The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (11 page)

He crossed the space between them and slapped
her before he realized what he was doing. She spun around and
grabbed the edge of the dresser to keep from falling. He grabbed
her arm and swung her around, slamming her against the bathroom
door. She looked up at him in shock as he advanced on her and
wrapped his hands around her neck. He would have snapped her neck
in one instance, but for the sudden sensation of pain where none
should have been. He looked down to see a rather sizable dagger
between them. She held it in a very delicate position and that was
the source of the pain. She pushed it a bit more and he hesitated.
He could probably kill her before she did irreversible damage.

“Back off,” she told him in a low voice.
“Back off or I will cut you in some very small pieces and feed you
to the crows. And I’ll start with your Mystical Staff!”

He raised his hands in the air and backed
away from her as she stood rubbing her face where his hand print
was showing up quite well already.

“I deserved that, I suppose,” she said
unexpectedly. “You shouldn’t have pissed me off with your
holier-than-thou attitude, but I am glad to see that there is some
fire in you after all. I do have a reputation to uphold just as you
do. I will try to hold my peace, if you will hold yours.”

She closed the space between them and took
his face in both of her hands. The hilt of the dagger was cold
against his skin. He frowned down at her as she kissed him almost
as brutally as he had kissed the Pixie only a short while before.
The action was not one of affection and he thought it fitting that
he was being treated so, in light of his own thoughts and actions.
But this was not right and this was not proper and his mind
rebelled from her instantly. If she was the cobra, he would have to
be the mongoose. He grabbed her hair and returned the kiss in the
same manner. It was going to happen again and he didn’t even care,
he would leave her with her throat cut on the floor. But as she had
warned him, he had underestimated her abilities. She was not as
fragile, nor nearly as easy to subdue as other women had been. She
eluded his attempt to take the knife from her hand and brought it
up between them in the same manner as before. What other women? The
press of the dagger against the same part of him as before brought
him up short… literally. He wondered briefly where she had learned
to defend herself so capably. If he were going to disarm her, he
was going to have to think of her as a real adversary. She was as
cocky as any fighter he’d ever faced and though he couldn’t
remember the particulars of those mysterious fighters, he knew that
she would make a mistake… eventually and he would not underestimate
her again.

“I’ll be back, as Arnold would say,” she told
him when he moved away. She looked him straight in the eyes and he
wondered how she managed the feat since she was at least a foot
shorter than him. “We still have to have our little talk,” she
continued and lowered her eyes to the appropriate region of his
anatomy, “Don’t ever presume to think you can use that on me unless
I want it or you’ll find yourself on the short end of the stick.
You understand what I mean, Sir Ramsay?”

He nodded to her and bowed slightly as she
unlocked the door. She turned to look at him once more before
leaving.

“I suggest you get some rest. You look
tired,” she smiled crookedly at him. “And get ready for dinner at
five. You will be joining us downstairs. I have some people
interested in meeting you.”

She left him alone and the silence rang in
his ears louder than her words had before.

“Spes mea in Deo est,” he said aloud though
he had no idea what the words meant. The mongoose had learned
something very useful about the cobra. He would have to do much
better if he wanted to take the key from her. He sat down on the
bed and looked forlornly at the devastated tray. Lunch had been
very disappointing. His stomach growled again. Perhaps supper would
be better or at least more voluminous. He collapsed onto the
springy mattress. And who the Hell was Arnold?

