The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (36 page)

Monshoor Dantine was actually Rene d’Antin.
The other Frenchman was Jean-Paul DeVilliers. Both were from Paris
and apparently very close friends and chefs in the employ of an
exclusive dinner club in New York City. They were highly amused by
Miss Martin’s waffles and blueberry syrup, but they insisted on
getting her recipe for the jalapeno jelly that had caused the
gluttonous German named Schroeder to drink an entire pitcher of
milk before he could speak again.

“We were surprised to find you here,” d’Antin
broke the awkward silence, addressing his remarks to Simon most
likely because, of all the others, Simon’s sad expression was the
least intimidating.

Dambretti was obviously angry with Beaujold
and Beaujold was just being himself. D’Antin spoke in French.

“We were under the impression that we would
be representing France at the meeting. It is all very exciting. I
understand that Gavin Nash has some great discovery to share with
us.”

“We are not here to represent any particular
region, sir,” Simon answered him. “We were just visiting Brother
Dambretti in Verona when he told us that he was coming here and he
invited us to come along. Do you have any idea what the great news
is, my brother?”

“Did you not read Gavin’s letter?” deVilliers
raised both eyebrows. “It was quite tantalizing. Something to do
with the Ancient and Mystical Order of the Templars. Ah, those were
real men.” His remark bought a punch in the side from his
companion.

Dambretti and Beaujold exchanged another cold
glance. Simon sat up straighter in his chair, blinking at the
man.

“I believe you have confused the Templars
with the Rosicrucians, my friend,” Simon told him. “Ancient and
Mystical Order of the Rose Croix. Those are Rosicrucians, not
Templars.”

“Ah, so, yes, I believe you are right,
brother. You are all on holiday, then?” D’Antin took up the
conversation. He was a smallish man with hazel eyes and a
pock-marked face. He wore a very expensively cut summer suit as did
his companion. The man glanced at his friend and smiled. “And
Monsieur Dambretti…” He looked at the dark face of the Italian who
eyed him disdainfully. “He is representing Verona or perhaps
Rome?”

“Southern Italy, actually,” d’Ornan answered
for Dambretti. He did not want to be too specific in case more of
these characters showed up. The mention of the Templars had visibly
upset him.

“Ah, yes, sunny southern Italy. A lovely
place. Just lovely,” Jean-Paul DeVilliers commented and raised his
eyebrows at d’Antin as if they shared some fond memory of the
place.

“Yes, sunny, oui,” Simon agreed and glanced
at the scowling visage of the German delegate. “And Herr Schroeder,
he is our Brother from Berlin?” He felt that he had to be
friendly.

“Yes, of course,” d’Antin nodded. “Surely you
have heard of the illustrious Grand Master of the Berlin
Chapter?”

Schroeder looked up as his name was mentioned
and his scowl deepened. He did not speak French.

“If,” the German spoke slowly in English “you
would not mind so much, Brothers, please speak in the English as we
are in America now and I do not speak the French. I would very much
like to hear what is being said about me.”

“Excuse moi, se’el vous plait.” D’Ornan
smiled at the big, broad-faced man who looked very much like a
simpleton. “I am sorry.”

Dambretti perked up in his chair as he
perceived the depth of the hostility in the man’s voice. Hostility,
that’s what he needed at the moment. Someone he could take his
frustrations out on. Simon shot a warning glance at Lucio before
continuing. “Your friends were just saying that you are
representing Berlin. I was wondering if there would be two
representatives from Germany?”

“No!” he answered rather rudely. “Valentino
is lucky to have one from our chapter and if my Seneschal were not
in poor health, he would have come here. Valentino is… how does one
say? A thorn in the side.”

“Really?” Dambretti leaned forward to engage
the man’s attention. “How so?”

“She is pushy,” the German took a huge bite
of cinnamon roll and continued to talk while he ate. “I would have
been much pleased if Gavin Nash were to be here. He is the
Hierophant of the chapter and much better to work with. And
further, it was his work that we have come to hear about, not hers.
I do not like the pushy women.”

“I see,” Dambretti smiled at the man and the
scar on his face crinkled. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement.
The change was remarkable. DeVilliers elbowed his partner, nodded
at the Italian and winked. The sarcasm in the Italian’s voice was
not lost on the Frenchman. “Then this Miss Valentino is not in
charge of the… how do you say… chapitre local?"

