“And what do you do for the Order?” she asked angrily. His words hurt her somehow and made her mad.
“I read books.” He continued to smile. “I read thousands of books. I read reports. I read transcripts, records, documents, files, micro-film, journals, magazines, encyclopedias, dictionaries, diaries and even nutritional labels. I read scrolls and tablets and fragments of such. Not very exciting, is it? Brother Ramsay taught me to speak English and Latin and French. He taught me to read and write. I owe everything that I am to him. And I have my Mystery, of course.”
“And yet you would stand by and allow that other, horrible man to kill him? You would not help Mark?” She could not understand the logic behind what he was saying. He spoke of Mark Andrew with profound love and respect, almost veneration, and yet….
“It is…” he began.
“I know! The Will of God,” she finished for him in exasperation.
“Yes,” he nodded solemnly.
(((((((((((((
The three men inside the cavern were in trouble. The cold water reached von Hetz’ chin and he was the tallest of them by several inches. Simon was holding onto his arm treading water, while Christopher Stewart sat perched atop his shoulders with his feet dangling in the water. Simon struggled hard in the heavy clothing as he floated precariously a few inches above the solid rock floor. He had never been a very adept swimmer and trying to swim in total darkness, fully dressed in a military uniform replete with tall knee boots was proving very taxing and, he felt, very soon, it would become quite impossible.
“I am sinking, Brother,” he told the German Knight.
“It will be a shock to your system at first,” von Hetz answered him very near his ear.
“Have you drowned before?” Simon asked him.
“Twice,” the Knight of the Apocalypse told him matter-of-factly. “It is very disconcerting at first, but all you have to do is breath the water.”
“Breathe the water?” Simon sounded doubtful. He had never faced such a terrible ordeal. Not since he had faced the fear of the Inquisition, he had not felt such dread and fear. He was shaking all over as the water inched its way up his neck.
“Calm yourself, Brother Simon,” von Hetz tried to sound comforting. “Once you have properly drowned and the water has risen sufficiently, you may climb onto my shoulders and boost up the boy. I will hold you both. The water will help me support your weight. It is a very handy trick to learn. Drowning, that is."
"Brother Ramsay and I once eluded an entire platoon of Nazi’s by riding our horses into the Danube. Regrettably, the horses did not survive. The leap from the bluff was too great for them. I also had the rare honor of teaching the trick to Brother Philip in Austria when we were riding with King Richard. Of course, King Richard could not come with us and he was captured, poor devil. I have always felt rather badly about that.”
“That’s just great,” Christopher muttered and adjusted his hold on the Knight’s head. If anyone had tried to tell him a week ago that he would have been sitting on the Apocalyptic Knight’s shoulders, clinging to his ears for dear life, listening to stories about the ‘old days’, he would have laughed himself into a stupor. At the moment, he did not feel it was such a funny thought. Armand would never believe it! “Perhaps Maid Marion would have never met Robin Hood if you had not left the King in the lurch,” he added sarcastically.
“I beg your pardon? Loosen your hold a bit, my son, I cannot hear you,” von Hetz told him. “You will displace my ears.”
“Sorry, Master,” Christopher relaxed his grip a bit. He could not believe they were talking so calmly about drowning. Of course he had more at stake than they did. Breathe the water. What a concept. How high could the water rise? How long could the storm last? They could still hear the thunder from above. How high was the roof? What would happen when the water reached the ceiling? He knew the answer to that one. He would die. What had happened to Master Dambretti? Had he abandoned them? Where was Master Ramsay? Where was Master Beaujold? Were they out there killing each other at that moment?
The trip had not turned out at all like he had anticipated. He should have listened to his friend Armand d’Bleu. He should have listened to Master Barry. But then, he had a problem with listening to authority figures. His major problem, as Master Ramsay had told him so often, was that he thought he was just so damned smart. Sir Ramsay had told him that one day he would learn a great lesson the hard way about following orders. So the day had come and he would not live to reap the benefits of the lesson. He crossed himself and began to say a silent prayer asking that he would live and that he would see his Master again in one piece.
(((((((((((((
Mark Andrew scuttled down the hill like an oversized fiddler crab, alternately speeding and slowing his descent by using the dagger and the sword like ski poles. One wrong move and he could find himself tumbling all the way to the bottom of the steep slope, buried in rubble. His movements put him well away from the path he had taken up to the old shelter. When he stopped, the rocks slid away from him into the darkness below for several seconds and then the movement subsided. Stiff bristly plants and cactus plucked at his clothes and skin. If the rain continued, the whole hillside could collapse and he would go with it. The rain continued to be a visibility problem as well. He could see very little when the blinding flashes came. His first instinct had been to go up, so therefore he had decided to go down. It seemed that the venerable Knight of the Sword, being the grand military tactician that he was, could easily anticipate his every move. He did not believe that either of the injuries he had inflicted on the Knight would be enough to stop him. The infernal rain continued to pound his head, slicking his hair into his face and causing his clothes to cling in chill wraps against his skin. At one point, he had to sit down and empty the water from his boots, a very nerve-wracking few moments when had been forced to lay aside his weapons.
