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

by Brendan Carroll

  Mark nodded and let go of him. The situation was becoming sorrier and sorrier. He cursed his luck again and again as they continued down the hill. He had forgotten about his apprentice. Fatigue and the events of the past several days threatened to overwhelm him and he rubbed his temples as he walked along, trying to keep his sanity and his consciousness. The boy had probably drowned and ultimately, he would be blamed for the boy’s death.

  When they reached the cavern, they found it still full of water and whatever hope he may have had of rescuing Christopher vanished, only to be replaced by a smoldering rage. He was angry first and foremost with himself for allowing this to happen in the first place. After that, there was a long list of people he wished to get even with even though he knew that vengeance belonged to God and that God would take care of it for him… eventually.

  “Come on.” Mark picked up the chain and waded into the water.

  “I can’t!” Lucio backed away, staring at the dark water in terror.

  “Yes, you can,” Mark told him lightly when he looked back at him.

  “No!” Dambretti’s eyes went wide and his face drained of color.

  “Just relax and breathe the water. Surely you've had this pleasant experience before? What is your fucking problem?” Mark grumbled and waded back after him.

  The Knight of the Golden Eagle turned to run and Mark tackled him in the mud. They rolled in the slick white mud, banging against rocks and small bushes as they slid partway down the hill together. When they got up again, facing each other, they looked like clay figures instead of flesh and blood. Mark wiped at the gunk on his face and spat blood on the ground angrily.

  “By God, I have lost enough blood already! Do not cause me to spill yours as well. Now come on!” he said, picked up the chain and started to turn, but Lucio turned the other way.

  They went down again in a tangle of arms, legs, chains and weapons.

  “You’re going down there. I need your help!” he told him as he kicked and struggled to get away. The Italian was no match for the stronger Scot who had him by at least twenty pounds, an inch or so in height and a ton of determination. He held him down in the mud easily and wrapped the chain around his neck. “You always were a coward, you sniveling whelp!” Mark told him gruffly and dragged him to his feet wincing as the tumble and the activity caused numerous pains. “I should have left you in Jerusalem.”

  “I am not a coward!” Lucio protested. “I just don’t like going in the water with you, Brother,” he explained. “Remember what happened last time?”

  He pointed to the long scar on his face that was just beginning to heal again after the sadistic techniques employed by Valentino’s guard dog.

  “That was an accident,” Ramsay told him and braced himself against a bush to regain his footing without letting go of the chain. Lucio had no choice but to rise with him or be choked. “You don’t want to temp me to do something on purpose, Brother. Now move it! You're going in first!”

  He slipped and slid toward the cave, but managed to hold the chain and draw the dagger from his belt at the same time.

  He held the knife against the Italian’s back.

  “Move!”

  They waded into the water. Just before Lucio’s head went under the water, he fought and struggled once more, but Mark let the weight of the heavy chain take him under. He waited until the man stopped wiggling and the bubbles subsided before blowing the air from his own lungs . He then stepped deliberately into the water with him and braced himself against the pain the water caused as it filled his lungs.

  An hour later, a huge gush of water spilled from the cavern onto the hillside and presently five choking, gasping figures crawled from the passage and lay in the mud, coughing and struggling for air.

  Dambretti was the first one up, leaning against the rock face coughing up water from his lungs. He drew in a deep breath and looked around, blinking back dirty water and rubbing at his face with both fists. The sun was well up and the sounds of birds and insects seemed to mock him. The stylized figure of Horus glittered, half-buried in the mud. Ramsay had made the dagger for him years earlier. He bent to retrieve the dagger that Ramsay had dropped it in his rush to get out of the cavern before Christopher drowned. The horror of what had just occurred overwhelmed him. He did not like dying and living again. It was horrible to him in every respect and each time it happened, he hated it worse and worse. The drowning experience was one of the worst deaths he had suffered so far even though it had hardly qualified as a true death experience. He wiped the muddy blade on his wet trousers and caught Ramsay up by the collar as he was hacking and coughing on his knees in the mud, clutching at his stomach and hip. Their efforts underneath the cold dark water had affected him much worse than the Italian. He was on the verge of collapse and he could feel every fiber in his body crying out for rest and recuperation. The Italian slammed him against a boulder and pressed the blade against his throat. Blood ran from the wounds on Dambretti’s hands and water dripped from his hair into Ramsay’s face.

