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

by Brendan Carroll

)))))))))))))

  Sir Thomas Beaujold could not go to sleep and he could not rest as the Grand Master had instructed him to do. He lay on the bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily above him. His mind was full of jumbled thoughts. He had made a mistake by not beheading Ramsay in the desert. The man wouldn’t have gotten up and rode away without his head and by leaving him there for the elements, he garnered sympathy for the man from the Knight of the Holy City and possibly the Grand Master as well. To make his humiliation complete, he had disgraced himself shamelessly in front of his old friend’s replacement, the prissy Englishman from London. An accountant, no less. Beaujold had never accepted his late friend and Brother’s death over sixty years ago and every time he saw Sir Montague, his hatred for Ramsay grew. Never once had he stopped to think what Montague's former Master, the previous Knight of the Holy City’s life would have been like had Ramsay allowed him to live with most of his lower body destroyed. Beaujold's ability to reason rationally had been permanently affected from that moment onward. In sixty plus years his mind had forged many conspiracy theories, including the idea that Ramsay, the Scot, had been in league with Montague, the Brit, with the goal of replacing all the Frankish Knights with men like themselves from the British Empire. The rivalry between France and England was too inbred in Beaujold's blood for him to ever rid himself of such thoughts.

  He got up and paced the floor restlessly. When he could stand it no longer, he pulled his bags from under the bed and took out his secondary weapons. A long, curved dagger of antique vintage and a heavy broadsword with an unadorned hilt of burnished silver wrapped with black leather lacings and wound with wire. He had to find Ramsay and finish the job before d’Brouchart and the inestimable Mister Montague ruined everything with their tolerant attitudes. Perhaps d’Brouchart was growing weak and feeble. The Grand Master was, after all, older than all of them. Perhaps it was time for the man to step down, if he did not have the stomach to do what had to be done without hesitation.

  He walked quietly down the hall of Miss Penelope Martin’s hotel and let himself out the front door into the rain. That Ramsay had gone back to the house where the woman was, he had little doubt. Perhaps she would have the pleasure of watching him behead her lover before he killed her, and everyone else at the despicable house of pretenders and if Lucio Dambretti got in his way, he would not hesitate to take the Italian out of the picture as well.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  The house was quieter than ever when the two soaking wet Knights and the blond woman let themselves in the side door. No lights were on, nothing stirred. They went quickly up the back stairs to Merry’s room. The men would wait outside in the hallway while she went in to change clothes.

  Mark held his sword in one hand and Dambretti’s dagger in the other as they edged their way down the hall past Merry’s room onto the balcony at the top of the main stairwell. They checked the foyer, but the big man’s body was gone. Scuff marks on the tiles and a few splotches of blood were the only indications that he had been there at all. They returned quickly and took up a position in the corridor, standing back to back in front of her door until she emerged again wearing jeans, tee shirt, boots and a light raincoat. She carried a small flashlight in one hand and Mark could tell that she had been crying again.

  No one accosted them as they made their way back downstairs and out into the night. Mark had a very bad feeling about the eerie silence in the mansion. He wanted to go back and search the house, but they had to find the others first. Then they would all come back together and make sure that everything was in order before they left. He knew that Beaujold would not hesitate to kill Valentino if he found her and Mark wanted to prevent it, if he could. He felt that it was not necessary. She was essentially harmless without her watchdog and nobody would ever believe her if she told them what had been going on for the last few weeks. She was, after all, a criminal now, a murderer or an accomplice in the very least, by whatever part she had played in the deaths of Anthony and Tellman. She had held both himself and Lucio prisoner in her house and that was just the beginning of what was probably a long list of charges she could face if the truth came out. Valentino could not afford to complain to the authorities no matter what they did.

