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

by Brendan Carroll

  “How so?” she asked.

  “The Hand of God; it is in everything. You are a fatalist,” she said. So Merry had intervened in time to save Ramsay’s life just as she had said. “Fatalists are not usually so amiable.”

  “That is because I am not a fatalist,” he objected and started on the second cup of coffee she had poured for him. “A fatalist is one who believes in Fate. There is no such thing as Fate. Belief in such myths has no place in the life of God’s servants. As I accept the Will of God, I also accept that He will keep me and preserve me even unto death.”

  “Then you consider yourself a Christian?” She asked.

  “I do not consider myself anything other than a poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple. It is up to God to consider me. As far as your Christianity… I am a heretic,” he told her.

  “Then as an initiate in the Mysteries of Osiris and Isis, you worship the ancient gods of Egypt?” she asked.

  “I do not consider them gods in the sense that you might imagine. They are legends who might well have been as human as you and I at one time. The uninitiated attach all sorts of titles to legendary figures, even that of god or goddess. If Osiris and Isis ever actually existed, then they were a king and his queen. Divinely empowered with magickal abilities perhaps, but human none-the-less. You might say they are more like agents of the mind in this day and age. An attempt to personify ideas, rather than real living beings or gods.”

  “You call yourself a heretic? You also call yourself a Knight of Christ. How is it then that you are a heretic?” She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and steepled her hands in front of her face, watching him intently.

  “I do not worship Egyptian gods and I am a Christian in the sense that I believe in one God. But because Osiris and Isis are older than the concept of the Christ of modern Christianity in the sense that they were invented or lived, as the case may be, before the development of the Jewish or Christian mythos, they could not be considered at all in comparison to Judaeo-Christian theology. It would be unfair in every respect to judge an ancient culture based on the concept of Ma’at to what modern scholars label Christian or Judaism or even the religious peculiarities of the Musselmen or the Hindustani peoples. If Osiris and Isis were real people, they hardly had the chance to know the Christ, did they? Or did they? But their Mysteries are of God, the One God. The Creator of the Universe. That they did not call Him by the same names as we do is a small matter.”

  “I see,” she nodded. “And what of the Muslims? Is not their God the same as your God?”

  “Probably so, but they are Infidels,” he said, smiling at her in obvious amusement. “It is not their religion that bothers me. It is their infidelity to their Prophet and his teachings. It is their bastardization of the teachings of the Prophet Mohammed and their insistence upon killing anyone who disagrees with them on points of order. But as with all things, their blindness to the truth is the Will of God. They are living in the past and refuse to evolve. God allows such peoples to exist in ignorance as long as they may choose and they are useful in their own ways. When they grow tired of being sheep of darkness, they will come to know the Truth. They test our faith, no? It is the same for Hindus, Buddhists and any other order or sect or faith, even Catholics, who do not evolve. As for Osiris and Isis, it is not so strange that men should distort their real identities and make them gods. It is the same with all legendary figures. Even the Christian Saints of the Church become holier with the passage of time. Many of the most venerated figures in the history of the Church were nothing more than sadistic megalomaniacs. The only reason that posterity canonized them was a terrible fear that they would return if not appeased after death. Is this not a pagan concept? Some of the Saints would be hard pressed to live up to their own names if they were alive today. They were just in the right place at the right time. The hand of man versus the Hand of God. It is a no win situation.”

  “And how many Saints have you known, Sir Dambretti, personally, I mean?” she asked.

  He laughed and his dark eyes danced at her leading question.

  “None. No real Saints, as the Church now describes them, but I have known some very saintly ladies. And we are all saints by the original definition, if we follow the Will of God.”

  He raised both eyebrows and she frowned. He was still flirting with her, even sitting at her patio table in handcuffs! But she did not understand the rest of what he was saying. She held no particular religious beliefs and cared little for those who did. Gavin had taught her a great deal about the history of the Church and the knights that fought in the Crusades, but that was where her interest in religion died. And when their studies had turned to the Templars, she had read and learned a great deal more on her on. But when Dambretti called himself a heretic, she did not understand. When he talked about the Christ instead of Jesus Christ, she did not understand.