  “You called me a coward,” he said through gritted teeth in the taller man’s face.

  Ramsay looked as if he would be sick and then coughed water into his face. While Lucio sputtered in surprise, Mark Andrew laughed at him.

  “And so you are angry with the wrong man, little Brother. Let thy wrathful anger take hold of them,” he quoted a scripture when he had regained his breath. “Even now you are afraid to do what your rage tells you to do. You would do well to direct your anger in a more beneficial direction. If you cannot kill me, then do not threaten me, or else I might think you are serious.”

  Dambretti wiped the water from his face and blinked rapidly at him, shivering violently with rage and shock.

  Simon was up now coughing and throwing up volumes of water while von Hetz climbed onto his hands and knees slowly in the mud. It seemed that the water simply poured out of him without the violent retching suffered by his Brothers.

  Lucio regained his composure somewhat and then leaned back in, close to Ramsay's face.

  “Your woman is very pleasant company,” Lucio told him and set his jaw stubbornly as he stabbed the Scot verbally. He twisted the blade slightly. “We had a good, long visit last night and she told me her true feelings for you.”

  Mark Andrew inhaled sharply and then suddenly jabbed the Italian in the stomach, taking his newly found breath away again.

  Lucio backed away clutching his stomach. Simon, somewhat recovered, took him by the arm, thinking him to be suffering from the water. He had missed the altercation between them completely. The Healer turned him around and looked down at the wounds in Dambretti’s palms.

  “Don’t toy with me, Brother,” Ramsay told him over the Healer’s head and spit out another mouthful of water. He picked up his sword and walked back into the cave. He passed close by Christopher and slapped him lightly on the head with the back of his hand. Christopher would have some explaining to do when, and if, they ever got home.

  Von Hetz clambered to his feet and helped the half-conscious apprentice to his feet before beating him on the back solidly in order to dislodge the water he had inhaled during their last few moments in the blackness. They had spent a dreadful night stacked up like circus acrobats, immersed in the cold rain water. Christopher had only been spared when the water had started to recede after reaching within two feet of the domed ceiling. Von Hetz had fared worst of all, having been completely submerged longer than Simon. After the door had finally come free, the trio had been swept out of the chamber and out of the passage like so much garbage. The boy coughed and gagged and hung onto the taller Knight to keep from falling over again. His relief at having survived and then seeing his Master safe and sound brought him to tears. Fortunately, their sorry state prevented the others from noticing.

  “Let me see your hands,” Simon told Dambretti as the man stumbled back to sit down hard on a low boulder. “You and Brother Ramsay have made amends?” The Healer asked innocently enough as he exa
mined the wounds on the Knight’s hands.

  “Yes,” Dambretti lied and nodded. “He never did have a sense of humor.”

  He held out his bloody hands for the Knight of the Serpent to examine. Simon turned them over and then back again.

  “How did this happen?” Simon glanced back at the dark opening where Mark had disappeared.

  Dambretti shook his head sadly. He didn’t care to tell the story and he didn’t care to admit that he had been wrong in what he had just done. Ramsay had saved his life again, most likely, and then had been forced to make him help save the others. Dambretti was ashamed of himself. Perhaps the man was right. Perhaps he was a coward after all.

  Von Hetz joined them and looked on as d’Ornan felt of the bones in the Italian’s mutilated hands. “I feel no broken bones,” he announced after a bit. “I assume that some instrument made these? A knife? You have not become a victim of the stigmata?” Simon smiled at Lucio and winked at von Hetz.

