The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (12 page)

“I thought you were asleep,” she commented
dryly.

He shook his head, but did not answer. No
talking during meals. Apparently her order had no such rule, but
that would imply that his order did and he was not sure that he had
an order.

“Perhaps the next course will be more to your
liking,” she said as the waiters returned, pushing a cart full of
small, silver dishes with lids. He waited patiently as the soup
bowls were cleared and everyone had received their new dish. He
picked up the lid and set it aside. A mottled, pink fish with a
slice of ripe olive for an eye replete with cracker fins along its
back stared up at him. He almost laughed at the sight of it, but
that would have been improper. He picked out the eye and popped it
in his mouth. He chewed the olive slowly and deliberately as he
waited to see what the others were doing with theirs. They were
picking off pieces of it with short, blunt knives and smearing it
on the crackers. This was much too troublesome. Mark picked up the
blunt knife and nodded to Cecile. Her face lit up and then fell
when he cut off the fish’s head, slid the knife under and ate the
whole thing at once. In spite of his troubles, making her squirm
eased his mind. Her resolve to remain unflappable at his behavior
was slowly fading.

He was well aware of what was expected of him
as far as table manners, but had no intention of honoring her with
them. He had also seen enough of her to know that she lost all
dignity when her temper took over. She thought him a barbarian; let
her continue to think so. He had known plenty of barbarians. She
had no idea what a barbarian was. As he finished the fish off in
two more bites and sat waiting again, listening to the boring drone
of voices around him, he pondered the question of how he would know
what a real barbarian was like.

As he looked down at the empty plate, another
memory, more horrible even than the rats flashed through his mind.
He saw a white stone wall surrounding a burning city. He heard the
screams of the people inside the walls, inside the burning
buildings. All along the top of the wall, poles were erected in
holes in the stones. On top of the poles were the severed heads of
bearded men. Their faces distorted in pain and terror. Their long
beards fluttered in the hot wind like grizzly pennants. Blood ran
down the walls and pooled in the plate in front of him. He jerked
his head up and the vision disappeared.

“I’m sorry it was cooked, Sir Ramsay,”
Valentino said sarcastically, causing a small round of laughter. He
glanced around the table and the laughter quickly ended. They were
afraid of him? What had she told them, he wondered?

The wait for the next course was much longer.
These people had not come to eat, but to talk. They watched him
carefully, avoiding direct eye contact with him, all the while
dabbing the fish pate` daintily on the crackers. Valentino had
hardly touched her fish, but leaned both elbows on the table in
front of her. Merry continued to eat very slowly, unwilling or
unable to look at him and he thought she almost seemed embarrassed
somehow. He returned his attention to the banners on the wall. One
of them seemed extremely familiar. Simple black, geometric figures
against a white background. A cube at the bottom with a circle
resting on top of it. A triangle sat on top of the circle and a
small flame was situated at the apex of the triangle. Another
thought ricocheted through his mind and he looked at the Pixie in
consternation. Merry had no idea what her companion was up to.
Valentino had kept her out of the meat of the business. The Pixie
thought it was all a game. A social club.

“Does that one interest you?” Valentino
asked, following his gaze to the banner.

He shrugged slightly. He did not understand
the symbols though he was sure that he should have. He felt that if
he moved the symbols and compressed them together, they would mean
more. As above, so below.

“The four elements, like the ring of the
alchemist you wear,” she prompted him to no avail. “Earth, air,
fire and water.”

He said nothing. Merry looked up at him and
he raised both eyebrows at her expecting confirmation of some sort.
It was the same thing she had told him about his silver ring. He
refused to glance at it.

The waiters returned, saving him from both
Valentino’s meaningless chatter and his sorely offended stomach. He
could feel the pink fish swimming in the shallow depths of the
onion soup. Each diner received an oblong platter with a huge steak
draped across it, perfectly seared, surrounded by delicately
browned potato wedges. Pink juices oozed from under the steak onto
the plate. The conversation increased as he picked up his fork and
steak knife, making short work of the beef, very glad that it was
not a meatless day after all. The main course was too good and he
was too hungry to play with it as before, but it was forlornly gone
much too soon even with good table manners. He found himself alone
with an empty plate and nothing to do.

