The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (33 page)

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Authors: Brendan Carroll

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BOOK: The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death
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“Your allegiance to the Order comes first,”
the Knight continued to lecture him. “The Order first! The Master
second. Your Master has betrayed the order! Do you wish to follow
him into disgrace? What you have done is inexcusable and you will
be ex-communicated if not executed.”

He accentuated his words with more blows from
behind. Christopher stumbled and the Knight caught him, setting him
on his feet again, sending him stumbling ahead with another brutal
shove.

“An apprentice follows orders. When the
Master can no longer serve, the apprentice takes his place. How can
we trust you to do that, if you do not follow the orders of the
Grand Master, himself? Above all, the apprentice must learn to
focus his loyalties in the proper direction. Serve God! Preserve
the Order! Destroy the Infidels! You are disgusting to me. How
could he have chosen such a piece of filth as his second? Merican!
Bah! Nothing good ever came out of Merica! But then I suppose that
it would make sense considering what he is. Nothing but a
skirt-wearing worm from the bogs of Scotland.”

Christopher turned back at the insult and was
about to say something, but the Knight backhanded him across the
jaw, sending him sprawling on the ground. Beaujold picked him up
again and sent him flying down the road.

“You would say something to me, boy? I think
not. You serve the Order. The Order serves God! You will learn or
you will find yourself in the same position as your Master. Guilty
of treason and beheaded or hung!”

They jogged along in silence. Every step was
painful for Christopher now. He had no doubt that he was about to
die if Master Simon or Master Dambretti were not somewhere nearby.
Beaujold had already found his Master guilty without a hearing. Not
even the Grand Master had the right to do that.

“The Will of God. Above all, the Will of
God,” the Knight of the Sword picked up the lecture again. “One
does not question the Will of God. The Grand Master speaks the Will
of God. He did not send you here, boy. He is the instrument of God.
His will is the Will of God.”

The Chevalier d’Epee stopped suddenly and
pulled a cell phone from his belt. He punched ruthlessly at the
buttons on its face. Christopher seized the opportunity to rest and
leaned his hands against his knees, spitting blood onto the dry
grass.

“Simon?” He spoke into the device even though
no one had answered it. “Lucio?”

He turned it off and then shook it, before
repeating the call. Still nothing.

“Probably not a good signal here,”
Christopher panted, determined not to allow the man to see his
condition.

“You are disrespectful!” The Knight pushed
him on again. “Do not speak to me again unless you are spoken too.
An apprentice does not speak without recognition. An apprentice
does not speak in Council without recognition by the Master. I am
the Master here and I have not recognized you. Signal! Bah! Merica!
What did they think to accomplish coming to this God-forsaken
shore?”

Beaujold hearkened back to Christopher’s one
fatal word blurted in the last Council meeting just as Armand had
warned him. It had not gone without notice and would not go without
punishment. But he was also obsessed with the idea that everything
‘Merican’ was evil.

Christopher could make out what looked like a
white van parked on the side of the road several hundred yards
away.

“You are worse than an Infidel’s dog. Lower
than the belly of a snake,” Beaujold picked up his string of
insults as they walked down the shoulder of the road.

The man suddenly tackled him bodily, rolling
him down the sloping ditch, using him as a mattress when a black
BMW raced by on the highway. Numerous sticks, pokes and prods from
the prickly vegetation and rocks in the ditch added to the
apprentice’s misery and the young man made a vow to make the Knight
pay if he lived long enough.

When they were within a few dozen yards of
the van, the Frenchman suddenly erupted into a string of epithets
in his native tongue and Christopher was thankful that these were
directed at someone else. After what seemed forever, they reached
the van where Lucio Dambretti was just tightening the lug nuts on
the spare tire. When d’Ornan and Dambretti had finished telling the
disgruntled Knight of the Sword how the herd of domestic cattle had
attacked and disabled them, the man fell to speaking Latin, having
apparently exhausted his store of French obscenities. The trip back
to Miss Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast was excruciating for
all of them under his unbridled rage.

