The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (41 page)

“And he answered him and said, Thou sayest
it,” Christopher used a quote from the New Testament that Sir Barry
was fond of using when the boys wanted to argue with him. The
comment almost caused Beaujold to wreck the van. Dambretti tapped
his knee and held two fingers to his lips while shaking his
head.

Dambretti leaned back against the wall of the
van, closed his eyes and fell silent. He agreed fully with
Christopher’s assumptions. The Apocalyptic Knight. Things had just
taken a serious downturn.

Simon turned around slowly and stared out the
windshield. The presence of the Apocalyptic Knight would definitely
complicate matters. Why was he there? He knew that the apprentice
was right about Brother Thomas. He glanced at Beaujold. The Knight
of the Sword would not give Brother Ramsay a fair hearing.

“Never the less,” Beaujold spoke slowly and
deliberately. “Whether or not our Brother Hetz is here or no, we
will proceed with our plan. We will find Sir Ramsay and take him
out with us… one way or another. I am sure that Brother Hetz will
do nothing more than help us should we run across him.”

“If I know anything about our esteemed
Brother Hetz,” Dambretti said miserably. “He has already made off
with our dear Brother Ramsay. He is a man of great power and fears
no danger. But why else would he come here without instruction if
not because he does not trust us?”

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

The Ritter von Hetz settled himself into the
comfortable leather of the high-backed swivel chair behind
Valentino’s desk in the laboratory office and propped his feet on
her cherry wood desk. He tapped the tip of his sword against the
toe of his boot. The Flaming Sword of the Cherubim lay on the desk
in front of him within easy reach. Mark Andrew sat uneasily in the
same chair that he had grown to hate in front of the desk, back
where he started from.

“What can I expect if I go with you?” Ramsay
asked him point blank.

“Salvation,” von Hetz told him. “I am your
only hope, Brother Ramsay. You must open your mind to me and let me
judge whether you should live or die.”

“Just like that?” Ramsay lowered his head and
looked up from under his dark brows at the man. He could not
believe what he was hearing. “You put new meaning on the phrase
judge, jury and executioner, my friend.”

“If you are acting of your own free will, you
are lost,” von Hetz continued. “If you are being coerced by these
miscreants or seduced by the guile of these female pretenders, then
you must confess and renew your vows. If there are other
extenuating circumstances, I will know them without your testimony.
If you have whispered too much in the ears of the fair-haired one,
then you have signed her death warrant as well as your own. If you
are innocent of these charges, then you will be exonerated, but I
will know the truth, Brother Ramsay. I am the Knight of the
Apocalypse Who Sees. We have no need for Inquisitors here. I will
strip your secrets from your mind and slay you myself if I have to
and I will bear the burden upon my shoulders as long as necessary
to preserve the sanctity of the Order.”

“That’s pretty blunt.” Ramsay raised his
eyebrows. He still did not remember anything about the secrets he
was supposed to possess. If he had divulged anything to Valentino,
it had been without his conscious knowledge, but this Knight would
kill him anyway? Were his secrets so secret that even he did not
know them? Hysterical laughter threatened to overwhelm him and he
giggled, something that he felt sure he had never done before. The
Knight raised one eyebrow at him.

“And what if I destroy you instead, Brother?”
Ramsay recovered and eyed him steadily. “I am the Knight of Death,
the Chevalier du Morte, Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit,
Keeper of the Secret of the Philosopher’s Stone. I should think
that would mean something to you.”

“At this point, I believe it means more to me
than to you though I do not understand why it is so. I must know. I
will know. It is a risk I am willing to take,” the Knight sounded
detached, unemotional. “If you should attempt to destroy me, then I
will know that you are a traitor as charged by your own free will.
In fact, if you are guilty, it is your only recourse. Further, if
you are truly a traitor, then I am destroyed already unless I can
correct the damage you have done. Let us use another worn cliché.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. As I have said, you must
submit to me or I will simply have to take your head home in a
box.”

“I have nothing to confess but my love for
the ‘fair-haired one’ as you call her,” Mark told him truthfully.
“I can’t say that I truly buy into all of this Knight in shining
armor stuff just yet. You and Valentino and the rest of them could
be perpetrating some wild conspiracy to drag this so-called secret
from me for all I know. Perhaps I am an heir to some fortune based
on a secret formula or a secret family recipe for kippered herring.
Maybe I am a pirate with a treasure map locked in my head or
tattooed on my ass. I don’t know and right now, I don’t give a
damn.”