  “Really?” Valentino returned his playful smile with one of her own.

  “For example, that was a very lovely lady who risked her life to save my dear Brother Ramsay,” he said somewhat wistfully and sighed. “I’ve never been saved by a lady. I’ve saved a few, here and there, but I’m sure the return favor would be most… flattering. He should certainly be grateful to her.”

  “And what did you save these ladies of yours from?” She actually smiled at him, sincerely amused.

  “The standard things. Monsters. Dragons. Brutish husbands. Lonely nights,” he shrugged.

  “Lonely Knights?” She raised one eyebrow. “Are you saying nights as in cold and dark or Knights as in big and bad?”

  “Either one,” he leaned back in the chair. “I have known both and they are equally bad company.”

  “Your words deny the nature of your vows and you speak with what my mother would have called a silver tongue,” she said, somewhat surprised at his free manner of speaking to her on the subject of women. “I thought you guys had all those rules against associating with women. The vow of celibacy. What about that?”

  “That is what confession is for, no? Besides the word is chastity, not celibacy. One cannot live in this world without associating with women. And it is decidedly unhealthy to repress one’s desires indefinitely. Everyone must find release in the physical world as well as the spiritual world. It is a common mistake to believe that spirituality and sexuality do not mix. God would not make us this way if it our natures were to be in constant conflict with each other. We have enough to worry about. We are spiritual, material, sexual, psychical and mental creatures. That is what we are. God made us that way and we are made that way and there is nothing that was made that he did not make. And he did not make anything of vain or profane manner, but everything with purpose. Therefore, we have a purpose. We simply need to train ourselves to use our faculties to the fulfillment of God’s Will. To listen to that little voice, for instance.” He gave up trying to talk with his hands, shook his head and leaned both elbows on the table, holding the cup of coffee in both hands. “This is very good coffee. Is the cook married?”

  “Yes, I think he is,” she told him quite seriously. Valentino did not like being toyed with and this man was toying with her. Even with handcuffs on, he seemed unconcerned or unimpressed by his situation as if he were in control and not she. The humor of the situation was suddenly less appealing and on top of everything else, he was definitely trying to seduce her, but his purpose as he called it, eluded her. What would he gain from it?

  “Oh, well, in that case, is the cook’s employer married perchance?” He continued to smile at her.

  “No,” she said growing truly annoyed by now. “But marriage is not a high priority of the cook’s employer.” Her voice rose a bit in anger.

  “And what is on top of your list, Miss Valentino?” his said flatly as his smile faded. He set the cup on the table and looked at her in defiance. “We can be civil or we can be barbaric. The choice is yours… at this point.”

  “You need a shave, Mr. Dambretti.” She took up the smile he had lost,
pleased with having put him on the defensive. Her curiosity was getting the better of her and her anger diminished. “Why don’t you allow me to show you a bit of Texas hospitality and we’ll talk about the cook’s employer’s priority list. Or would you rather rejoin your friends in the basement cellar? Don’t you feel guilty at all about leaving them down there?”

  “The Will of God.” His smile returned though with a bit of sarcasm. “Whatever pleases you, madam?” He slipped the cuffs from his wrists and plunked them on the table and her jaw dropped. She hadn’t even seen him working on them.

  Chapter Nine of Twelve

  let thy wrathful anger take hold of them.