He could not bear to watch his tablemates toy
with their steaks. He was still hungry. He closed his eyes again
and let his head drop, intending to meditate until the dessert
arrived. The Pixie had other ideas about how to use the time, since
everyday was a meatless day for her. Her plate contained only the
potatoes and a medley of steamed vegetables, but she didn’t bother
to eat them. Instead, she adjusted her chair closer to the table
and nudged his knee with one bare foot. Mark jerked his head around
to glare at the older gentleman on his left. When she giggled
again, he looked at her in surprise and she placed one finger
against her lips briefly before picking up her water glass. He
glanced left and right again. No one was paying attention to him
any more. Valentino was involved in a running discourse with the
man on his left about the ancient art of alchemy and its historical
significance as the foundation of modern medicine and chemistry. He
did not care in the least about their discussion. Alchemy was
alchemy. Very few people understood it correctly. There were levels
and layers in the Art that only the highest initiates could fathom.
High initiates. Like himself?

His stomach felt much better with the cow to
keep the fish company and he had to smile at the Pixie when she
blew him a kiss through the bottom of her crystal clear water
glass. He shifted in his seat as she slumped slightly in her chair
and propped both of her bare feet between his legs on the edge of
his chair. He leaned his chin in his left hand and reached under
the table, taking hold of one of her feet. He squeezed her toes.
Why was she doing this? He couldn’t recall any rules or
prohibitions about engaging in such actions at the table.
Apparently he had no precedence from which he could draw. When she
began an entirely obscene massage on him with her other foot, her
intentions became crystal clear. When he reached for the
mischievous foot, it stayed easily out of reach. He found the
experience to be extremely disconcerting, but much more interesting
than the conversation above the table. He allowed a slight smile to
play across his lips and she winked at him again. The dinner droned
on around him, but he soon forgot where he was. How she could do
what she was doing under the table, while cutting her potatoes into
minuscule pieces, was beyond him. Ambidextrous did not quite cover
her unexpected talents.

“So!” The man next to him raised his voice
suddenly, causing Mark to jump and then look at him in surprise.
“Cecile tells us that you, yourself, are an alchemist.”

Mark just looked at him. Was the meal over?
Everyone seemed to have given up on the steak and potatoes and sat
engaged in conversation or looking at him openly.

“He has broad knowledge,” Valentino offered
in the silence. “But it is only his secondary function.”

“Extensive,” Merry added an additional word
and then another. “Impressive.”

Mark looked at her and frowned.

“And what is your primary function?” the man
asked him as if daring him to answer.

“I am… an assassin,” Mark answered blandly
and smiled at him before pinching Merry’s little toe as she became
a bit too rambunctious under the table. “I kill people for a
living.”

The man blanched and Cecile laughed
nervously.

“He has a great sense of humor as well,” she
interjected.

“Very great. Extraordinary,” Merry
reiterated, emphasizing her words with her toes. “I’ve never seen a
better example.”

“Seriously, Mr. Ramsay,” the man relaxed a
bit. “Your order is very old, I understand. Cecile tells me that
you are in possession of knowledge concerning the Philosopher’s
Stone. I, myself, am a student of Carl Jung. I fail to see how
anyone could possibly assign any real significance to the old texts
in regard to practical use. Dr. Jung’s research and conclusions
concerning the esoteric nature of the alchemical texts make much
more sense than imagining that one could actually produce gold from
ordinary substances. I believe that the true modern alchemist in
nothing more than a seeker of knowledge. A pilgrim, if you will.
What he seeks is a meaningful purpose to existence and when he has
achieved the psychological enlightenment, he is said, therefore, to
have found the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Stone. Philosopher Stones. Sounds better
than Philosopher’s Rocks, don’t you think?” Merry asked. “Of
course, rocks and stones are both hard. I wonder what the
difference is. Do you think that one might be easier to work with
than the other? ”