  Von Hetz chuckled and wiped at his face, smearing the mud even worse. The thought of someone as irreverent as Dambretti becoming enough of a religious zealot to bear the wounds of the stigmata was indeed humorous. Lucio could only frown at both of them. His hands were no laughing matter.

  “You should try crucifixion, Brother,” he said darkly. “It is a most enlightening experience.”

  “I think I will pass on that,” Simon declined. He finished his examination and nodded to the Ritter. The wounds would heal without intervention.

  Ramsay emerged from the passage carrying the soaked golf bag, glanced darkly at Lucio and then handed out the weapons. When they were all armed, he stood in front of them. He looked at each one of them in turn with a defiant expression in his eyes.

  “If any one o’ ye ’ave a disagreement with me, now is th’ toime t’ voice it,” he said and stood waiting for an answer.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads in unison.

  “Good,” he said shortly and turned away up the hill.

  “Don’t go, my Brother. Give him a moment,” Dambretti told the Apocalyptic Knight as the man started to follow him. Lucio sat down on a rock and raked at the mud caked on his boots with a stick.

  The German stopped, and stood frowning after the retreating figure. He slammed his right fist against his left palm in anger, narrowing his eyes sharply. He muttered something under his breath and turned his attention on the Italian. Dambretti stopped digging at the mud on his boots and jerked his head around in alarm. The German stepped closer and laid one hand on Lucio’s shoulder, startling him from his misery.

  “I would know what has happened between you and Brother Ramsay,” he said in a low voice that should have left no room for argument, but Dambretti shook his head vigorously in denial. Von Hetz took him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet, kissing him lightly on the lips. Lucio froze. He could not tear his eyes away from the deep gaze of the German. He knew what the man was doing, but could feel nothing, do nothing other than allow it to happen.

  Christopher stood up suddenly and started toward them. He did not like the dark Knight and he did not like the tales he had heard about his Mystery. The tremendous hardship that the Knight had suffered on his account did nothing to instill trust in the apprentice. Christopher trusted none of them, but Dambretti had always been his Master’s friend. The young man’s intentions to interrupt the process was thwarted when d’Ornan grabbed him roughly and threw him against the rock where Dambretti had been sitting.

  “You would do well not to interfere, my son,” the short, blond man told him. “It is the Will of God. We must know the truth. Too much has gone awry since we came here. We must know the truth!”

  Christopher’s heart sank. His Master had just risked everything to save them and yet they were still questioning his loyalty. This did not bode well for Sir Ramsay. He laid his newly recovered sword across his knees and looked down at the beautiful handiwork that had gone into making the superb weapon. His Master had made this sword especially for him with the Stewart family crest worked into the pommel. Ramsay had dragged him up out of Perdition and given him hope, given him purpose and given him a sense of family and tradition. Mark Andrew had told him that the Stewart name had a long, long history behind it in England, fraught with famous and infamous characters even moreso than the honored named of Ramsay in Scotland. Another unwelcome tear ran down his cheek and he looked away down the hill, unwilling to witness what was occurring only a few feet away.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  That the Chevalier d’Epee was missing did not surprise the Grand Master or the unflappable Englishman, but the fact that he had taken the iron-bound chest with him, made d’Brouchart extremely angry. Beaujold had missed the entire point of the previous day’s lesson. Why? He asked Montague a dozen times, why had Beaujold not understood that he did not want Ramsay dead? After the Grand Master had spent his anger, stewing and steaming in the shower for almost thirty minutes, they dressed in silence and went down to breakfast at Miss Martin’s long table. Montague eyed the numerous bits of tissue paper stuck to the Grand Master’s clean-shaven face, the only remaining evidence of the red beard d'Brouchart had sported for years. Why he had decided to shave the beard when he was in such a foul mood, the Knight of the Holy City had no idea, but Miss Penelope seemed to appreciate his new look much better. They were the only guests in attendance for the meal. Their genial landlady brought them huge platters of eggs and bacon, biscuits, hash browns and all the trimmings interspersed with light chatter and unanswered questions. They ate in silence, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  D’Brouchart had traded the lumberjack outfit for a light, summer-weight suit with a dark red tie. Sir William Montague wore a very smooth, bluish-gray business suit with a high-collared white shirt and no tie, the latest style, he had assured the Grand Master when the man asked him why he had closed his shirt with a tie-tack and forgot the tie. It irked the accountant immensely to be going out to meet with the author of the insipid letter. He felt as if they were dressing for her entertainment. Such impudence did not deserve the Master’s attention. Let alone the show of respect such a personal visit intimated. He could not remember the last time he had seen the Master in a suit or, for that matter, without his beard, but he was quite sure that ties had been much wider then and ladies much classier.

