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

by Brendan Carroll

  “Neat, huh?” Maxie asked her, as he admired his work. “I bet he’ll be real still and real cooperative now. You just stay right there, Your Preciousness and then we’ll see what’s so damned interesting about these jerks.” He stopped at the door and turned back, grinning at her again. “Miss Valentino was wondering about his tattoos. I intend to investigate them for her.”

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  Beaujold pulled the Rover alongside the huge boulder where he had left Ramsay pinned to the ground. The three men climbed out of the vehicle and went around to where Beaujold was looking down at the ground in confusion. A massive, dark stain was quite visible in the spot where the downed Knight had lain, but there was no sign of him anywhere. A multitude of insects were cleaning up the spill, but there was nothing here other than the blood. Montague coughed, gagged and brought up his flashlight, panning it back and forth over the rocks in the immediate area. They could see where the blood trail started and stopped and started again. The ground was trampled and scuffed by boot prints and horse’s hooves at one point and then only the hoof prints headed off to the west. They followed the trail for a few dozen yards, finding the same blotches of blood that Merry had followed. The stains were now dried completely and almost black, but the three Knights were well acquainted with the sight of such things. It was clear to them what had happened, but what was not clear was the third set of lighter hoof prints and the prints of small bare feet in and around the area.

  Montague squatted over one of the small footprints and placed his hand in it.

  He looked up at the Grand Master who stood looking off in the distance.

  “A woman, Your Excellency,” he said in disgust and then stood up, dusting his hands off on his trousers. He glared at Beaujold who stood by miserably shaking his head.

  “I cannot believe that he could get up and ride,” Beaujold said after a few moments.

  “Believe it and he had help,” d’Brouchart said and looked back toward where the mansion lay several kilometers distance. “There is much that you do not know about du Morte. You really did not expect him to stay here, did you?”

  “What now, Your Grace?” Montague sighed.

  “I think we are too late,” d’Brouchart told him and kicked at one of the numerous paw prints of the coyotes already beginning to yap on the hillsides above them. “He is not out here. I don’t know where he is now, but it would be advisable to return to town and wait until the morning to keep our appointment with the Chevaliere Valentino. At least we can know that the wild beasts did not take him.” He cast a dark glance of his own at the Knight of the Sword. “That much should allow us to rest easier.”

  The three Knights climbed back in the Range Rover and started back the way they had come. They rode back to Miss Penelope Martin’s establishment in total silence.

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  A crash of thunder caused Mark Andrew to frown. A growing sense of dread was working its way into his guilt-ridden brain overshadowing the feeling of self-pity he had been wallowing in. He had been lying on the bed staring at the canopy over his head without seeing it for quite some time in a half-waking dream, wishing someone would show up to end the misery he was feeling. His thoughts had vacillated between getting up and walking out of the house in the altogether and taking his chances, or just lying there and letting what would come, come. But just before the thunder had rattled the walls and windows, he had heard something. It had sounded like an animal wailing or screaming from somewhere outside the house. He tried to imagine what would have made such a noise. He was not that familiar with the land in which he found himself and wondered if the wild dogs he had heard barking in the hills could also howl like wolves or if there were wild cats behind the house. Dread had come to replace the guilt completely. He got up and searched the room for his bloody clothes. His things were scattered on the marble tiles near the tub where Merry had tossed them.

  He picked up his shirt.

  The black pullover was almost totally stiff from the dried blood. He held it up and looked at the two rips in it. One in the back and one in the front. At least none of the material was missing. He would have hated to let Simon go digging around inside him, looking for the foreign material. That was it. Simon, the Healer, had been with them in the basement. Another of his Brothers. The sight of the shirt made him cringe and the smell of the blood made him nauseous. He pulled it over his head gingerly and had to force the thought of it from his mind as the blood-stiffened material rubbed down his back and over his stomach. The pants were worse. They were completely soaked front and back and still damp in spots. Never mind the fact that he had no underwear. He pulled them on and had to fight another wave of nausea as he zipped them up. The gooey blood clotted on the metal made the mechanism sluggish. He went into the glassed shower stall in Merry’s private bath and turned on the water, allowing the cold water to do what it could to rinse away the horrid mess. He shivered to his toes and watched his feet until the water ran light pink before turning off the water. Anything was better than the smell and feel of the drying blood. Even freezing wet.