“No, no, of course not,” the German waved one
hand in dismissal, dripping icing onto the lace tablecloth. “She is
Nash’s second. He is, unfortunately, in Egypt studying some scrolls
or some such nonsense. I find her manners lacking and her methods
most grating on the nerves.”

“How many Knights does she have in training?”
Dambretti asked and looked at d’Antin who cast a warm smile at him.
DeVilliers was completely taken by the Knight of the Golden
Eagle.

“There are one hundred seventy plus members.
Not all are Knights,” d’Antin answered him. “There are some two
dozen postulants. Of course, some of the initiates are Chevalieres.
And some… it is hard to say what they are. I’m not sure what the
ratio of Chevalieres to Chevaliers is. Maybe sixty/forty in the
Waco Chapter. Our Order is very popular among the women here.
Cowgirls.”

“And this Gavin Nash, you say he is studying
scrolls in Egypt?” Simon asked, trying to bring the conversation
back to the disturbing subject of the Templars.

“Yes,” the German took up the conversation
again. “His last letter to the Order announced that he had made
some remarkable discoveries concerning the Ancient Mysteries south
of Cairo in some museum there. Something to do with the defunct
Order of Templar Knights that was in the Holy Lands during the Dark
Ages. It might have been interesting to discuss these findings with
him.”

“Defunct Order of Templars?” Dambretti
narrowed his eyes. “What is this ‘defunct’? What does that mean,
Brother Schroeder?”

“Defunct. Dead. You know.” Schroeder waved
one meaty hand. “They were a bumbling bunch of fools devoted to
keeping the Holy Lands open to pilgrims from the west. The
Christians. I read somewhere that their most outstanding
accomplishment was in the art of getting themselves killed. And I
find it disturbing that many of the more reputable orders claim to
have descended from them. I for one would not want to connect
myself with such idiocy. You should read about them sometime,” the
man laughed and Dambretti laughed derisively with him.

D’Ornan leaned his elbows on the table and
tried to get the Italian’s attention. The last thing they needed
was to alienate these fellows. That would spoil his half-baked
plan. Beaujold clunked his glass of orange juice loudly on the
table. He had remained silent throughout the exchange, but
Dambretti’s involvement met with his immediate disapproval though
he detested the fat German and he did not appreciate the
denigrating remarks about the Order.

“Do you make it a habit of studying the
Templars?” Beaujold spoke for the first time, startling everyone at
the table.

“I do not.” Schroeder shook his head and
smiled at him. “I find that the Dark Ages is very aptly named. The
Templars were a prime example of the ignorance and superstition
that plagued Europe and kept the entire continent from progressing
for several hundred years. The Catholic Church did us all a favor
when they rounded them up and burned them at the stake. They were a
disgusting bunch of money lenders and land grabbers hiding behind
the skirts of Papal protection. It was probably the only smart
thing the Catholic Church ever did when it turned on them.”

D’Ornan slapped his hands against his face.
This was not good and rapidly getting worse.

“Perhaps,” he said quickly, trying to avoid
having Miss Penelope Martin’s dining room destroyed “Miss Valentino
knows something of Brother Nash’s work and would be willing to
discuss it with us?”

“Ha!” Schroeder was oblivious to the tension
he had created. “It would be interesting to get that one to discuss
anything at all. It is my opinion and not mine alone, that she has
too much interest in her own private agenda to be concerned with
the good of the Order in general. But it is my understanding that
Brother Nash has found that the Templars managed to discover some
very interesting things in Egypt about immortality and ancient
building methods. Also, the arts of meditation and healing, as well
as, the ability to turn lead into gold. The legendary Philosopher’s
Stone as it was called in the Middle Ages. They apparently knew
where the Ark of the Covenant was hidden and the Holy Grail as
well. It seems they were a very resourceful group of heretics and
lunatics. I doubt any of it is true.” The man snorted and turned up
his glass.

“And what of Armageddon?” Beaujold asked him
darkly. “Did Brother Nash mention that subject?”