Chapter Seven of Twelve

Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame,
and my dishonour: mine adversaries are all before thee.

A small fire burned between two immense limestone boulders high
above the pecan groves, oaks, prickly pear and cedars that filled
the valley below. Konrad von Hetz sat on top of the tallest of the
two boulders, his long legs dangling over the side as he watched
the lights in the house below. He was disgusted. Never
underestimate the enemy and never underestimate the power of God.
Right was not always on the side of might and the Bible was full of
such instances of victory in the face of overwhelming odds. Konrad
chastised himself soundly for having forgotten to ask proper
guidance for this mission. None of his Brothers would have ever
believed that he, of all people, would have forgotten to pray for
himself.

A coyote yelped in the distant rocks. All
around were the sounds of night birds and thousands of insects
infesting the wild hillside, but he paid them no mind. A snake
slithered silently from the prickly pear patch on the south side of
the boulder onto the rock with him, paused briefly and then slid
away quickly to find another place to hunt. Hundreds of bats
flitted and darted through the air above the trees surrounding the
house. In the distance he could hear the sounds of cattle lowing in
the darkness. Briefly, he wondered what had upset them.

He sensed the presence of his three Brothers
from the same direction. He had passed them on his way to this
secluded lookout. If only there had been some chance of enjoining
their assistance, but Beaujold was beyond reaching. He went back
over the entire incident in his head. He recalled each move the
young apprentice had made. His moves had been calculated and
deliberate, his eyes had never wavered as they had faced each other
over the body of his Master. He wondered how many more such young
men were left in the world in this day and age. Ramsay had done
well to employ the young Stewart as his apprentice even though the
Grand Master had suspected the boy was less than desirable simply
for having come from America. America had become such a great
disappointment over the years for the Order. He tore his mind away
from the big picture and concentrated on the present mission.

The enemy would be expecting him next time
causing his mission to take a decidedly more dangerous turn. Still
he resolved to bring his Brother out alive and in one piece. If
another chance presented itself, he would enlist the aid of the
apprentice. Stewart must have believed him to be of the same mind
as Beaujold. He would have to change that image first.

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

Christopher slumped glumly in a chair in the
brightly lit, pink floral bedroom at Miss Martin’s Bed and
Breakfast. Lucio Dambretti leaned against the delicately gilded,
French provincial dresser with his arms folded over his chest,
feeling as if he had just invaded Cinderella’s bedroom and found it
full of Musketeers and burglars. Simon was stretched out on the bed
with his hands behind his head still wearing the black outfit,
including the knit cap that covered his blond hair, staring at the
flowers on the ceiling. Beaujold had changed into a pair of dark
blue pajamas over which he wore a matching satin smoking jacket
with an embroidered fleur-de-lis on the lapel. The jacket flared
out behind him like a short cape as he paced back and forth in
front of Christopher, stopping now and again to glare at the young
man. Dambretti was fascinated by Beaujold’s choice of attire. He
had imagined the man sleeping in sack cloth and ashes. The Italian
preferred sleeping fully dressed when on the road and when at home,
he was a bit more natural. He was losing patience with the
self-righteous Frenchman.

Dambretti raised one had and studied his
fingernails carefully. Too carefully. D’Ornan glanced at the
Italian apprehensively. He had seen the man lose his temper once or
twice. It was not a pretty sight. One thing the Healer remembered
about the Knight of the Golden Eagle, was that before he went into
a murderous rage, he became extraordinarily quiet. Like now.
Dambretti pulled his dagger from his belt and began picking at his
fingernails thoughtfully. The knife was a gift from the Chevalier
du Morte. Simon suspected that Ramsay had made the knife himself. A
stylized image of the Egyptian god Horus with inlaid onyx eyes
served as the hilt. The smooth gold gleamed in the light of Miss
Penelope’s crystal light fixture while Beaujold went into another
one of his low-keyed, but highly insulting rages against the
hapless apprentice.

���When we return to Italy, I intend to
request… nay, demand, Monsieur, demand that you be excommunicated
and sent to the eastern frontier. Such impudence cannot be
tolerated. You not only endanger yourself, but you endanger the
lives of your betters. Inexcusable.”

