The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (30 page)

“You know, my Brother,” the Knight of the
Serpent addressed Beaujold “I once saw a movie about three idiots
who were trying to deliver a piano. It was very funny. By the time
they had finally put the piano where it was going, they had
destroyed an entire building of considerable proportions and had
injured themselves quite seriously in the process.”

“How can that possibly have been funny,
Brother?” Beaujold turned an angry glance on the healer. “Are you
comparing us with those idiots?”

He went back to work while Dambretti laughed
under his breath. Simon shrugged as if to say ‘I tried’ and rolled
his eyes. Lucio shook his head and began to hum an Italian aria
from his favorite opera. He was in a hurry to get to where they
were going. His good-natured flirting and joking were nothing more
than covers for his underlying thoughts. Although he was more than
glad to be engaged in any action with his Brothers again, even
Brother Thomas, this mission was not what he had expected. He had
become complacent, almost lazy, lying on the roof of his apartment
building in Naples drunk, lying in the sun at the Villa’s swimming
pool drunk, lying on his sofa drunk, lying in Amelia’s bed…
drunk.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had
been called upon to actually do something other than file his
reports with Sir Philip Cambrique for the Master’s perusal. He
couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had last seen his
friend and Brother, Mark Ramsay, and now, to be coming here under
these circumstances, was not what he would have wished at all, but
he was extremely glad to have been sent on this mission. He did not
trust the Knight of the Sword, and he was irked that the Master had
once again overlooked his seniority and made an underling OIC. But
Beaujold was French. Beaujold was serioust and Beaujold was sober
and Beaujold was by the book whereas Dambretti was none of these
things. As if this grievance was not enough, Beaujold was hell bent
on taking Ramsay’s head at the first opportunity and Dambretti was
not.

Lucio did not know if he could stop him if he
got a chance to take Ramsay’s head, but he had to be there all the
same to try. He had no plan. He would do as he had always done,
live for the moment. If they ever got out of this and things
returned to normal, he was going to insist that Brother Ramsay take
a vacation with him. Get him out of that damned dreary place in
Scotland. It was time to get on with living and forget the past.
Maybe go down to Tahiti or even Australia. He thought Ramsay would
like the outback and he’d heard that the girls in the outback were
tough. Tough enough even for Ramsay. Ramsay needed a girl. That was
what he needed.

“I think I have it. Are we almost there?”
Thomas asked.

“Another kilometer, I think,” Dambretti
answered.

“Good!” Sir Beaujold leaned forward and
nodded at the speedometer. “At our present rate of speed, I
estimate our arrival time in less than a millisecond.”

The Knight of the Golden Eagle eased off the
gas pedal and the needle dropped from eighty-five to forty. He had
been going faster and faster without realizing it.

“That’s better,” Beaujold let out a sigh of
relief. “Brother Simon, your help please.”

Simon climbed out of the passenger seat and
went to assist him in the rear of the van. Beaujold lay down on one
end of the rug and positioned his sword parallel to his left leg.
Dambretti had tried to talk him out of taking the sword with him,
but Thomas had pointed out that Ramsay would have his sword with
him. Ramsay never went anywhere without the golden sword of the
Cherubim.

“Now roll me up,” he instructed his helper.
“And be careful.”

Simon squatted awkwardly in the cramped space
and made a lumpy roll of the Knight inside the carpet. He stopped
and frowned.

“What is it now?” The muffled voice of the
Knight of the Sword called to him impatiently.

“Are you sure you will be able to breathe?”
the Healer asked.

“Of course. The ends will be open.”

“Are you sure…” D’Ornan began only to be cut
off by Beaujold’s cursing in French.

“Look!” The man’s voice was loud even from
within the carpet. “If it was good enough to fool Julius Caesar,
it’s good enough for these idiots. Queen Cleopatra found it quite
handy for getting past the entire Roman army in Alexandria. Now for
the love of God, please get on with it.”

D’Ornan smiled ruefully to himself and
finished rolling the rug into a heavy bundle at the rear of the
van.

