The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (40 page)

“I’m fine really, sweetie, don’t worry. Now,
look.” Valentino picked up Gavin Nash’s letter and a very special
glass of lemonade that she had prepared for Merry. “Help me go over
this again. I want to make sure I can answer any questions that
idiot Schroeder might ask.”

Merry sighed and collapsed on the sofa as
Cecile sat on the coffee table in front of her. It was going to be
a long, long day.

“I saved you a glass of lemonade,
sweetheart.” Cecile smiled at her and held out the glass.

Merry nodded, murmured thank you and sipped
the liquid while Cecile read the letter to her… again.

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

“How do you learn all these things, Brother?”
d’Ornan asked Beaujold as they bounced down the rough, rocky drive
road in the van. The vast, open areas baffled the Healer who was
used to the more crowded conditions of the old country.

“All it takes is money, Brother.” Beaujold
shrugged. “Money and something called the Classified Ads.”

“Do you think they will be all right?”
D’Ornan looked back at the small stone building, disappearing from
sight behind the van. It stood in the middle of an open field,
which lay in the middle of nowhere behind a stone and a metal fence
with a large, blue and white ‘for sale’ sign attached to it.

“Of course. You worry too much, Brother. They
are big, strong men. Surely a few spiders and snakes won’t scare
them too much. Perhaps they can sing songs together to keep up
their spirits.” The man actually laughed and Simon cringed at the
unfamiliar sound of his laughter. “We will come back for them
before we leave and set them free if they are too dull-witted to
escape on their own.”

Simon looked back at Dambretti and
Christopher where they sat in the back of the van with their backs
against the wall. Christopher was asleep. Dambretti appeared to be
lost in thought.

Simon wondered if Dambretti felt guilty about
the trick he had played on the hapless Frenchmen. It had not really
been very funny. The men would probably be scarred for life, but
even he had been hard pressed to keep from laughing at the
expressions on their faces when Lucio had pulled his coup de grace.
Lucio was a sick man with a demented sense of humor and very little
tolerance for the gayer elements of modern society. The Healer
suspected something in the Italian’s far distant childhood as the
root cause of his intolerance when it came to dealing the fairer
members of their own sex. Beaujold did not like them either, but
Beaujold simply ranted about them like a normal bigot. Dambretti
was something altogether different when it came to dealing with
them. It had always been so with the Italian.

The two men had been mesmerized by the
Italian’s performance and even Simon had had a few moments of
doubt. Dambretti had dragged him down to d’Antin and de Villier’s
room. The two Frenchmen had been elated to see them and then
Dambretti had looked out the window at the ‘view’, making several
very provocative suggestions to them while they scurried about,
getting drinks for them. Simon remembered it perfectly. The scene
played over in his mind like a video loop. D’Antin had approached
Lucio from behind and goosed him playfully on his derrière. Lucio
had turned very slowly from the window and said ‘I have something
very long and hard I want you to see, little brothers.’

Simon well remembered his own shocked
reaction when Dambretti had very slowly unzipped his pants. He’d
thought his Brother had lost his mind. He’d watched him, unable to
move or speak or even breathe when the Knight reached inside his
trousers ever so slowly, smiling impishly at the two Frenchmen as
they stood paralyzed, anticipating something a bit more friendly.
Simon wondered briefly where Lucio had learned such a trick. How
could he have concealed the broadsword in such a delicate place
without injuring himself dreadfully? However he had managed it, the
effect had been well worth the trouble. The two men had been
dumbstruck when Dambretti held out the sword toward them and
invited them to 'examine' it.

Simon wanted to ask his Brother about it
afterwards, but he’d probably not get an answer other than ‘It is
the Will of God’. The Healer was very glad that Beaujold had not
been present to witness the scene. The Knight of the Sword would
never have recovered. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he would ever
get over it himself.

The Knight of the Sword had taken Christopher
and gone after the German, leaving himself and Dambretti to subdue
the silly Frenchmen. Beaujold had no problem with taking the German
alive, but the two French perverts, as he called them, caused his
temper to rage. He had voiced his fear that he might not be able to
restrain himself if they provoked him. Thomas and the apprentice
had subdued the big man easily though they had quite a bit of
trouble making him be quiet as they escorted them out of the
boarding house to the van.

