The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (29 page)

“Do you have your part down, Brother
Tellman?” She asked him again.

“Yes, I know exactly what to do,” he told her
gravely. “I’m honored to be of assistance to you, Your Excellency.”
He had already said this a dozen times, a dozen different ways.

“He should be ready for your little
masquerade by now.” She glanced at her watch. Rising from her chair
behind the desk, she came around to place both hands on his
shoulders then kissed him on both cheeks. She had to conceal her
revulsion carefully. The smell of his cheap, spicy cologne sickened
her and reminded her of her father, God rest his perverted
soul.

It had struck her as strange that Ramsay had
smelled much like Merry… pleasant somehow like a warm summer’s day
when flowers were in bloom and the bees and other insects flitted
through the grasses… her mind wandered and then snapped back to
reality. Probably because Merry kept bathing him in her expensive
bath beads and oils. It was odd that she had seen no cologne or
after shave in his bags. She had expected to see some of the more
expensive brands, but he carried what looked like a bar of homemade
soap and a double-edged razor like her father had used in the
sixties. She had actually expected him to have body odor since he
carried no deodorant or antiperspirant. Strange.

But then everything about him was strange. He
perspired. She had seen him do that. And he bled. She had seen that
as well. The difference between Mark Andrew Ramsay and John Tellman
was astonishing. How could they even be of the same race, let alone
the same sex? She could tolerate Ramsay because she respected and
feared him, but she could barely control her urge to squash Tellman
like a fat, green fly. He was pathetic.

She thought it was a terrible waste of
manhood to have been bestowed on the likes of him. Not that she
wanted to be a man. That would have been a terrible insult to her
sensibilities though she had often wanted to learn what all the
fuss was about. She had always disliked men in general, which was
due in great measure to the hatred of her own father. Her analyst
had told her that bit of shocking information for an equally
shocking sum of money. Little good the therapy had done, but her
curiosity had gotten the best of her this time and she swore anew
that she would give up drinking altogether. Before her encounter
with Ramsay, it had been their inherent attitudes of superiority
that she had detested most in them. But Ramsay was a horse of a
different color and she found herself strangely attracted to him in
spite of the brutal way he had treated her. She was envious of him
in more ways than one. Not only of his immortality, but of the life
he had lived. To have witnessed everything that he had witnessed.
What tales he could tell, but it was not likely that they would
ever be on friendly enough terms for him to tell her bedtime
stories in front of the fire. They had, after all, what had he
called it? No common frame of reference? She felt her temper spike
momentarily. Something else her wacky analyst had been concerned
with. Her temper.

She had studied absolutely everything she
could find about the Templars and even though they had ultimately
failed in their attempts to retain control of the Holy Lands, she
could not help but admire their courage and their conviction. They
were a bit too righteous for her, however, and the vow of chastity
was laughable. Ramsay, it seemed, had no trouble breaking that one.
Ah, well, nobody’s perfect, are they? Perhaps he had grown
worldlier and less religious through the years. Perhaps he had been
watching too much television. She almost laughed at the thought of
the Chevalier du Morte hiding away in some secluded old castle,
lying on a tattered sofa, watching soap operas day after day.
Briefly she wondered what he did do with all his spare time between
missions of death and working in his lab.

It just wasn’t fair. The concoction Anthony
had given her had been only half the secret, but even so, she had
benefited from its rejuvenating powers. The torn ligament in her
knee had healed in less than three days without surgery and her
gray hairs had vanished. The chronic dark circles under her eyes
were gone. The blow that Ramsay had dealt her should have left a
terrible bruise, possibly even broken a bone, but it had vanished
after a few hours. She felt better and looked better than she had
in years. Even Merry had noticed the change in her, but it wasn’t
enough. The leukemia was progressing right on schedule. Her latest
appointment had shown no signs of improvement. Within weeks she
would be hospitalized and after that?

Ramsay would lead her to his Grand Master and
she would have the secret to immortality. She deserved it as much
as the pretty Knight sleeping upstairs. She deserved it more than
most people she knew and the rest, she cared nothing about.

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

Christopher Stewart dashed across the open
expanse of grass between the shadowy hedgerow and the patio at the
rear of the red brick mansion. He leaped nimbly over the banister
on the verandah and flattened himself against the wall between two
large floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping that there was no dog in the
house. He edged his way carefully to the double glass doors leading
into the house and checked for electronic devices. Finding none
other than a disconnected motion-activated video monitor above the
door, he worked on the latch with his dagger and then pushed the
door open gently. His considerable skills at breaking and entering
was successful once more time as he slipped silently into the
darkened room. He was surprised that such a home would not have an
elaborate alarm system, but then it was in the middle of
nowhere.

The room in which he found himself was some
sort of library. He could see a hallway beyond another set of
double doors and shadows indicating people there. He hurried
through the room with expert stealth and ducked behind the desk. A
short woman entered the room muttering something about cleaning the
carpets and caterers. Two men followed her into the room, but none
of them turned on the lights. The two men supported the limp figure
of another man between them as they crossed the space from the
hallway to the patio doors. The woman opened the doors and they
carried the unconscious man outside.

Christopher waited a few seconds and then
followed them out. He had recognized the form of his Master
immediately. He stayed in the shadows as he followed them, watching
as they hauled him to a pair of double doors set at an angle to the
wall of the house. The basement no doubt. The woman opened the
heavy doors with some difficulty and then followed them down as
they struggled, cursed and grunted under the considerable weight of
their burden.