  Thomas Beaujold had made his way around the big house with the ease of an honored guest. There was no one to stop him. No one confronted him. The cook and cleaning woman had completely missed his comings and goings. He could not believe that his Brothers were being held in such a weakly defended fortress, but they were not in the house. Only Dambretti was inside the house and he was now locked in one of the upper floor bedrooms, and he was not alone. The Knight of the Sword had searched the house whilst his Brother shared breakfast with the woman on the verandah. The man with the shotgun had gone off through the garden, taking his guns with him. Beaujold found and disabled the monitoring system in the room under the stairs, listened at the upstairs bedroom door for a few moments and then retreated after hearing a woman’s voice as well as Brother Dambretti's.

  They were holding Lucio in the same room in which they had placed the rug. The same one in which they had found Ramsay’s luggage. It was like a recurring nightmare! Had they now lost Dambretti as well? Would he be taken in and ruined like his Brother Ramsay? Beaujold felt that it almost served the man right since Dambretti had missed his opportunity to behead Ramsay in the basement and then allowed the girl to interfere with Simon’s opportunity as well. Dambretti was of no use to him. He was no better than Ramsay. Italians and Scots! Of course, there was no honor in either.

  His immediate concern was the man with the shotgun. If he had gone out in search of Ramsay, he might just get lucky and find him.

  Sir Beaujold slipped down the back stairs and made it outside to inspect the doors to the basement. There was no way to get past the locks on the doors without setting off the alarm and it was getting later and later. He would have to go to town and get the iron-clad box from the hotel. Without at least one of his Brothers to help him, he would be forced to kill him or else he would not be able to handle him. He knew that his Brothers would eventually escape and come back to the bed and breakfast. The keys to the van were in his pocket and no one noticed as he left the house by way of the front doors and drove away toward town.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “Good afternoon, Penelope,” Valentino said curtly and sat down behind the desk with a heavy sigh.

  Miss Penelope Martin paced the floor of the library in front of her desk. The woman wrung her hands in agitation and nervous perspiration beaded above her top lip.

  Whatever this problem was, it had better be good and not just another round of whining about the bed and breakfast. Valentino had already made two personal loans to the woman in support of the bed and breakfast in which she was a silent partner. She fully intended to foreclose on the place when it finally went under and reopen it as a guest house for the members of the Order of the Rose... but then, she might not need the house after all, if things went well.

  The three hours spent with the Italian were much more pleasant than the few minutes spent with the Scot, but Dambretti was the second man that she had willingly allowed to touch her and she did not want to pick up a new habit at this late date. She did not need men in her life, especially dangerous ones. Her thoughts traveled back to what Ramsay had told her about relationships between men and women. Well, now, at least, she had a common frame of reference to work from, but men were just too unpredictable and just too… what? Masculine, for her tastes? Besides, Dambretti had almost talked her into letting them go. Very charming, he was, but not quite charming enough.

  “Miss Valentino.” Penelope stopped her pacing long enough to speak coherently. “I am sorry to bother you, but two more men arrived this morning at my hotel and they are asking about some of the gentlemen who came out here last night. They paid me quite well to drive out here and tell you that they are in town. Why didn’t they just call you? It’s not that I mind coming out… I mean they did pay me, but those men they’re asking about didn’t come back and neither have the other three. The first three, you know? Dombrittie, the pretty one with the scar and those two Frenchman? They had another young man with them at breakfast. I thought that the one called Boo Joe was awful, but this new one? The man really scares me, Miss Valentino. There’s something about him. I don’t know. He’s just…well I just wish…” her voice trailed off and she began to pace again.

  This was an unexpected development. Seven missing, not counting Ramsay. Three members of the Order of the Rose. Three Knights. One apprentice. So Herr Schroeder had come to America after all. But where was the original Grand Master from Germany? She had not considered what might have happened to the real Herr Schroeder as well as d’Antin and deVilliers. This Boo Joe she talked about must be the dark Knight in the basement. So Miss Penelope thought he was scary too.

  “Who are they asking about? Which ones?” Valentino tried to keep a note of lightness in her voice.

