The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (13 page)

“Most of them were scattered. Some were
arrested. Some escaped the persecution, but the order was banned
and their properties were confiscated by the church and other
interested parties. They were too rich for comfort and answerable
only to the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope. Isn’t that so, Mr.
Ramsay? There aren’t many real Templars left today, are there?”
Valentino answered and then looked to Mark for confirmation.

“I don’t know any,” he managed to say with
considerable difficulty. Templars were the furthest subject from
his mind at the moment.

“Some would argue that the Philosopher’s
Stone was just a legend. A myth or more likely, a metaphor,” Petrie
interjected.

“I don’t believe that.” Valentino shook her
head. “Too many people have died trying to find it for it not to
have some basis in reality. One but has to look in the right
place.” She glanced at Mark again, though he did not notice.

“Yes, one has only to look in the right place
and then go after the prize,” Merry nodded and smiled impishly at
her captive audience across the table. He was beyond commenting
further on the subject at the moment.

The waiters returned to remove the dinner
plates, replacing them with smaller plates filled with a variety of
elegantly decorated pastries and cookies in front of each guest.
Mark Andrew leaned forward suddenly, grabbed hold of Merry’s foot
and squeezed it very hard, trying to hide temporarily behind the
waiter as he served dessert to Valentino. He picked up the water
goblet and drained the glass quickly, coughing again on purpose as
he tried not to appear non-plussed. Cecile leaned around the waiter
and looked at him suspiciously.

“Don’t you like cookies, Mr. Ramsay?” she
asked.

“I’ve had enough. Thank you,” he found his
voice and pushed his plate toward her. He put down the water and
picked up his near empty glass of wine and drank it down as well.
Cecile graciously signaled the waiter for a refill and he drank
that as well. When he had recovered somewhat, he noticed that the
room was spinning slowly in front of his face and the wine was not
mixing well with the steak and potatoes.

Merry nibbled a cookie with a very satisfied
smile on her face.

The conversation carried on throughout the
final phase of the elegant meal. Mark was very anxious to get away
from the table and tried to think of some way to leave, but it was
hopeless. His condition was worsening with every passing moment.
The dizziness worsened and he grew nauseous. He couldn’t remember
the last time he had felt ill to such an extent that he thought he
would pass out.

Valentino stood up and the diners again took
their cue from her, standing in unison as well. Mark leaned on the
table and put one hand on his forehead while dabbing at the sweat
on his upper lip with his napkin.

Valentino leaned close to his ear.

“What is your problem?” she hissed in his
ear.

“I have a headache,” he told her. “In fact, I
think your dinner conversation has poisoned me.”

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “The poison was in
your soup. We are going to the patio for drinks and conversation.
It would be better if you excused yourself for prayers or
meditation and went upstairs now.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” he told her in truth
and clutched his stomach. “Just let me sit here for a while.”

“All right then,” she agreed. “Drinks on the
patio, everyone,” she spoke to the guests and then leaned a bit
closer to him. “I’ll be talking to you again very soon.”

She looked for Merry who was exchanging words
with another woman near the patio doors. “Merry! Mr. Ramsay isn’t
feeling well. Would you see to it that he gets upstairs?”

“Sure, no problem,” Merry answered as she
gladly disengaged herself from the woman who held her arm.

He looked up at her, grimacing at the
prospect of trying to get out of the chair with grace and she
laughed at him. His stomach felt full of carpet tacks. He should
have chewed the steak a bit more, perhaps.

“You are an evil, evil woman,” he told her,
but smiled in spite of his condition.

“I am not,” she protested and came at once to
take his arm. “These things bore me to death. At least you kept my
mind off that stupid conversation about alchemy. I get so tired of
it all.” Her comments affirmed his earlier revelation. Merry knew
nothing of Cecile’s goals and cared little to learn about them.

“In that case, I would suggest that we leave
here now while they are preoccupied on the verandah,” he suggested
hopefully. Black spots floated in the forefront of his vision and
he did not want to risk tumbling down the back stairs with her on
his arm. “I hope you won’t mind leaving your party.”