Simon had tried to intervene twice to no
avail. Christopher had suffered in silence for over an hour
displaying only a sullen attitude while he picked cactus spines and
gravel out of his skin and clothing.

He winced audibly as he pulled a long bloody
spine from his wrist and then looked up defiantly at the Frenchman.
The young man finally reached the end of his tolerance. He perked
up in the chair and looked the Knight of the Sword directly in the
eyes when he stopped in front of him.

“And you, excellent Master, would dismember
your Brother and take him home in a box. Such loyalty! Such
devotion. If that is what it means to be a Knight of the Temple,
then I will gladly pack my bags and be off to Siberia.” As he
spoke, he rose slowly to face the enraged man until they were eye
to eye. Beaujold froze and his face turned an even deeper shade of
red at the challenge. The Knight spun on his heel and grabbed his
sword from the dresser. He flung the scabbard against the wall as
he drew the blade and advanced on the apprentice.

“You irascible upstart! I should run you
through and be done with you right now. I would gladly dismember
you and your traitorous Master together. By the power of God…”

Simon emitted a short shriek as Dambretti
snapped forward. This was what the Healer had been dreading. The
Italian closed the space between himself and the Knight of the
Sword in the blink of an eye. Before the second blink, he had the
blond man against the wall with the Egyptian dagger at his throat.
Beaujold still held the hilt of his sword, but made no move to
raise the blade. Miss Penelope’s chandelier tinkled in the
aftermath of the shock produced when Beaujold’s body struck the
wall. The phone on the dresser began to ring immediately.

Dambretti leaned his face to within a
hairsbreadth of the tip of the blonde's nose and spoke through
gritted teeth, pronouncing each word slowly and distinctly.

“You are getting on my nerves, Signori. You
dare to set yourself up as divinely inspired by the Power of God?
The great Michelangelo was inspired by the Power of God. The genius
of da Vinci was inspired by the Power of God. Giordano Bruno was
inspired by God and they burned him at the stake. But you, Sir,
remind me of another famous Italian, Benito Mussolini and you need
well remember what I did to him before they hung his carcass up for
the crows. And that too, was just because he got on my nerves with
his ranting and raving. Now you are very close to receiving the
same treatment, no? I will carve you like a ham and serve you with
pesto sauce.”

D’Ornan had already crossed the room, shoved
the apprentice aside in order to reach the Italian. He placed one
hand on his shoulder, saying his name softly. He could feel the
enormous tension in Dambretti’s muscles. The Italian wanted to kill
Beaujold and may have done it without the Healer's
intervention.

“Please, Brother Lucio,” he said. “We are all
under a great deal of pressure here. Some of us do not contain our
thoughts as well as others.”

The two Knights stared into each other’s eyes
for several more seconds before Dambretti stepped back, releasing
him. The Knight of the Golden Eagle turned his back on the Knight
of the Sword as an added insult and smiled at d’Ornan before
winking at him. He sniffed loudly and looked at the ringing
phone.

“Someone should answer that. It will be our
lovely dove calling,” Dambretti told the Healer.

“I would not have harmed the boy,” Beaujold
said quietly as he straightened his collar. The attack had taken
the wind from his sails. He had overstepped his bounds and he knew
it. He also knew how close he had come to losing his own head.

Dambretti opened the door and left them
without saying more.

“It was not that he was worried about the
boy’s welfare, Brother. He knew you would not really hurt
Christopher,” d’Ornan told him in a low whisper. “It was the remark
you made about Sir Ramsay. You called him a traitor. You have
convicted our Brother without a trial. That is not the way we do
things. You know that.”

“Ah, oui, I am sorry for that, Brother, but I
take my vows seriously.” Beaujold nodded thoughtfully. “Sir
Dambretti must face the fact that his friend and Brother may have
come to the end of his service.”

“That is something I, too, must face… if it
is so.” D’Ornan gazed at the man unblinkingly. “But until we have
determined that there is no hope, I will not think of it. Let us
keep the faith, Brother.”

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