“I’ve never given it much thought, Miss
Meredith,” the man frowned at Merry and returned his attention to
Mark, dismissing her question with disdain. “Do you claim to
possess the secret of making gold from such things as mercury and
sulfur, Mr. Ramsay? Is it true, as Ms. Valentino intimated to us,
that you may have something a bit more concrete… something more
physical in nature… that would prove otherwise? I understand that
the true search for the Philosopher’s Stone is an attempt to rise
above our lower natures and reach for the divine within us.”

Mark looked at her and then at Cecile before
smiling. “I am in possession of many things, Mr… ahhh,” he paused
and squeezed Merry’s foot harder. His lower nature was betraying
him even as he spoke.

“Petrie. James Petrie.”

“Mr. Petrie,” his voice was not normal looked
at Merry instead of the man and swallowed hard before speaking.
“But secrets are secrets. They wouldn’t be secrets if we told them,
would they? I know nothing of your Dr. Jung. Is he from
hereabouts?” Mark knew the eminent Dr. Jung and had a great deal of
respect for his philosophies. How he knew the man or why was
presently beyond his comprehension and probably best left
unexplored. What the Pixie was doing under the table made it very
difficult to carry on philosophical discussions.

His question elicited several more twitters
from the guests.

“Surely you jest, Sir Ramsay,” the man
laughed. “But our hostess has told me that she has been trying to
persuade you to share some of your ideas with us. I, myself, have
studied alchemy for years. I would be most interested to hear some
of your thoughts on the subject.”

“Our hostess is most… persuasive in some
respects.” Mark glanced at Valentino. “And Miss Meredith's
hospitality has been unequaled. I don’t think I’ve ever been
treated so well… or so often.”

“Hospitality is a Texas tradition, Mr.
Ramsay. We like to make our guests feel right at home,” Merry
agreed and received another scathing look from Valentino.

“Ms. Valentino is very… verbally adept,” Mark
nodded and winced involuntarily. “Her words can mesmerize a man
like a snake-charmer plays his cobra. She makes her points very
well. But the tongue can be like a double-edged sword. It cuts both
ways. Used with the proper skill, it can bring about the desired
results quite nicely. When used improperly, against nature, as it
were, it could be fatal. Like using your toes to write music.”

Merry smiled.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a
compliment,” Valentino retorted acidly, while smiling sweetly. The
underlying double insult was not lost on her. “It is well known
that the ancients knew the secrets of the Lapis Philosophorum,
which as you know, is the ultimate goal of every alchemist, whether
they expect spiritual enlightenment or physical success. The secret
was supposedly handed down through the ages to a select few, the
Brothers of the Rose Cross, or the Templars as they are more
commonly known, being among the chief suspects of having preserved
the secret even unto the modern day under the guise of the Scottish
Rite or other Orders. The quest for the secret has brought death
and destruction on the heads of many interested parties.” The
comments of the hostess had gained the attention of the entire
assemblage. Mark noticed with great relief that every eye and ear
in the room except Merry’s, was now focused on Valentino.

Merry kept her attention focused on her
exercise under the table. Mark closed his eyes and tried to appear
unaffected by her footwork. He wondered if she intended to carry it
all the way through to its inevitable end and what would happen to
him when she did. Terrible thoughts began to enter his mind as
their hostess continued her lecture. “Some of the Templars were
accused of witchcraft among other, more heinous crimes, and were
executed or burned at the stake. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay? But
the Philosopher’s Stone and the secret of its composition was never
learned. Nor did the Church learn the whereabouts of certain
historic treasures. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay?”

“I thought the Templars were all killed and
the order disbanded,” someone spoke up from further down the table.
“It has been a matter of some debate as to whether the Scottish
claims were founded in truth.”