“Don’t be silly. Like I said, it’s not my
party,” she smiled and dragged him toward the door, unaware of his
growing infirmity.

“She really thinks I’m immortal,” he told her
as they made their way upstairs. Now he felt drunk and
disorientated. He had meant to head for the front door.

“Did you know that?” he asked inanely and
leaned heavily on her arm.

“Yes, of course,” Merry frowned at him “and
so you are, if she says so. What difference does it make what she
thinks?”

“Who is Anthony?” he asked her, jumping to an
entirely different subject. Had one glass of wine and a bit of
hanky-panky done this to him? His thoughts scattered endlessly.

“You know who he is. He is your Grand Master
d’Brouchart’s apprentice. We don’t have apprentices in our order.
That word always reminds me of Mickey Mouse. The Sorcerer’s
Apprentice,” she spoke to him as if he were truly witless for
asking. “He apparently ran away from your… school or whatever it
is. He doesn’t want to be a Templar any more.”

“That’s ridiculous. I'm not a Templar."
Before he elaborated more, a chill shook him from his head to his
toes and he tightened his grip on her arm.

“No. He really doesn’t. He said it was too
rigid a lifestyle for him. He wants something a little less…
demanding,” she told him in earnest. “But then you are playing with
me, Sir Ramsay. Forget all that right now. Let’s talk about
us.”

“I don’t think Anthony is a Templar anymore,”
Mark muttered, ignoring her suggestion. Valentino had referred to
him in the past tense as if he were dead. Poor Anthony. I thought
he was immortal. “I think he’s dead,” he added then wondered why he
had blabbed his suspicions to Valentino’s closest companion.

“Noooo, no,” Merry shook her head. “He’s
gone. That’s all. Cecile sent him away because you were coming for
him.”

They passed her door and she tugged his
arm.

“I don’t think that would be very wise,
Merry.” He suddenly felt as old as she said he was. “I really am
feeling sort of… well, I don’t think it would be wise. I need to…
take a shower and revive a bit and they’ll be looking for you.”

“Who cares? I’ll give you a bath. You liked
that, didn’t you?” she said. “I suppose you should get some rest,
huh? I keep forgetting how old you are.”

He wanted to slap his forehead in
frustration, but he held his stomach instead. It was really
beginning to hurt now and they still had another set of stairs to
make.

“Yes, some rest would be nice. Peachy.”

He still had the little talk with Valentino
to look forward to and he had a very bad feeling about it. Maxie
was waiting for them in the hall on the third floor, proved it. His
hopes of getting some rest were dashed when Maxie opened the door
for him and followed him inside, leaving Merry in the hall. The
urge to fist fight returned fleetingly, but Maxie stayed well away
from him.

“That was a very interesting dessert you had
down there, dipshit. I guess you know that all the security in this
house is under my… watchful eye?”

"Really? A regular Mr. Manners, you are,”
Mark retorted.

“Who the hell is that? You should cooperate.
Things could be a lot better for you. You could have your cake and
eat it too, pardon the pun.”

Mark’s expression cut him short and he
shrugged again.

“Have it your way.”

“That would be agreeable enough.”

Mark sat down at the desk. His stomach
revolted and he forced down the urge to vomit. What was next?
Another pain, more intense than before struck his midsection and he
winced involuntarily.

“I’ll be back for you in a little while. When
you’re feeling a bit more… obliging.” Maxie grinned at him and
opened the door. “Miss Valentino wants to see you tonight.”

Mark was left alone again, and he was not a
happy man. Too much had happened in too short a time. All he
understood was that these people wanted something from him that he
could not give and he doubted that he would have handed it over
even if he knew what it was. He also understood that their
accusations might have some foundation in truth, which left his
brain swimming in a sea of conflicting emotions and contradictory
feelings. One moment he wanted to fall on his knees and pray to God
for forgiveness, and the next moment he was trying to kill someone.
Could he be as crazy as they were? Did he suffer from multiple
personality disorder? Was he possessed by demon spirits?