“Does everyone know their parts?” d’Ornan
asked them after a few moments. “Brother Lucio, please remember
that you are German. Don’t speak Italian or French.”

“Ja, ja, meiner freund,” Dambretti said
without looking at him.

“Don’t speak German either,” Beaujold told
him. “That is the worst accent I have ever heard.”

“You crusha my feelings, Brother. Languages
are my area of expertise.” Dambretti frowned down at his
fingernails.

“Just stick to reading them, if you please.
And you, Christopher Stewart!” Beaujold called to the apprentice,
waking him with a start. “Remember to hear, to see and to be
silent.”

“Of course, Master,” Christopher mumbled
sullenly. His back still hurt and the jostling wall of the van did
not make things any better. He was just glad they had not left him
at the abandoned stone building to guard the three prisoners. He
had thought that the one called deVilliers was going to die
outright of fright when they had taken them into the dark basement
beneath the little stone house. He, himself, had slept in much
worse places when he had been a kid on the streets in New York.
Whatever Master Dambretti had done to them, had put both of the men
in shock, even before they had taken them out to the abandoned
building. He was almost ashamed for having scared them so badly. Ah
well, better they than him. At least the two Frenchmen had given
him a respite from Beaujold’s wrath.

“Did you hear what Schroeder said?” Beaujold
addressed Dambretti. “He gave you a wealth of useful information.
It may come in quite handy for your part.”

“Yes, let’s see.” Dambretti looked up at the
roof of the van and squinted. “I vill be cutting often your balls
and feed zem to ze buzzards. I vill pop your head like und pimple.
I vill rink your neck you dirty wop, dago, Italiano bastard. I
vill…”

“Not that!” Beaujold stopped him.

“Oh.” Dambretti winked at Christopher. “You
mean the other things. Let’s see. I’m a fourth generation
pharmacist. My family is very distinguished. I am the High Priest
and Hierophant of the Order of the Rose, Berlin Chapter. My family
is very rich. My family will be outraged. My family will seek
revenge. I am a powerful and mystical alchemist and I will be
missed immediately. My brothers will not let you get away with
this. I know people in Rome. My brother is a Cardinal in the
service of the Pope. Et… cet… ter… a!”

“Yes, yes, but I do not remember a Cardinal
Schroeder there. He must be new to the See.” Beaujold nodded his
head vigorously. “The German is some sort of VIP in this Order of
the Rose. You can mention your family ties with the Vatican. You
may even be tonight’s guest of honor. Be on guard as to what may be
expected of you. You have studied what we know of this order of
pretenders?”

“Of course,” Lucio told him tiredly. “But I
know nothing of being a High Priest at one of these things. It has
been a very long time since I attended an initiation of any sort.
We should give them one of ours, no? That would certainly upset the
applecart for them. I didn’t see a single cross in the house to
trample and spit on. I don’t think their order has anything to do
with God.”

Beaujold laughed derisively at the idea.

“Do not blaspheme, Brother. Surely you will
not get that far,” d’Ornan told him. “They will probably…”

“Remember,” Beaujold cut the Healer’s words
off “that they kiss each other on both cheeks and they clasp right
elbows while patting the right shoulder with the other hand as a
sign of recognition. Much too long-winded if you ask me, such a
thing could get you killed, but their motto is ‘Under the sign of
the Rose: Life, Love and Happiness’. Much mush. What could be under
the sign of the rose, but a bordello full of thorns? Such
silliness. They are not even Rosicrucians. They left off the Croix
and kept the flower. Life, love and happiness. Who has these things
as one and together. The almost second surely precludes the
possibility of the first and the third. Life if full of misery and
love is one of the chief causes of this misery and then… what is
happiness? Do any of you know what this happiness is? I ask you, is
this not a lot of silliness? I, myself, cannot even remember ever
having been happy unless I count the times when I have been blessed
with the ecstasy during Holy Communion. Do you know how long it has
been since I have been called upon to work? I sit around
remembering the old days and I find myself wishing that someone
would start a war so that I might be put to work. Instead, I go
about giving fencing lessons and lectures on strategy. Only last
week, I had the inestimable challenge of teaching one of the
apprentices the proper way to string a bow. Brother Barry noticed
that his technique was sloppy and recommended to the Master that he
have private tutorials. Happiness, bah! Imagine if he had needed
help with his knitting needles. Surely I could have helped him with
his perls.”

