when Maxie flipped the switch in the basement wine cellar. Maxie and a couple of her male guests had secured them with electrician ties, nylon ski rope and bungee cords to the heavy iron racks anchored to the wall. They leaned or slumped in various poses, watching her in silence. A motley crew they were, but dangerous none-the-less and she was not happy to have only Maxie in the house for protection. If they were to learn the truth of her vulnerability, she doubted that little strips of nylon plastic would hold them. The weapons that Maxie had collected from them had almost driven her to flee into town when she had seen the array of razor sharp blades.

  But the decorations on the hilts, gold and silver made inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones and wrought with tremendous skill and craftsmanship made them irresistible. Her favorite was the black dragon with the ruby eyes, but the silver and blue caduceus with its entwined serpents and angel’s wings made her wonder which one of them it belonged to. There was also a magnificent Egyptian motif rendered in silver and inlaid alabaster, turquoise, bloodstone and ebony with finely engraved hieroglyphs on the blade. She had to imagine that they had been wrought by the same craftsman so fine was the workmanship. The swords alone were worth a mint. Between her four prisoners, she had captured ten daggers and knives of various design along with a number of throwing weapons. Their weapons alone were worth a fortune. She had wanted to hire a couple of the local fellows to help them out, but she knew none she could absolutely trust and the less people involved in this, the better. She eternally grateful that none of the members of the Order of the Rose were overly fond of the authorities and some of them were known be rather unscrupulous souls. She had assured them that she would call the authorities after they left to make sure none of them were involved in the investigation. Those things could be rather messy.

  Valentino walked in front of the four men, staying well out of reach of the boots as she looked them over. She could not help but wonder what secrets they held. According to Gavin’s notes, each one held a mystical secret supposedly given to them in some magickal ceremony during their initiation. They looked like ordinary men to her in the harsh light of the barren light bulbs. Even the dark one looked like a good haircut and a business suit would have worked wonders. Only the short, blond one seemed to have received any serious injuries the night before. From the looks of her office, she would have thought one or more persons had died violently there. His head hung on his chest and a bloody mat of hair stuck to the back of it. In spite of the blood, his hair was his best feature, golden blond like a child of four or five and she had to resist the urge to touch it when she stopped in front of him. He raised his head and looked at her with sad, almost clear blue eyes and she shuddered. It seemed that he could look into her very soul and an unusual pang of conscience stabbed at her. He had the air of a priest or a holy man of some sort.

  She avoided the dark one’s gaze as he watched her steadily from deep, black eyes. She would not be interviewing him; that much was sure. The young one with the pretty blue eyes and curly dark hair could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen years old. Probably an apprentice to one of the older men. She had already tried an apprentice and found that they didn’t know enough to suit her purposes. He watched her in silence with the air of a young panther ready to
spring. It would either be the sickly blond or the olive complexioned one. The one who had masqueraded as Herr Schroeder and flirted with her. She stopped in front of him and he smiled up at her, crinkling the scar on his face. He winced as the smile also caused pain in his latest injury: a deep purple bruise on his left temple. Maybe she would get to ask him about the scar after all. He was healthy, friendly, relatively uninjured and seemed almost like the kid in the back of the room with all the answers to the teacher’s questions. If his hands had not been restrained, she would have expected him to raise his hand and say ‘Pick me!’ ‘Pick me!’

  “Which one are you?” she asked him and took a sip of her chocolate.

  “I am Lucio Apolonio Dambretti, at your service, madam,” he answered politely.

  His smile could have melted the heart of the stone cherub in the garden. She would definitely have to keep Merry away from this one or else the same process might very well start all over. Merry could be so hare-brained when it came to pretty things. And the accent? Italian, of course, and Italians were almost as famous or infamous as the French for being lady killers, unlike the missing Scot who was more likely a killer of ladies.

  “And what is it that you do for the Order?” She returned his smile and took a sip of the chocolate.

  “The Order? I put things in order. I read books,” he said. “Old books.”

  “What is your title?” She tried again.

  “I am Chevalier l’Aigle d’Or. Knight of the Golden Eagle,” he said and looked at her quizzically. “Does that mean anything to you, signorina?”