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

His escort to dinner was a solemn-faced young
man in an expensively cut gray suit. He eyed Mark appraisingly and
frowned slightly. Mark tossed his hair over his shoulder and smiled
at the man sardonically, wondering what it was about him that met
with the man’s disapproval. He thought it was the same young man he
had seen rifling his belongings in the trunk of the El Dorado, but
couldn’t be sure. He wondered who these people were and what they
thought of Valentino keeping a prisoner on the third floor of her
country mansion. It didn’t make sense. The man allowed him to walk
ahead of him and kept one hand in the pocket of his jacket as if he
carried something there. Mark Andrew assumed that there was some
weapon hidden there. He could have easily taken the man, he
thought, but there was a nagging half-memory in his mind that told
him that he was right where he was supposed to be, doing what he
was supposed to be doing. Furthermore, his encounter with Valentino
earlier on had left him doubting his abilities. He went down the
stairs and past the Pixie’s bedroom, where he paused momentarily to
look at the closed door. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and
walked casually down the stairs with the silent young man on his
heels. At the foot of the stairs, he paused, unsure of which way to
go. The man passed him and took the lead.

“This way,” he intoned the only two words he
had said the entire time and Mark was sure that this was the man
who had rifled through his car. Another mechanic? American
mechanics must have been paid very well. He looked more like a
doctor or a barrister.

They passed through a dimly lit sitting room
decorated in Country French. Very cold and uninviting to the Scot.
He had the distinct feeling that he disliked French. The double
doors opened into a brightly lit dining room with a long, cherry
wood table under an immense crystal chandelier. More of the strange
banners hung on the high walls above the sideboards and cabinets
full of China and crystal dishes. They reminded him of the
Standards that ancient familial lines had carved over their
hearths, their doorposts and painted on the shields of their
knights. It seemed that he had seen many of them somewhere before.
The guests were already in place and the first course was well
underway when he arrived and he understood immediately why the
young man had frowned at him. His clothes. Everyone at the table
was dressed in Sunday finery and he had worn the tan shooter’s
shirt and dark brown trousers.

Chevaliere Valentino rose from her chair at
the head of the table and smiled broadly at him. The number of
diners at the table surprised him and Mark drew up short as they
all stood as one, following her cue. He blinked at them in the
bright light of the chandelier and cringed inwardly as his eyes
fell on the Pixie. He looked around at the men and women who stood
staring at him silently as if waiting for him to perform for them
like a trained monkey. He actually felt his face flush with
embarrassment.

The young man took up a place near the middle
of the table and Valentino held out her left hand to an empty chair
next to the head of the table. As he drew nearer to the proffered
seat, he saw the distinct outline of part of his hand in dark red
and purple on her left cheek. He wondered what she had told her
guests about it. More importantly, he wondered what she had told
Merry about it. The Pixie stood beside the chair across from him at
Valentino’s right hand. He noticed Maxie, decked out in a very nice
suit, standing near the swinging doors apparently leading to the
butler's pantry. The suit, most likely ‘assigned’ to him by
Valentino, did nothing to soften his harsh profile and lumbering
physique. At last he and the idiot had something in common: they
were both out of place here. As soon as he caught Mark’s eye, he
nodded and then disappeared through the door as if he had been
waiting just to make sure he knew that he was being watched.

Their hostess, or host, Mark couldn’t tell
which role she was affecting at the moment, wore a closely
tailored, three-piece black suit and a red tie without a shirt
visible under the vest. She sat down and the rest of them followed
suit. Mark sat down as well to keep from standing alone.

Apparently, she had no intention of
introducing him to any of them. Merry shot him one fleeting glance
and picked up her fork. He glanced down the table and saw that most
of them were eating salads. There was a salad in front of him and
beside it was a small glass goblet full of red sauce with six
peeled shrimp hanging over the rim. Shrimp cocktail. Stewart loved
them. Stewart? Who the hell was Stewart? He gingerly pushed the
shrimps into the sauce with one finger and picked up the glass.
Raising the goblet, he saluted Valentino and then poured the entire
cocktail in his mouth, shaking the very last drop of cocktail sauce
from it. Her dark eyes widened slightly as he tossed his head
slightly and swallowed the whole thing without chewing. A trick
that Louis had taught him. Very useful when trying to un-impress.
Who the hell was Louis?