“Armageddon?!” The sillier of the two
Frenchmen said as they looked at each other. “Please, no. Not that.
I am sick to death of hearing about the doom and gloom of the end
of the world. That is all a bunch of superstitious nonsense.”

Beaujold almost smiled. He had been training
soldiers for years to fight in that great battle. Nonsense,
indeed.

The Healer shook his head and sighed audibly.
Simon wondered if all the Germans were of such gloomy dispositions.
Certainly most that he had ever known were very dark and not in the
least, happy people. This one was not much different from the
Apocalyptic Knight in his lack of positive attributes, but he also
lacked any redeeming qualities that the Healer could discern.

D’Antin had picked up on the rising level of
tension in the room and he tried another tack. He smiled at his
friend and patted his arm.

“And who is this quiet young fellow here?” He
nodded to Christopher. “He reminds me of a Kung Fu master.” The
apprentice’s long-sleeved black shirt, black cargo pants and boots
were certainly out of place in the sultry mid-summer heat of Texas.
“We have not been introduced.”

“Christopher Stewart,” Christopher answered
the man in spite of the glare he received from the Knight of the
Sword. “This is my first trip with my Brothers. I had no idea just
how hot it would be in Texas this time of year. I’m from…
Fairbanks… Alaska.” Christopher eyed the men suspiciously. He knew
exactly what was going on here and didn’t like it at all. “That’s
why… I mean that’s why I’m wearing this… black that is… I
mean.”

“I see,” d’Antin smiled knowingly at the
young man. “Alaska. The great wilderness. Bears and Eskimos. A good
place to snuggle up by the fire, no?”

“Oui, on a bare skin rug, yes? Whale bones
and blubber and all that?” DeVilliers raised both eyebrows at
Christopher suggestively.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Christopher told him
solemnly and was immensely pleased at the reaction he got from the
Frenchman. He had learned the trick from Sir Ramsay. ‘If you are
ever totally lost, Christopher, do your best to remain that way
until I can find you,’ his Master had told him.

“Oh, I see, a fruit and nut specialist,”
d’Antin laughed and DeVilliers chuckled.

Dambretti leaned back in his chair and
crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his smile behind his hand.
They were obviously not on the same page. He was going to have some
fun after all… perhaps.

“So which of these fine gentlemen are you
with?” deVilliers asked the apprentice point blank.

“Actually, I’m with all three of them.”
Christopher looked at Dambretti and frowned. The Italian raised one
eyebrow in amusement. The young man needed help. He was completely
lost and he was getting deeper and deeper in the woods. “I mean we
are together. We came together. I’m with them.” Christopher
certainly knew what time it was, but what he wanted to say would
have certainly brought on the wrath of God if Beaujold heard him
say anything out of order.

“Oh, oui. The four musketeers then. All for
one and one for all, no? And a fine one I should say. You are from
New York. I hear your accent. Rene and I would be happy for your
company on the return trip. We were thinking of diverting to Niagra
for a holiday, weren't we, Rene?”

“Leave him alone, Jean-Paul.” D’Antin elbowed
his companion. “You’re embarrassing him. I think you have said
enough.”

Christopher sat up in the chair and grimaced
at the pain the simple motion caused. He looked at Simon, but Simon
was looking at his plate, suppressing a smile. He dared not look at
Beaujold who sat on his left. DeVilliers obviously thought that
Christopher was a paid companion.

Finally Dambretti intervened. “We are all
Brothers, no? I say share and share alike. Are your rooms to your
liking? I find Miss Penelope’s decor as charming as her accent,
no?”

Simon snapped his head up and looked straight
ahead, shocked at Dambretti's sudden change in temperament. It did
not bode well.

Schroeder looked up from his third cinnamon
roll. “Mine is not cool enough. I will stifle up there.”

“I just love that Italian accent. Our room is
perfect, thank you.” D’Antin perked up. “Such a lovely view.”

“I’m sure it is.” Dambretti nodded and
returned the man’s blinks. “I would like to see the view from your
room for myself. That is, of course, if your roommate doesn’t
mind?”

Beaujold stood up suddenly, scraping his
chair on the hardwood floor. He seemed highly agitated.

“If you will excuse me. I must go upstairs
and lie down. I have a headache,” he told them brusquely and strode
from the room without looking back.