  Mark pulled the heavy golf bag from the flower bed beside the door and hefted it to his shoulder, hoping against hope that his Brothers would be able to use them when they found them. The tiny search party set off down the brick path toward the garden and beyond, up the slippery limestone hill behind the estate. Merry led them quickly through the winding paths and up the rocky path toward the crest of the hill as she had promised. In spite of her expert guidance, their way was made slow and treacherous by the rain-slicked rocks and mud where the water rushed past their feet as if they were walking upstream in a small river. The lightning flashed almost continuously in a spectacular display and Merry ducked reflexively again and again as the red and yellow prongs seemed to strike the very top of the hill above them. The frequency of the lightning provided them with a strobe-light effect, allowing Merry to keep the flashlight turned off much of the time, preventing them from sending a beacon to anyone who might have been looking.

  The storm fascinated Mark Andrew and he knew that such displays were a familiar occurrence in his past and he actually enjoyed the magnificent power that filled the air around them with an almost palpable charge. If their circumstances had been different, he would have taken Merry back to the barn and watched the storm from the hay loft. The strange thought made him feel even more desperate to be done with this thing. He just wanted to get home and find out who he really was. If all went well, he would invite her to Scotland for a holiday next year. A holiday. Yes.

  The entrance to the old shelter was hidden behind a pile of boulders near the top of the hill. Inside the heavy metal door, the passage was dry and their footsteps echoed eerily in the dark. They descended through the side of the hill until they were some fifty yards from the main entrance where their way was suddenly barred by a smooth slab of polished limestone. A rusty pulley mechanism with decrepit chains hung beside the door, tinkling and vibrating as the thunder shook the hill.

  “They are probably in there.” She nodded to the stone slab. “It’s the only place she could have put them to be sure they would not escape without having to set a constant guard on them. This door has never been closed to my knowledge,” she looked in wonder at the rusty chains disappearing into the pitch blackness above them. “The rest of the chambers have collapsed.”

  Mark examined the pulley. Primitive. Ugly and cumbersome. Nothing like the perfectly balanced blocks guarding the entrances to the secret chambers in the pyramids. Again he shook his head to clear this even stranger thought from his mind. He caught hold of one of the chains and rattled it against the rock above them. An avalanche of rock chips, dirt and rust showered down on their heads, not to mention a few startled bats. A creaky system of cogs and a hand crank of very antiquated design made up the simple device anchored to the rock floor.

  He took hold of the handle on the crank and gave it a tentative twist while Dambretti and Merry looked on. It squeaked loudly and turned with a jerky clicking motion. Each link in the rusty chain was caught by one of the teeth in the cog just above his head and held in place by a primitive locking mechanism. Two turns of the crank caused the door to raise a quarter of inch. Cool air issued from under the door.

  Dambretti got on his knees and projected his voice under the stone.

  “Hello! Anyone home?” he called.

  Soon they heard the very distinct sound of someone answering them from the other side.

  “Master Dambretti?” Christopher’s voice echoed into the dark corridor.

  “Yes, it’s me!” Lucio turned his head to look up at them and smiled.

  “Deo gratis!” D’Ornan’s voice joined that of the apprentice from under the door. “Please hurry, my Brother. We are in trouble here. The water is rising.”

&nbs
p; Faint splashing sounds could be heard from the hollow space beyond the door.

  “And it’s dark in here,” Christopher told them urgently.

  “Stand back while we try to get the door opened,” Dambretti ordered and then stood up beside Ramsay. “You must hurry, Brother.”

  Mark Andrew nodded. It was not easy to work the crank as the chain creaked and popped and continued to rain down flakes of metal and red dust on them. Bats frightened them from time to time and the storm continued to rage outside. The debris stuck to their wet necks and skin, making them more miserable than ever. He expected the entire thing to collapse on their heads at any moment. The door was barely two inches aloft when the chain snapped. The stone slammed down with a resounding boom, causing them to fall back against the walls of the corridor. The sound had actually jarred their hearts.