He found the garden path with little trouble and skirted Merry’s backyard, moving west and came at the house from the side nearest the stables. He checked the stables, but found only the horses, still standing as he and Merry had abandoned them. He resisted the urge to fall into the sweet-smelling hay and go to sleep. The only blessing he could count at the moment was that the terrible hunger pangs had not returned. The words of von Hetz rang in his ears. “You hunger for the truth.” The truth had certainly set him free from the hunger in his stomach, but it had done little to relieve his other troubles.
He slipped into the darkness again and made his way back to the house. As he approached the side door leading into the laundry area, the lights flickered twice and came on. He mounted the steps carefully and pushed open the door. A single florescent light glowed in the laundry room. Smears of blood and small puddles of water indicated that he had made the right decision. Beaujold had returned to the cover of the mansion to see to his wounds. Mark entered the kitchen with extreme caution, pausing to listen carefully for signs of life. Nothing. He crept down the carpeted hallway, past the library and parlor toward the foyer and the grand staircase. Maxie’s blood was still visible on the tile at the foot of the stairs, but now there were newer, fresher splotches mixed in with the rain water puddles on the tiles from Beaujold’s passing. The trail led up the risers.
Mark went up the stairs quickly and quietly, taking two steps at a time, following the stains on the carpet. There were also smeared prints on the handrail. He had injured him quite well. The blood led to the right toward the smaller staircase, leading to the third floor.
At the top of the stairs, he found his adversary. Beaujold stood on the third floor landing, looking down at him. He had shed the military-style jacket and wore only a white tee-shirt with a long bloody rip in the right side. The silver broadsword was clasped in his left hand and a curved dagger gleamed in his right.
Mark stood looking up at him without speaking, trying to judge his condition.
“Brother,” Beaujold lowered his head and looked
at him with an almost insane gleam in his weak blue eyes. His thin blond hair was plastered to his head, while bloody water dripped from his right hand.
“Give it up, Sir, and go home while you can,” Mark challenged him and then backed into the wall on the landing as the Knight of the Sword came slowly, deliberately down the stairs. “This is not necessary. You are still my Brother. We can come to an understanding.”
Beaujold did not answer him. He was beyond reasoning. When he reached the landing, he attacked with a vicious series of thrusts, the force and fury of which surprised the Scot. Mark stepped aside and struck down each thrust with a forceful parry, each blow meant to break the Knight’s sword. Beaujold was too seasoned a fighter to allow success. Mark parried the last thrust and locked blades with the injured man, pinning him briefly against the wall before clipping his chin with the pommel of the golden sword, sending him sideways toward the stairs. The Knight turned swiftly, leaned against the handrail briefly and then launched himself off again, swinging the sword in a powerful arch that would have taken the Knight of Death’s head had he not dropped to one knee. The blade whizzed over his head actually brushing his hair. The man was seriously demented.
Mark recovered his stance quickly and feinted right before moving to the left as the Knight’s sword struck the carpet where he had been only an instant before. Beaujold shrieked in rage and charged forward with another thrust aimed at the center of Mark’s chest. Mark volted left and began to back down the stairs parrying blow after blow. There was no rage in his heart or his mind. He felt a strange mixture of regret and sadness at the situation. Never in his long life had he ever fought one of his own Brothers in real combat. He had killed a number of them, but never had he faced one as an enemy. An overwhelming sense of pity for the Knight that attacked him so relentlessly, made him careless and he tripped over a small table on the second floor landing. He fell onto his back and then rolled twice, sending the table and its contents crashing down the steps. He avoided another of Beaujold’s heavy-handed blows, which would have removed at least part of his head as he regained his feet. Beaujold made a fleche with the dagger and grazed his hip as he turned a complete three-sixty bringing up the silver blade again. A burning sensation coursed up Mark’s side from the contact with the lethal blade, but he retained his balance and brought up the golden blade in front of him, unwilling, even so to attack his Brother forcefully.
“After I cut off your traitorous head, I’m going to find the woman,” Beaujold regained some of his lost composure and began to speak. Now would come a series of insults intended to unbalance the opponent. Mark knew this ploy very well. He had suffered many such forms of ridicule over the years, but had managed to retain his cursed head upon his neck. Normally, such things would have no effect on his conscious mind at all, but he knew that this was different. This man meant what he said and the woman this time meant something to Mark. He inhaled a sharp breath and moved quickly, warding off another blow. The clang of the swords echoed down the stairs into the foyer below.
“She is a whore lower than an Infidel’s bitch,” Beaujold continued his verbal attack.
Mark felt the blood rise to his cheeks, but made no reply.
“I will set your worthless head on the steps and let you watch while I slowly cut her to pieces.”
The Knight attacked again and Mark counterattacked with more force, backing him down the stairs with a serious round of thrusts, followed by two more very close encounters with the curved dagger. Beaujold stumbled and caught himself on the banister halfway down. Mark followed him down the stairs, knocking him back again and again, striking the banister with enough force to send chunks of wood flying.