  When the water ceased running in the shower, he could hear the rain pouring down outside. He would have gotten wet eventually anyway. He rinsed his boots as best he could in the lavatory and then cringed as his bare feet literally slid into the leather. He used another of Merry’s fluffy towels to pat himself down. It was hopeless, but not the first time he had been forced to wear wet clothes under bad circumstances.

  He stopped short at the door as he thought he heard the animal crying again. It sounded vaguely familiar and caused his heart to lurch. It was definitely a human sound, but he could not leave until he found Merry. He had to see that she was all right and had not run afoul of Valentino or the ugly Maxie. She had been gone much too long and he cursed himself for having fucked around for so long.

  The door opened without a problem. Valentino had left in a hurry, but she should have summoned her body guard by now. Should have sent good ol’ Maxie up to finish him off. He stepped into the hall and walked quietly to the head of the stairs and looked down. Only the sound of the rain outside and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer reached his ears. The lightning flashed outside the stained glass windows behind him and thunder crashed around the house again. He could see light shining into the hallway below.

  Where had Merry gone? She had said something about clothes? Clean clothes? He slipped down the stairs and made his way quietly down the hall to the library. The door stood open, the source of the light. Cecile was asleep on the leather couch. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor by her hand.

  He checked the kitchen and found a note from the cook stating that he and Maria, the maid, apparently, would bring the groceries back in the morning. Good. He used the rear stairs to get to the third floor where he hoped to at least find some clean clothes before continuing his search for Merry.

  The door to the bedroom where he had been kept was closed. He held his sword in his right hand and twisted the knob very slowly with his left. He could hear noises from within. Strange muffled noises. He allowed the door to swing in of its own accord.

  Merry sat in the chair by the desk with something white wrapped around the lower half of her face. She looked at him with very wide, very red eyes. He frowned and blinked at her and a shiver coursed up his spine. She jerked herself forward and the chair scooted on the floor, teetering dangerously, threatening to topple over. She kept her eyes on his face for what seemed like several long seconds and then slowly turned her head toward the bed.

  Something made him not want to look. He drew a deep breath and took a step forward. At first, what he could see made no sense. It seemed that someone was sleeping in the bed, but then he focused on the figure and recognition flooded over him. One of the Knights from the basement. He could not see the man’s head. The view was blocked by the Knight’s arms. The sight of the two knives holding his hands in place against the dark wood sent an electri
c shock through him and he knew why Maxie had not been up to see him. He had been busy elsewhere.

  Bright red blood ran down the Knight's arms, staining the sheets and the quilt under his shoulders. He wore a black t-shirt and some sort of blue uniform pants with a red stripe down the leg. The t-shirt was pushed up and more blood was visible on his chest. It was not Beaujold. This one had dark hair on his chest and arms and Mark distinctly remembered the yellow uniform that the Knight of the Sword had worn the night before. This was one of the others but his eyesight and his mind had been too shrouded in the fog of pain for him to remember who had worn what. Merry shook her head from side to side rapidly and stomped her foot on the floor to break the trance he had fallen into.

  Mark repressed a shudder and went to Merry first, pulling the cloth from her mouth, and slashing the rope holding her hands with the sword. She leaped from the chair and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing and babbling senselessly into his wet shirt. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she kept saying over and over. “He’s coming back. He’s coming back.”

  Mark turned his attention to the bed and felt his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he stepped closer. He still could not see the man’s face and did not know if he was alive or dead or if he even had a face or, for that matter, a head, at all. He forced himself to calm down and went quickly to look down at the Knight’s face, thankfully finding that he did have one.