  “They asked about Mr. Doornan, Mr. Boo Joe, Mr. Dombritti, the Eye-talian and someone called Vonnets and oh! Yes, a boy named Stewart,” she said, mispronouncing their names terribly. “They don’t seem to know Mr. Deevillay, Mr. Dantine or Mr. Schroeder. The others all had breakfast together and then I didn’t see Mr. Deevillay, Mr. Dantine or Mr. Schroeder again after they left my place before your party. I don’t understand it. They are your friends. I don’t like this at all. If they are still here, will you please tell them to call their friends at the hotel?”

  “They are all still here, Miss Martin. I’m sorry that none of them contacted you. I asked them to stay in case the burglars returned,” Valentino explained and waved one hand nonchalantly as she tallied the names against the numbers. So she had four Templars in the house, counting the apprentice, Ramsay was still out there and that made five, but there was another horse missing and Penelope had supplied another name: Vonnets! She had assumed that Ramsay had taken both horses. If there had been another Knight… yes. She remembered now! Dambretti had arrived with three others. The ugly, skinny, blond one was missing. That made six. Six plus the two new arrivals made eight. Eight! Her heart rate quickened. This was not good news. From what she had read and what Gavin had told her, eight Templars constituted a small army, especially on horseback and they had already done away with three relatively innocent bystanders. “You say there were six of them at breakfast?” she asked the nervous woman.

  “Seven,” Penelope corrected her. “There were seven of them. Four French. One German. One Eye-talian and one Alaskan.” Miss Penelope threw herself in the wicker chair in front of the desk.

  “Now, tell me about these two men,” Valentino said and leaned back in her chair. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, trying not to show her concern.

  “One is a big, red-headed fellow named Daybrooshaw or something like that and the other is a tall fellow, Mr. Montagoo, an Englishman, from the accent with brown hair.”

  Valentino sat up straight and leaned forward, staring at the woman in surprise.

  “Did you say d’Brouchart?” she asked. “Is he here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s his name,” the woman assured her. “He’s the really scary one. He said ‘Tell Miss Cecile Valentino that Monshoor Daybrooshaw is here to see her’. That’s all. You do know him, don’t you?”

  “He’s come for his Knights,” Valentino said involuntarily.

  “They’ve paid for another four nights,” the woman corrected her incorrectly and fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t think I can handle it.”
>
  “Four Knights?” Valentino’s eyes grew wider. Four more were coming? She had three; there were possibly two more in the hills; d’Brouchart and his partner made seven and four more. Eleven. She had to meet with d’Brouchart and get the thing settled before it was too late!

  “I just want them out of my house so I can get everything cleaned up again. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the business you send me, but these men are just too… too…”

  “Masculine? I understand. I truly do,” Valentino cut her off. “I believe I can help you clear this up.” She opened a carved cedar box on the desk and took out a fifty dollar bill for the woman. “If you will just take a letter back to Mr. d’Brouchart for me, I think they will soon be out of your hair. Now if you will just go on out to the kitchen and tell Jim to give you a glass of tea while you wait, I’ll write a quick note for them.”

  Penelope nodded her head thankfully and took her leave. She resented being treated like a servant, but then she was not overly fond of Miss Valentino’s company either.

  Cecile pulled out a box of elegant parchment stationery and picked up a pen from the holder. She looked up at the ceiling and then bent over the paper to begin her letter.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Mark Andrew Ramsay felt himself falling into the darkness below the ledge. He grabbed for the boy, but only managed to pull the skinny child screaming into the drink with him. The fresh wound from the dagger in his side sent waves of searing pain and nausea through him when he hit the water and came up again gasping for breath, choking and thrashing in the waist deep water. The boy climbed from the pit and then reached back to pull and tug him onto a lower ledge. Mark wiggled his way into the narrow passage beside the boy and laid his head on the cool stone floor, closing his eyes. The pain in his side gradually subsided to a burning ache. He felt weak and hungry, but the cold water revived him after the heat and dust of the streets above. He raised his head and looked at the ragamuffin in the dim gray light.