“This is useless, Brother,” Mark told him when he stepped off the bottom riser onto the marble tiles. “I can take your head at any time. You are injured. Give it up, man!”
“Come for it, Brother. You hide your own wounds well, but you forget who inflicted them. It has not been three days.” Beaujold reprised his attack with renewed fury that surprised Mark Andrew and forced him to retreat up the steps. The blond drew back his sword and dropped the dagger, taking the hilt of the heavy sword in both hands. He made a wide swing intended to literally cut Ramsay’s feet from under him.
Mark leaped from the steps, over the blade and landed on the tiles behind the Knight of the Sword. His landing sent terrible pain up side from his injured hip and caused the older wound in his stomach to add to his problems. He straightened more slowly than he expected and the Chevalier d’Epee turned more quickly than he had thought possible, but not quickly enough. Ramsay raised the naked point of the Flaming Sword making contact with the soft flesh just below his jaw and stopped. Beaujold’s sword was still down. His dagger lay on the floor. They locked eyes.
“Yield or die!” Mark told him. “It’s that simple.”
Beaujold’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Yield or die!” Valentino’s voice cut through the ensuing silence. “I like that. Yield or die, Mark Ramsay! Simple.”
Ramsay felt the prod of something hard against the small of his back. He kept the sword at Beaujold’s throat. Even if she shot him, he could not let the Knight go or he would most certainly be dead. The Knight in front of him would not stop. He tensed in anticipation of the shot. He’d been shot before. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world, but it was better than losing one’s head.
Beaujold smiled at him and raised his sword without taking his eyes off him. He took a short step backwards and wheeled around, bringing up the silver sword in another of his wild swings aimed at Ramsay’s throat. But the Knight was wounded, tired and out of his mind with rage and pain. Mark waited and then dropped suddenly to one knee. The same move he had made before. Beaujold continued his swing and Valentino made a strangled screaming sound. At the very last moment, the Knight of the Sword flicked his wrist slightly and turned the blade perpendicular to the floor. The flat side of the blade smacked against Valentino’s temple and the pistol went off in her hand. She toppled forward onto Mark’s head and the bullet went wild, striking the banister behind the Knight of the Sword. He stared into the twin barrels of Maxie’s shotgun. The hulking man stood a few feet away swaying slightly, a broad bandage over his broken nose.
“Drop it, dipshit!” the man ordered him gruffly with a decidedly nasal twang.
Mark struggled to dislodge the unconscious woman from atop him and stood up, holding her limp form in front of himself as a shield. He wrapped his sword arm under her breast and pressed Dambretti’s dagger against her neck.
“Let her go!” Maxie backed up.
“Out of my way,” Mark told him quietly as he dragged the woman toward the front door. Maxie looked from one of them to the other and decided that the Knight of the Sword bore the most watching, since he still clung to the silver sword.
“Drop it, I said!” The man swung the shotgun to bear on Beaujold’s head. The shotgun carried much more weight than the pistol.
Mark heard the Knight’s sword clang to the floor. He pulled open the front door and stepped outside into the rain and thrust the body of Valentino back inside the door. He heard Maxie shout once before he sprinted across the porch and leapt down to the sidewalk beside the house. The bone jarring movements caused a number of new pains. He pressed his hand against the new wound on his hip and made for the rear of the house and the garden.
(((((((((((((
Dambretti awoke with a start when someone kicked him lightly in the side. He looked up, blinking and squinting in the dim light to see Mark Andrew standing over him. His first thought was that he had missed morning muster and he scrambled up to attention and snapped a salute to the Chevalier du Morte.
“Saints preserve us,” Mark muttered and then held one finger to his lips when Lucio discovered his error and started to speak.
The rain had stopped and the gray light of dawn was visible through the glass roof above them. Merry lay curled on her side against the base of the
big telescope standing in the center of the room. Mark took the Knight’s arm and escorted him to the hatch leading down and out of the observatory, leaving her sleeping as they climbed down the ladder and took the narrow stairs as quiet as two ghosts in the gray gloom. When they stepped outside, the sun was rising above the eastern hill, a flaming ball of red and purple between pink and blue clouds.
“Where have you been, Brother?” Lucio asked him, eyeing the new rip in his clothing and the darker material where the blood had soaked through his trousers.
“I met up with an old friend,” Mark told him sourly. “I had to rest before I could come back. There was nothing I could do in the rain and the dark. What of Simon and von Hetz?”
“It is not Simon and the Ritter than concerns me,” Lucio told him as they stumbled along the muddy trail. “Christopher Stewart is with them.”
“Christopher?” Mark turned on him and took him by the collar. “Christopher was with them?”
“Hold, Brother,” Lucio took hold of his wrist and frowned at him. “I did not bring him here. He came on his own and if he is not drowned already, the Master will kill him when he gets him back to Italy.”
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 47