  “Lucio?” Mark saw lights swimming in front of his eyes and a cold darkness encroached on his vision. He did not recognize his own voice, but he recognized the face of his friend and Brother, Lucio Dambretti, Chevalier l’Aigle d’Or. Someone had sadistically re-opened the old scar on his face and had been carving designs on his chest. Blood was everywhere.

  Mark was sick of blood.

  Dambretti heard his name being called from the fog in which he drifted and opened his eyes reluctantly, expecting to see the horrible face of the man who had been slowly, but surely cutting him to pieces for quite some time now. Instead, he saw the Flaming Sword of the Cherubim above his head and immediately assumed that Chevalier Ramsay had come to end his suffering. Whatever the man had done to him after he had lost consciousness must have been horrible indeed and he did not want to know what it was, nor did he want to linger long enough to feel it. He smiled automatically and then winced and grimaced as pains stuck him in several places at once. He’d forgotten about his hands. Even the slightest move was paid for by unbearable pain in the palms of his hands. He had never realized that his entire body was connected to his hands before, but the last half hour or so had taught him many things about anatomy.

  “Brother Ramsay?” his voice sounded almost conversational in spite of his troubles.

  “Yes, it’s me,” Mark answered and looked more closely at the hilts of the daggers. They were not real gold. Chips and dents showed on the hilts where they had been hammered into the bedstead. The knuckle guards almost touched the Knight’s bloody palms. He reached out one hand tentatively, to touch one of the hilts.

  “No! No! No!” His Brother’s eyes widened with desperation. “Don’t touch it. Leave it.”

  “Mark!” Merry called his name. She was at the door, looking out into the hallway for signs of the security guard. “Mark, we have to get out of here. Mark!”

  “We can’t leave him here,” he said.

  “We have to hurry,” she told him again and came to stand beside him, sniffing and holding one hand over her mouth at the sight of what Maxie had done to the Knight with the beautiful smile. “Just hurry! Do whatever you have to do.”

  “Keep watch in the hall!” Mark shoved her toward the door and turned back to look down at Lucio. “This is going to hurt, Brother.”

  He put one knee on the bed. Lucio moaned and rolled his head back and forth.

  “NO!” he shouted at him. “Get off! Get away! Don’t touch it!”

  “You have to be strong, Lucio,” Mark told him calmly. “I have to get you out of here.”

  “No! Just do it,” Lucio begged him. “Just do it.”

  “I am. I have to pull the knives out.” Mark looked around the room in desperation.

  “No! No! Just say the words,” Lucio gasped at him and looked up at his hands. “Don’t bother with them. Just say the words. I’m ready.”

  “What words? What are you talking about?” Mark shook his head. Was he supposed to know some magick to make this go away?

  “I am he that liveth and was dead and behold, I am alive forever,” Lucio panted the strangely familiar words. “In God, the Master.” Lucio closed his eyes tightly. “Santa Maria, just say it. I hold the key of Death. I have seen…” Dambretti opened his eyes to look at him again. “The words! Say the words!”

  He moaned again as Mark climbed onto the bed with him and put one knee on each side of his stomach. Mark laid his sword on the bed beside him. Lucio continued to speak “I have seen the work of thy labors and have been witness to…” Dambretti stopped talking. He lay breathing very hard against the pain that Mark’s movements on the bed caused him. “I have been witness to the devotion of thy trust, O Brother. By this act…” He stopped as Mark took hold of one of the daggers with both hands. “No! No! Please, don’t do that.”

  Mark ignored him.

  “By this act I command…”

  Mark rose up and put one foot against the headboard, leaning straight back. Dambretti closed his eyes and shouted at him to stop one more time and then began to babble again. “I commend thy soul to God and set thee free of this broken body.”

  Ramsay wiggled the blade slightly and Dambretti screamed at him. He set his jaw and then pushed against the headboard with every ounce of strength he possessed. He closed his eyes when Dambretti rose up beneath him and the knife came free. He tumbled back across the bed, trying to catch himself fruitlessly before flipping over the foot board onto the carpet. He scrambled to his feet holding the bloody knife aloft triumphantly. There was still one to go.