“Are you all right, Brother?” d’Ornan yelled
into the end of the roll.

“I’m perfect!” came the muffled reply. “For
God’s sake stop screaming at me. I’m not deaf!”

“So sorry!” d’Ornan shouted into the
tube.

Dambretti looked around to see a devilish
grin on the Healer’s face. A very rare sight on the solemn little
man. Simon drew back his foot and gave a mock kick at the center of
the rug before resuming his seat next to the driver.

Lucio smiled at him and winked. He pressed
the accelerator and they were soon back up to speed, bumping and
jostling along the road.

“He does grate on the nerves,” d’Ornan
remarked.

“What was that?” the carpeted Knight shouted
to them.

“I said ‘hold on, there may be great
swerves’,” Dambretti answered him and immediately jerked the wheel
to the right bouncing off the road and back on again.

Muffled curses emanated from the carpet.

“His language is appalling,” d’Ornan
whispered.

“Dear, dear me. He’s going to be very angry.”
Dambretti shook his head in mock sympathy.

“What did you say?” Beaujold shouted at
them.

“I said ‘Deer! Deer! The beasts make me
angry!’.” Lucio swerved again and the Knight of the Sword bounced
in the rear of the van.

It was amazing that either of them had the
heart to laugh as hard they laughed when their Brother began to
curse another blue streak.

“You should watch your tongue, Brother!”
d’Ornan called to him. “It is hurting my ears. I may have to cut it
out.”

His threat was met with another outburst from
the Chevalier d’Epee, but this time there was no profanity. Lucio
wondered if Thomas Beaujold ever did anything just for fun or even
knew what the word meant. Of all the Twelve Elect only the Ritter
von Hetz seemed to possess less humor in his makeup than Beaujold.
At least the Grand Master had not chosen von Hetz for this mission.
Von Hetz made everyone nervous and every moment spent in his
company was a painful one. Of course, everyone thought Mark Andrew
a mirthless fellow as well, but Lucio knew better. Mark Andrew was
quite capable of enjoying a good joke from time to time. It was
just hard to get him out of his ‘den’ where he spent day after day
just walking the land and talking to his great deerhounds as if
they could understand him. Yes, he would have to insist on a
vacation. He and the Chevalier du Morte were due for some time off.
It was time to call a truce and let dead dogs lie and these dogs
were very, very dead. They would go to Peru and see the Andes or
maybe go to the Alps or even the Himalayas. With his talents and
skills and the wonders of advanced technology, he could keep up
with his work even in Antarctica if he wanted and e-mail his
reports to Cambrique. It was time for the eagle to fly.

He slowed and turned up the long drive, which
would take them to the front door of the mansion set among the oaks
and cedars. As they approached the private residence that also
served as the local lodge of the Order of the Rose, his own
thoughts darkened again at what lay ahead of them. He could not
believe that Mark Andrew had fallen into whatever this was. No
matter the cause, it seemed impossible. If Beaujold had his way,
the Knight of Death would soon find out what his own sword felt
like. If he, Lucio Dambretti, had anything to do with it, they
would be taking Ramsay back to Italy in one piece and the Knight of
the Sword's authority be damned. One thing for certain, they would
have to use extreme measures to ensure that none of them came
within striking distance of the Flaming Sword if Mark Ramsay had
truly turned. This would be a good time to make up for his past
failures and Mark Andrew would have no excuse to hold a grudge if
he was instrumental in his salvation… again.

His mind wandered back in time to when he had
first met Mark Ramsay. Jerusalem. September 30, 1187. He had been
only a small boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen years in the service
of the Knights of the Temple of Solomon when the infidel army had
poured into the streets killing anyone who resisted them. He had
been near the well he used to travel in and out of the catacombs
beneath the city, about to make his escape from the risky business
of conquest. He knew that if he survived the initial surge, he
would most likely be spared when the thrill of victory and the
blood lust had faded somewhat. Just as he was about to jump into
the well, the Templar Knight appeared, running for his life with
three screaming Saracens chasing him. There had been no choice, but
to jump and let the Knight fend for himself. When he had ventured
back to the well a short time later, he had found Ramsay with a
Saracen’s dagger in his side, clinging to the rocky ledge to keep
from drowning in his armor. That had been a terrible day. He had
barely managed to pull the Knight from the water and into the
tunnel and then down into the maze of caves carved beneath the
city. It had been the most difficult task he had ever undertaken.
He reached up subconsciously to feel the scar on his cheek. He
rarely thought of that time so long ago, but things had changed and
changed again and now he was in another strange land and the same
Knight was alone and in trouble.