His nerves were on edge and his feelings for
the Pixie were a mixture of fatherly affection, carnal lust and
intense hatred. These were not the thoughts or desires of a
rational man. What had they done to him? Surely, he had not been a
psychopath before he had come here. His clothes and his appearance
pointed to a man of some means. His education must have been
extensive. He spoke and understood several languages. He had
understood three very different conversations at the table. One in
English, another in Spanish and a third in German and not only had
he understood the languages, he had understood the subjects. It
made no sense. None of it made any sense. And who was this Anthony
character? Who was Lucio Dambretti? And Louis? And this d’Brouchart
that Valentino kept talking about? Would the dark-haired man he
recalled as friend and brother come looking for him? Would he
recognize him?

His illness progressed, and he threw up the
entire meal. While he still could, he washed his face, changed his
clothes, and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. When he
drifted into a fitful sleep, he dreamed of the burning city
again.

He was running through the streets. Someone
was chasing him. The sand-colored walls of the closely packed
buildings closed in on him; the streets became narrower and
narrower until he could go no further. He was exhausted from the
exertion and breathing was becoming harder and harder as the smoke
swirled in around him, choking him. He stumbled, caught himself
with one gloved hand and tried to get his bearings. A low stone
structure loomed in front of him. A well! His throat was parched
and his thirst was all-consuming, but the enemy was right behind
him. No time to stop here. He climbed onto the stones beside the
dark opening in the ground, stumbling again, almost falling into
the well, and they were upon him. He turned and raised his sword
wearily. A tall man in a turban screamed at him in the tongue of
the Saracens.

“Death to the Infidel Dogs!”

“Praise be to Allah, the one true God!”

The first man to fall on him received the
entire length of Mark’s sword through his midsection just as he
raised his own blade above his head. Blood poured from the
screaming man’s mouth as he fell forward. Mark Andrew pushed at him
with one booted foot, desperately trying to dislodge the blade from
him before the others reached him, but the second man was on him
before he could accomplish the task. He let go of his sword and
reached for his dagger. Too late. The dead man’s blood made his
hands slick inside the armored gloves and the dagger slipped away
from him, falling into the well. He raised his arm as the second
man fell on him and he felt a sharp pain in his side as his
attacker brought a short, curved knife up in a wicked undercut just
below his ribs. The blade grated through the links of the chain
mail armor he wore under his surcoat and entered his stomach below
his ribs, taking his breath away as well as his desire to wrestle
with the man barehanded. He scrambled backwards, clutching the hilt
of the knife that impaled him. His boots slipped on the bloody
stones as he came dangerously close to the yawning black mouth of
the well. The ugly, turbaned man with rotten teeth picked up his
discarded broadsword and drew it back over his right shoulder with
the clear intention of taking Mark’s head from his shoulders with
one deadly blow. At least it would be quick. He threw up one arm
instinctively when the man swung the blade, but the man vanished
before his eyes as he fell backwards into the depths of the well.
Screaming in terror, he clutched the dagger in his side, trying
desperately to dislodge it before he struck bottom. It was
hopelessly entangled in the armor and blood-stained tabard bearing
the Red Cross that he wore. He struck the water on his back and
sank immediately into the cool liquid. He felt it cover him,
lifting his helmet from his head, loosing his long, prohibited
hair.

The Order forbade overlong hair. It flowed
across his face, obscuring his view of the bright patch above him
where the Saracen leaned over the brink, squinting into the
darkness. The water was soothing, cold, numbing. Drowning would be
far preferable to having his head cut off in the baking heat of the
dusty street above, but the well was only a few feet deep. He stood
up and slapped the hair out of his eyes before looking up in time
to see part of a nearby wall collapse on the Infidel crushing him,
sending down a spray of blood mixed with dust in his face. A
flaming bomb slung from a catapult by the Saracen's own army had
saved him. The pain in his stomach had eased, but it returned with
a vengeance as he fell back under the water again. He tried to
scream under the water and kicked at the slippery stones beneath
him while the water above him turned red with his own blood.