  “Mark!” Merry shouted to him from the door. “He’s coming.”

  She dashed back into the room and stood near the dormer window as he reached for his sword. He raised the sword just as Valentino’s ugly security man stepped in front of the open door swinging the shotgun up to bear on him. The sight of the weapon did not stop the infuriated Knight.

  The old familiar rage filled him at the sight of the man’s face spattered and smeared with his Brother’s blood. He was on the man before he had time to pull either trigger, knocking him backwards onto the floor in the hallway. His own momentum took him over the man and across the hall where he crashed into another door and bounced off. He fell onto the floor beside the struggling Maxie. The man made it to his feet first and scrambled off down the hall toward the stairs, abandoning the shotgun in his attempt to get away from the gleaming sword that had embedded its point in the rug next to his head. Mark yanked the blade free and started after him. He stopped halfway to the stairs and doubled over as the pain caught up with him. The dual impact of door and floor coupled with the tumble from the bed, brought biting reminders of the dreadful wound he had received less than twenty-four hours ago. Gasping for breath and clutching his side, he leaned momentarily on the sword and then ran down the stairs after the man.

  Merry ran after him, screaming his name. At the second floor landing he stopped. Maxie was halfway down the hall and making for the grand staircase. Merry almost caught Mark, but he sprinted away after the man oblivious to the pain in his side and her desperate cries for him to stop.

  The big man paused at the top of the stairs and turned to look back. Mark brought up the sword and leaped into the air swinging the blade around in a wide arc which would take the man’s head off clean from his shoulders. Merry screamed again, the man threw his arms into the air overbalancing himself. He teetered on the edge of the top riser for what seemed like several long seconds, grabbed for the banister and then toppled backwards down the stairs
just as the golden blade grazed his left arm.

  Mark turned a complete three-sixty in the air, landed heavily on the rug, stumbled and caught himself on the banister with his left hand. He came down hard on the railing and knocked what remained of his breath away. Pain, pain and more pain. He was momentarily incapacitated as stars danced in front of his eyes.

  Maxie tumbled heels over head backwards down the stairs until he sprawled face down on the marble tiles of the foyer below. Valentino appeared in the hallway just as her security man made his last yelping slap against the stone floor and then lay very still. Blood trickled from his ear.

  Merry dashed down the length of the upper corridor and stood beside Mark looking down in shock at the scene below. Valentino knelt beside the man and picked up his wrist. She held a handkerchief in front of her face. Only her large, dark eyes were visible above the cloth as she looked up at them. To Mark’s pain-wracked mind, she looked like the veiled Saracen woman in the courtyard. She stood up slowly, her eyes locked on Mark Andrew’s face. He shouted something down at her in what sounded like Latin and started down the stairs with his sword raised over his head, but Merry threw herself at him, grabbing his shirt, yanking him back against the banister. He spun on her and then blinked rapidly, confused by what had happened.

  “No!” she said adamantly. “We’ve got to go! Leave her alone.”

  “Lucio!” Mark said as his mind cleared of the red rage. She found herself racing after him again as he ran back up the hall and up the stairs to the room on the third floor.

  Lucio Dambretti was no longer conscious. He lay where Mark had left him with his free hand bleeding against his forehead. He was a gory mess. Mark crossed himself, unaware of the action, before laying aside his sword and climbing back on the bed to repeat the same process with the other dagger. This time without the strange accompaniment of the prayer Lucio had been repeating. The second dagger was embedded more deeply and it took two panicked attempts to dislodge it. Merry untied the Knight’s feet and grabbed up his boots. She was still barefooted, still wore the ragged lavender gown from the night before. It was hopelessly ruined, stained with both Mark’s and Lucio’s blood, as she struggled to help Mark lift the unconscious man onto his shoulder. She picked up the golden sword and carried it, along with the boots, after Mark down the hall to the service stairwell. They stumbled down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the pouring rain through the side door.