  Merry stood staring at them in the light of her flashlight, thinking the unthinkable. The link had separated at a point some two feet above the cog. Mark reached up to inspect the broken chain, while Dambretti tried unsuccessfully to contact the people within the cavern. No amount of shouting or pounding on the door brought any audible answers from the other side of the slab.

  “We have to find some other way,” Mark said as he looked around the enclosure. “We have to get them out of there. We need more chain.”

  “There’s some chain in the garage,” Merry told him. “Maybe we could hook up a new piece.”

  “Never patch an old cloth with new,” Dambretti shook his head. “It would only cause the chain to break faster.”

  “Well, do you have some other idea?” Merry looked at him in the darkness.

  “No,” he told her and shrugged in his most irritating fashion. “It is not my mission, la mia dolce. No decisions are required of me.”

  “I’ll go.” Mark drew a deep breath. He was beginning to understand why he might have some deep-seated animosity for the Italian. “You two stay here.”

  “You had best hurry,” Lucio told him and took the light from Merry to shine it at the floor near the door. Water was beginning to pool at the base of the slab. He shined the light up the passage and saw two small streams flowing in from outside. They met in front of the door soaking into the extremely dry sand and then edging out toward their feet.

  Mark pulled his sword and Lucio’s dagger from the bag and started back out of the cave into the rain. Was nothing ever easy?

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Beaujold parked the van under the trees near the point where the drive to the mansion began and then hurried along the white rock lane, keeping near the line of trees and hedges. The storm was raging around him as if God, himself, were angry with him. When he reached the house, he saw no lights inside. The electricity was out. He had seen the spot where a lightning bolt had downed the lines on his way out from town.

  The front doors of the mansion were unlocked. A bad sign. There were traces of blood visible on the marble tile in the foyer. The third floor bedroom where they had kept Mark Ramsay was a scene most terrible. As he entered the room, he could smell the blood, even before the lightning showed him the dark stains on the bed, on the headboard and all over the new rug. He had no way of knowing who had suffered here. It could have been any one of the five Templars or someone else entirely. Most likely Lucio Dambretti had paid dearly for his sins in this very room.

  He made his way outside to the basement doors. The only other place he knew to look, but the basement doors stood open. Another bad sign.

  The water was already several inches deep in the passage at the bottom of the stairs. Beaujold turned on his flashlight reluctantly and made a quick search of the storerooms and laboratory. No one. A feeling of dread washed over him. What had Ramsay done? Killed them all? It did not seem unreasonable. If the man could get up and ride with a sword run through him, why not? The thought brought to mind a story that Louis Champlain loved to relate around the campfire.

  The Templars had been caught in a siege in the Holy Lands. There had been only ten Knights in the fortress and all hope was gone. Rather than risk capture and torture, they had formulated a suicidal plan designed to inflict as much harm on the enemy as possible and, at the same time, make sure that their own deaths would be swift and merciful. They had put on their armor, mounted their horses and rode into the streets in an offensive move of unprecedented bravery or foolishness, depending on the point of view. To their own amazement and the Glory of God, they had routed the entire contingency of Saracens infesting the city, leaving hundreds dead in their wake without losing a single man in their ranks. It had been a miracle! But then, of course, as Louis Champlain liked to claim, God had been on their side and Sir Ramsay and his brother had not been with them. Most of the stories he had heard about the two brothers from those early days of the Order were much less honorable and Ramsay’s brother had paid the price. Now Ramsay would finally pay the price for his own philandering and join his brother in Perdition. He had broken his vows, betrayed the Order and disgraced himself.

  A chill coursed up his spine and Beaujold crossed himself quickly at the thought that Ramsay might be hiding somewhere in the basement, watching him.

  The Knight of the Sword switched off the flashlight and stuck it in his pocket. He went back up the stairs more warily than before. He turned right, once outside, and went toward the stable. There he found only the horses. They eyed him suspiciously when he entered. The stallion was back in its stall, but it still wore the black, bloodstained saddle, confirming his suspicion that Ramsay had returned to the mansion. The palomino, however, had not returned and the bay mare, wearing a halter and bridle, nudged him playfully, hoping for a treat. So, he had help. It was not surprising. He reached for the reins of the mare and frowned. If Ramsay and the woman had returned to the house and left the barn without taking time to tend the horses, then where were they?