By the time the Knight of the Sword had
finished talking, he had received the full attention of Dambretti
and Christopher as well as several puzzled glances from Simon.
Dambretti had never witnessed the man in the act of waxing
philosophical, much less in such a personal manner. Beaujold had
always been rock solid and dependable if nothing else. Lucio’s
happiness consisted of sunshine, good wine and an occasional good
joke, like the one he had played on d’Antin and deVilliers.
Anything above and beyond that was cream on the milk. He had
actually wanted to cut their heads off, but Simon probably would
not have gone along with it. Everything was, is and shall be the
Will of God. Even his little tryst with Amelia held some higher
purpose. He was sure of it.

“I hope that we will need to know nothing
more about them and make our extraction smoothly, though I cannot
hold out much hope for him,” Beaujold continued after a moment and
glanced back at the apprentice. “I think we will find that his
distemper is far greater than we may wish to expect. He is the only
one we need to be concerned with and it will not be easy to take
him, if I know him at all. We will be in and out as quickly as
possible. I see no threat in these… people, if Schroeder and the
two idiots were typical examples. I may have over-estimated their
tactical strength. It is doubtful that they have tactical strength
at all. More like taking candy from a baby. Though they do employ
some security people, no doubt.”

“Permission to speak, Master?” Christopher
spoke up, suddenly. The Knight of the Sword’s words bothered him
immensely. He had known his Master for only a few short years and
yet, he felt he knew him much better than Master Thomas. He had
seen the sorry state he had been in when he and Master von Hetz had
faced off in the laboratory. That the Knight of the Sword could
make a judgment against him without even seeing him was totally
unfair. The man acted as if Master Ramsay had willingly put himself
in the position he was in. It had been very obvious to him that his
Master needed their help, not pre-conceived notions. Beaujold
looked at him in the rearview mirror and nodded.

“I believe that you would wish to know,
honored Masters,” Christopher tried hard to use the more formal
mode of speech which was quite as foreign as French to him. He did
not wish to bring on another verbal thrashing. “I was fouled in my
attempt to bring Sir Ramsay out by one well known to all of
you.”

“What are you saying?” Dambretti leaned
toward him.

“I was not foiled by these pretenders as you
would hold to be true,” Christopher continued. “I came upon an
action already in motion, wherein one of your beloved Brothers and
one of my esteemed Masters was preparing to carry off Sir Ramsay to
points unknown.”

“Spit it out, boy!” Beaujold told him
irritably.

Christopher sighed. Damned if you do, damned
if you don’t.

“I ran into the Ritter von Hetz,” he
concluded quickly. “He already had Sir Ramsay and was taking him
from the basement. And further I would like to respectfully point
out that Master Ramsay was quite debilitated at the time. He needs
our help, not our condemnation.”

“Who? What did you say?” D’Ornan turned to
look at the young man in amazement.

“The Noble Knight of the Apocalypse,”
Christopher looked at them. “He is here… somewhere.”

“That is ridiculous,” Beaujold said angrily.
“You are only trying to conceal your incompetence. A lie is an
abomination in the sight of God.” He had focused only on the part
of the statement about von Hetz, ignoring the declaration that Sir
Ramsay needed their help.

“Believe what you will, Master,” Christopher
shrugged. “Perhaps the Ritter von Hetz has a mission of his own. Or
perhaps he does not believe that Master Ramsay is guilty of the
crime of treason and wants to make sure that his worshipful Master
d’Brouchart’s instructions are carried out properly.”

“What are you implying, boy?” Beaujold
swerved dangerously as he glanced back at the young man angrily.
“Is that why you decided to come here yourself? Do you dare to
presume that I and these two honorable Knights are incapable of
carrying out our mission as instructed?”