Christopher let out the breath he had been
holding and walked quietly to the doors to peer into the dark
recesses of the stairwell. It would be doubly difficult to rescue
Sir Ramsay now. He was obviously in distress and unconscious, but
at least he was still alive and in one piece. He would have the two
men to contend with and… then he would have to carry his Master
out? It was not a good situation, but time was flying. The three
Knights who had been sent to find the Chevalier du Morte were
somewhere nearby and for all he knew they could already be on the
property, even watching him. The thought made him shiver. They
would kill him, no doubt, if they caught him. He had committed a
great breach of policy by failing to communicate. But surely he was
innocent of treason, if he was a prisoner here! If Beaujold found
him, he would most likely kill him. The man was nuts! Armand de
Bleu had warned him about tangling with the Knight of the Sword
before he’d left the Academy. He will cut off your balls, my
friend, and feed them to you, Armand had warned him. The man may be
an idiot, but he is an expert with the sword and many other
weapons. As if Christopher did not already know this.

He crossed himself, looked up at the moon’s
waxing disc and whispered the words that never failed to comfort
and strengthen him spes mea in deo est. Some of the few Latin words
he had managed to learn after four years of apprenticeship and
hearing it repeated thousands of times. It was the one thing that
connected him to his brother apprentices and to the world that had
almost swallowed him alive before he had time to realize what was
happening to him. One of the most frightening memories of his life,
aside from being arrested and thrown in jail for his nightly
burglaries, was the sight of Sir Ramsay’s face when he had come to
bail him out of jail. Sir Ramsay had promised to return for him,
but he’d not believed it. One thing he’d learned for sure was that
when Sir Ramsay said he would be back, he always came back. He
never wanted to see that look in his Master’s eyes again. But, of
course, Ramsay had not been his Master then, just his benefactor…
his guardian angel. It was probably the first time in his short
life he had ever really considered that he might die. He didn’t
know which would have been worse, spending the night in the tank
with a bunch of freaks or leaving with Ramsay. Sir Ramsay had not
killed him, of course. He’d not even bitched him out for getting
arrested. In fact, he’d seemed almost sympathetic, almost, but not
quite.

Christopher crossed himself again before
slipping into the stairwell and making his way like a shadow to the
bottom of the steps, where the light was better, but a new problem
presented itself at once. Three corridors led off in different
directions and he had waited too long. He had no idea which way
they had gone. He drew a deep breath and took the only logical
choice. “Forward,” he whispered to himself.

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

Konrad von Hetz stood in the deep shadow of a
massive weeping willow, staring at one window in the red brick
mansion. . Von Hetz was still astounded that Ramsay could have
allowed himself to be taken prisoner by these people. Ramsay was
dreaming now, unaware that he had been moved downstairs.
Meaningless bits and pieces of information in visual form bombarded
his mind when he reached for the Knight’s thoughts. If he were
going to subdue the man with minimal effort, now would be a good
time. He could easily carry him out and away while he was
incapacitated and from the looks of the men who had carried him
down, they would be of little consequence. Before following them
inside, he had to make a quick check of the house, finding the
young blond woman asleep on the second floor and the servants
watching television in the recreation room.

His plan was simple. He would overpower the
men, disarm them, tie them up and carry Ramsay out bodily. His car
was parked in a dry wash just beyond the stable. By the time Ramsay
woke up, they would be safely away from this place and he would
confront his Brother privately. He would learn what had transpired
here.

When he stepped out into the open lawn, he
drew his silver and black sword from its scabbard. The blade made a
comforting, singing sound as it slipped free. The blade flashed in
the moonlight and he stopped briefly, frowning down at it. It had
been many, many years since he had drawn the blade with the intent
to possibly use it, but it seemed like only yesterday. Swords had
thankfully fallen from common use in battle as well as its modified
version, the bayonet, but for stealth, bladed weapons could not be
beat as far as he was concerned. He found the open doors to the
basement and started down the stairs cautiously.

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

“Do you really think this is a wise idea,
Brother Thomas?” Chevalier d’Ornan’s soft voice drifted to the rear
of the vehicle as he watched Beaujold unroll the cheap Oriental rug
in the back of the panel van. They were speeding along the highway
with Dambretti at the wheel, heading deep into the lonely expanses
of the Texas countryside. They knew they would find Mark Ramsay on
a secluded estate owned by one Meredith Nichole Sinclair, one of
the more distant relations of the ‘Oil Sinclairs’ as Beaujold
called them. Meredith Sinclair’s permanent house guest, one Cecile
Valentino, was a key member of the local chapter of the Order of
the Rose, a semi-secret organization related to the Freemasons. The
Apocalyptic Knight had given Sir Beaujold the location of his last
known whereabouts albeit reluctantly and Beaujold had filled in the
rest with a bit of research and a couple of Templar operatives
working out of Dallas.

Now the Knight of the Sword was aggravated
beyond measure. The carpet was too big to unroll properly in the
jostling van.

“Would you kindly slow down a bit, Brother?”
he called out to the driver who looked back at him with both
eyebrows raised.

“I am already going like the snail.”
Dambretti frowned at him in the rearview mirror. “What is it you
would like? To stop altogether?”

D’Ornan groaned inwardly. Had they not argued
enough already? They had fought endlessly about the incident
concerning the woman at the hotel. Beaujold had scolded Dambretti
again and again for having openly flirted with the woman. Dambretti
had argued that the attention was harmless and that he had served
to further their cause by endearing himself to her. This excuse he
had told the irate Frenchman with a flourish, placing both hands
over his heart to emphasize his insincerity.

After that, they had argued whether to eat
meat or not at supper when the lady had served up some very
appetizing fried chicken and pork chops. They had argued who would
go into town for the rug. They had argued about what to wear on
this little jaunt. Dambretti seemed indifferent to Beaujold’s
wrath, insisting that sometimes a softer approach was in order when
dealing with laypersons as he called anyone outside the Order.
Simon agreed with Lucio, but he remained silent on the issue,
refusing to take sides. Arguing usually made him ill and served no
purpose.