His hostess remained very cool outwardly, but
the strange action had the desired effect on the stuffed-shirts
sitting around her table. Some stared in surprise, others tried not
to look at him. Someone cleared his throat and the guests resumed
their light conversations and their salads. He was quite pleased
with himself. The old trick that he and Louis used to use to shock
the bishop’s regal guests still worked. The bishop? Which bishop?
And why would he be sharing a table with his Eminence? His
expression changed and he closed his eyes briefly. Another fleeting
memory gone. He looked at Merry and winked at her as he sipped his
wine. He would ignore the no drinking with meals tonight. It was
permissible in the field. Another odd thing to remember.

Merry giggled and Valentino shot a meaningful
look at her. The Pixie returned her attention to her salad, but
looked as if she would burst out laughing any moment.

Mark resumed his aloof composure and
contemplated the dishes in front of his hostess. Her goblet still
contained three shrimp. He nodded to her, smiled and finished off
her cocktail in the same manner. He then folded his elegant little
salad that was more a work of art than sustenance, in its one
lettuce leaf and popped it in his mouth, again, swallowing it whole
without ceremony, without chewing it at all. Three golden crackers
lay on the side of the plate. They were gone in an instant in the
same fashion with the exception of one very loud crunch for each.
He sat looking at the empty plate and goblet in front of him,
wondering if that was it for the meal. An older gentleman sitting
on his left eyed him suspiciously.

The guests had stopped trying to be polite
and were openly staring at him now, waiting to see what he would do
next. Mark nodded to the man with the same sarcastic smile he had
given his escort and then looked at the half-eaten salad in front
of the man. The man cleared his throat and managed to move his
plate down the table an inch or so without being overly rude. His
perusal of the man’s plate was interrupted by two waiters who
appeared bearing bowls of clear soup with a single piece of toasted
French bread floating on top. The waiters took the salad plates
away and set out the third course. A murmur of conversation issued
from the far end of the table. Everyone resumed the pattern of
trying to watch him and not watch him at the same time. He was
truly beginning to enjoy himself. He picked up the bowl with both
hands, leaned over the table to keep the soup from dripping on his
clothes and drank it down in one long, slurping swallow, bread and
all, spilling only a spoonful or so on the linen tablecloth. It
tasted of onions and garlic, but was nothing more than hot,
flavored water. Very poor fare at best. He licked his lips and made
an exaggerated point of wiping his mouth carefully on the linen
napkin. Several choked giggles arose from the ladies situated among
the guests. He looked at them, frowning as if their behavior were
the height of rudeness. Valentino cleared her throat and he turned
his most innocent gaze on her expectantly. Was she going to start
talking now?

While he waited for the rest of the diners to
finish their soup one spoonful at a time, he perused the banners
hanging on the wall in front of him. The guests began to unwind a
bit in the absence of the floor show and he heard them talking
about everyday subjects that meant nothing to him. Stock market
prices, new computers for city hall, the local school board meeting
and an up-coming bond election seemed to be the topics of choice
nearby while some of the international guests spoke of the wars in
the Middle East and debated whether European cars were not better
made than Japanese and American models.

Merry glanced at him every time she put her
spoon to her lips. Valentino made comments to the nearest diners,
but kept a sharp eye on him. He crossed his arms over his chest and
lowered his head, closing his eyes. They said no prayers during the
meal. No one read from the bible. Their lack of devotion to God
astounded him. He might as well have been at a so-called ‘steak
house’ with another group of irreverent strangers fighting over
fried chicken on the buffet. If this was the extent of their
‘order’, they were extremely irreverent group. He said a prayer of
thanksgiving in his head, but was not overly thankful for the
meager meal so far. Surely, what he had seen in the pantry would
have afforded a better outlay. Perhaps it was a holiday for fasting
or some such. A meatless day. These thoughts bothered him. They
seemed natural enough, but they had no basis, no origin in his
memory. They were just there like the ability to brush his teeth or
shave. Just there. Just part of life. He raised his head again to
find Valentino staring at him.