  Seen against the bright green landscaping, the red brick mansion was pristine, a picturesque postcard, sparkling clean in the rain-washed sunshine of the midsummer morning. There was no evidence of anything amiss as they pulled up in front of the house. Montague parked the white Land Rover front of the wide steps leading up to the white-columned portico and then looked up at the house through the windshield before getting out. He could see no one at the numerous windows overlooking the drive, but the Seneschal felt absolutely exposed in the wide open Texas countryside. He harrumped loudly and pointed up at the third floor windows, which were the only windows sporting ornate white burglar bars. The Grand Master leaned forward and craned his neck to see the anomaly and then nodded slightly. Seemed that someone had planned to keep someone in rather than out. Odd, indeed for a supposedly private residence. The Knight of the Holy City got out and walked stiffly around the car to open the door for Edgard and then led the way up the walk, his right hand flitting nervously in and out of his coat near the butt of the pistol concealed there. His mind screamed flee as cold sweat popped out on his forehead. His eyes darted back and forth as he calculated the odds against his success should someone attempt an assault on the Grand Master. It had happened before, but never had he been placed in such an indefensible position.

  They stopped together in front of the double doors. The Master ran one finger over the beveled glass panes that formed a green and white fleur-de-lis pattern in the oval window. Montague paused with his own index finger hovering over the door bell and glanced at the Master as if waiting for last minute instructions. The big man nodded at the design on the door and mouthed the word ‘French’
to his companion. Montague was unimpressed. He pushed the button and closed his eyes briefly as he heard the bells chime faintly within the house.

  They were ushered through the house to the back patio by a serving maid dressed in a pink and white uniform. She glanced at them nervously as she served them coffee and told them that Miss Valentino would be out to join them shortly.

  The two men sat impatiently waiting, sipping the gourmet coffee absently, glancing about the garden and grounds for signs of the six missing Templars. It was inconceivable to think that they could have simply been absorbed in this lovely setting without leaving a trace of their passing. In the past, their presence in a hostile environment would have left a wake of destruction strewn with dead bodies, burned out buildings and weeping survivors. The peaceful serenity of this pastoral setting was unnerving. Birds chirped and sang in the trees, butterflies flitted over the flowering shrubs and a number of hummingbirds vied with each other for the best feeding stations on three glass and copper feeders hanging from the nearest trees. Even if the enemy had not been defeated, there should have been signs of a struggle, at least, or the bodies of a few Knights strewn about.

  Miss Valentino arrived with an escort at precisely nine as promised. She was dressed in black slacks, red vest, white jacket and no blouse. A black lace camisole peeked from beneath the vest belying her feminine side, but she also wore the first signs of his Knights’ presence: a purplish bruise with an accompanying abrasion on her cheek that showed quite clearly the impact of the flat side of a broadsword on the side of her head. A large, brutish man with an old scar on his cheek accompanied her wearing a wide, white bandage on his nose. He sported two black eyes, a purple bruise on his jaw and walked with a noticeable limp that suggested more, unseen injuries. Montague raised one eyebrow and nodded to d’Brouchart as they rose to greet her. At least someone had put up a fight and the Seneschal smiled slightly as the knowledge comforted him in a morbid way.