  He left the barn, blinking back the rain from his eyes, and started around the back of the house, looking for the garage. The next lightning flash showed the side entrance to the garage standing open. He stopped at the door and frowned into the dim interior. The lightning flashed again and he saw someone inside the garage kneeling in front of a large tool chest on the floor. He ducked aside and flattened himself against the side of the building to wait.

  The Chevalier du Morte hurried as best he could from the garage, awkwardly carrying a bundle of chain, clutching it close to his body with one arm while holding the Flaming Sword in his other hand. Beaujold noticed right away that he held the sword in his left hand. He could have killed him then and there, but the French Knight stayed put, watching him curiously as he hurried away with his clinking, rattling burden down the brick walkway. The Knight of the Sword gave him a bit of a lead and then followed after him. It would behoove him to learn where the man was bound and whom he intended to bind with the chains. Ramsay knew where his Brothers were! It was apparent that he had taken them captive somewhere and was in the process of making ready to abandon them. Perhaps weighting their bodies down in a subterranean pool or a well or a quagmire. Beaujold had very little knowledge of what sort of landscape surrounded the estate. He knew that Texas was called ‘a whole ’nother country’ from the tourist propaganda he sometimes saw on the web and TV.

  For all he knew there were bogs and swamps just down the road. This unsettling thought brought to mind the misfortunate time he had witnessed their beloved Knight of Death weighting down the body of a man he had beheaded in Romania. Ramsay had sunk the corpse in a stagnant lake full of murky, black water after stuffing the dead man's mouth full of garlic, jamming an ash stake through his heart and sprinkling him with Holy Water. It would be sad to report to the Grand Master that his Chevalier du Morte had lived up to his title by killing the Healer, the Ritter, the Knight of the Golden Eagle and his own apprentice along with two civilian women and a man. It would be sad, but it would certainly support Beaujold’s stance on the matter of what to do with the traitorous Knight of Death. Beaujold knew that he had
the support of at least two of the other French Knights on the Council when it came to his feelings about Mark Ramsay. Ramsay could kill them all, one by one, and collect their secrets for himself and then he would be of such immense power; he could easily conquer the world. And who knew what that brooding mind cooked up along with his putrid chemicals and fumes in his dark laboratory in the Scottish lowlands. The Knight of the Sword was convinced that the Key of Death would be much safer in the hands of one of his countrymen. James Argonne, for example would make a much trustier custodian.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Merry jumped up and caught hold of the broken chain again. Each time she put her full weight on it, the rusty links began to inch slowly toward the cog. If they could just get the last link hooked on one of the teeth, they could start cranking the door open again.

  The water in the corridor with them was already several inches deep. If they waited much longer, they would have to abandon the cave altogether and there would be no hope of opening the door before the water subsided again and outside, the storm showed no sign of abating. Her hands were wet and slippery and the chain was slick with a sort of rusty paste created by the rain and the action of her hands. Each time they almost got the chain to close on the cog, she would slip off and they would have to start the process over again. Her hands burned and her arms and shoulders ached unmercifully and she had already hurt two fingers in the links.

  “You must try harder,” Dambretti told her as she slipped off yet again.

  “Must I?” she asked in exasperation. “Why? So they can come out and kill Mark Andrew?”

  “They won’t kill him, signorina,” he told her. “I am sure of it.”

  “I can’t tell!” she snapped and leaned against the wall, opening and closing her abused hands. “I saw you in the basement! You didn’t look too friendly to me.”

  “Mark Andrew Ramsay is not only my Brother, he is my friend,” Lucio told her. “I have known him for a very long time. He has saved my life more than once and I would do nothing to harm him though I would sometimes like to wring his stubborn neck.”