At first, he thought that they would die
together there in the filth and ruin of the Old City, but on the
third day the news went out that the survivors were to be ransomed.
He had dragged the Knight through the streets and found relief of
his burden in the hands of the lay brothers and few Knights who had
survived Saladin’s siege of the city, but he had never been far
from Ramsay’s side after that fateful day in the well. Now, after
eight hundred years, did they really expect him to help them
destroy Chevalier Ramsay? It was not possible. He would not do it.
He pulled the van up in front of the tall white columns on the
front portico and stopped. Their lives were too closely
intertwined. He closed his eyes briefly and forced his thoughts to
clear before turning off the ignition.

“Spes mea in Deo est,” he whispered as he
climbed from the van and went round to join d’Ornan at the foot of
the steps. “Are you ready, Brother?”

D’Ornan nodded and they went to ring the
bell.

A sleepy-eyed maid opened the door and peered
out at them suspiciously. They were forced to repeat their story
three times before she would open the door wide enough to look at
the white van parked outside. They were lost and tired, but not to
fear. They had delivered the rug Ms. Valentino had ordered on the
day promised, even though only a scant ten minutes remained before
the next day would begin. They gave her a thousand apologies, but,
in the end it had been Dambretti’s smiles which provided the key to
the house much to Beaujold’s chagrin and d’Ornan’s delight. The
maid, finally convinced that they were telling the truth, allowed
them to bring the rug inside.

Once they were in the hallway, she stopped to
frown at them.

“Where does this rug go?” She asked.

“Wherever we take it, signorina,” Dambretti
smiled at her and hefted the weight of the rug to a better position
on his shoulder, causing Simon to stagger dangerously behind him.
“It was my understanding that Signorina Valentino wanted the rug
upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms. That she had a special guest
I believe or some such. I don’t know which room exactly, of course,
you understand…”

“Of course,” the maid’s frown deepened. They
could leave it in the hall, she told them. She knew that the only
guest in the house was the strange fellow on the third floor and
she had been instructed not to bother him under any circumstances,
but tomorrow was the big day and there would be other strangers
coming to the house. All the bedrooms on the second floor were
carpeted. It had to be the stranger’s dormer room. She glanced up
the stairs at the double doors of Miss Merry’s bedroom. She did not
want to wake Miss Valentino. The woman scared her. If she did not
need a job, she would have been elsewhere and especially
lately.

“All right,” she nodded. “Follow me and be
quiet.”

“Yes, ma’am,” D’Ornan answered and they
started up the stairs.

When they reached the third floor, the maid
stopped abruptly and they almost ran her down. The door to the
man’s room stood open. She peeked cautiously into the room and then
waved them inside. He was not there. Bien. Good. They could deliver
the rug and be gone and she could make brownie points with the
woman when she found that her rug had been delivered and installed
in time for the fiesta. She certainly hoped she was doing the right
thing. She showed them the way and they carried the rug inside the
room and laid it on the floor.

Dambretti looked around the room. No one was
there and there was no sign that indicated the identity of the
occupant, other than a pair of black boots thrown carelessly on the
bed. Not like the meticulous Knight of Death to put his boots on
the bed.

“We will require a broom and a… hammer,”
d’Ornan told the woman when Dambretti said nothing.

“I don’t know, senor. I don’t think it would
be wise,” she looked about. She did not want to leave them alone.
The broom and hammer would require a trip down to the kitchen
storeroom and then they would make noise if they used a hammer. She
wondered where the mysterious stranger was.