“That you would sit here and confess this to
me with such impunity, with such innocent abandon is the very
reason I have not struck you down thus far. It is not in your
character to make up such preposterous hypotheses. Therefore, I
must contemplate the possibility that you are not acting of your
own accord. That you are not yourself, as it were. That you have,
indeed, lost all or part of your memories. The Chevalier du Morte
would never have said such a thing to me. To confess your love for
this woman is not something that Mark Andrew Ramsay would do,” the
man leaned forward slightly and Mark saw a brief flash of anger in
his dark eyes. “You are not yourself! I had you twice at my mercy
and spared your life. Never would I have been able to catch the
Chevalier du Morte so easily. Never would the Prince of the Grave
allow himself to become an actor in this unholy play. I could have
beheaded you and taken you back to Italy in a cask as Brother
Beaujold intends to do."

"Your attitude and the sincerity with which
you spoke to the woman tells me that something is dreadfully amiss
with you. The Knight of Death, the Assassin, would not fall victim
to the wiles of a woman no matter what she had to offer. You have
lived too long for that to have happened without some outside
influence. The Knight of Death is married to Sophia. Look at the
ring on your left finger. That is your wedding ring, Sir Ramsay.
You fashioned it in your own forge and you put it on your finger,
yourself. You have not committed fornication, you have committed
adultery. But you still yet may be saved."

"You are a Soldier of the Cross. ‘Let the
soldiers of the Cross shun all ladies’ lips’ thus spake our beloved
Saint Bernard. The great whore of Babylon seeks to destroy all men.
She comes in many forms, great, as well as small. She brings
destruction on all levels. She breeds lust and discontent. Heresy
and abominations. She sows seeds of jealousy and blinds men to the
Truth of their Purpose. Sophia is your wife. Ma’at is your
daughter.”

“Merry is not a whore!” Ramsay stood up,
blinking at the man in rage. Was it true? Was he married to someone
named Sophia “You’re insane. Who would name their daughter
Matt?”

“Your words prove out my point.” The Knight
laughed and placed one black-gloved hand on the golden sword,
drawing it more closely to him. “Do not test me. You would kill me
to defend her honor? And what of your mission, Brother Assassin?
Have you lost sight of your purpose so thoroughly as that? Where is
Anthony? Have you found him?”

“Anthony again!” Ramsay slapped the desk in
frustration. “Why must I kill someone I don’t even know? Is that
what a Soldier of the Cross does? Let Edgard kill him!”

Mark frowned at his own words and another
more sinister smile crept across the German’s face.

“The Soldier of the Cross kills safely. He is
the legal executioner appointed by Christ.” The Knight repeated the
same words from Ramsay’s own memories. “And he…”

“And he dies more safely,” Ramsay muttered,
finishing the sentence for the man. He resumed his seat as his
anger faded. He knew in his heart that the man was speaking the
truth and there was no way around it, but he also knew that he had
already lost his heart to the Pixie, whether she had any honor to
defend or not. Whether or not he had a wife and six daughters with
weird names. Edgard. Edgard d’Brouchart and he was on first name
basis with him? How could it be so?

“Yes,” von Hetz leaned back again. “That’s
right. Sit again in the chair where you died for their
amusement.”

Ramsay blanched at the memory. How did this
man know what had happened if he had not been present unless he was
working with Valentino?

The dark knight unfolded himself slowly from
the chair.

“Think,” he came around the desk to sit on
the edge facing him. “Open your mind to me. Learn the truth. You
have forgotten who you were, who you are and who you will always be
as long as you shall live.”

Mark sank back in the chair and closed his
eyes. He was confused, angry, frustrated and extremely hungry. How
could he open his mind when his stomach was so very insistent? Part
of him wanted to cry and beg for forgiveness. But forgiveness for
what? What had he done that was so terribly sinful? Surely nothing
that would have caused him to be completely racked by grief and
self-recriminations. He felt sleepy again, but the pangs in his
stomach would have never allowed him to rest even if he had a bed
to lie on. When he opened his eyes again, the man was looking
directly into them.

“Rest, my Brother,” von Hetz’ voice was
soothing, comforting. He was already ‘seeing’ Ramsay’s thoughts.
“You hunger for what you have lost. Your pangs are not for bread
and meat, but for spiritual food. Remember and find relief from
this grief. You are my Brother,” the Knight leaned to kiss him
lightly on the lips and Mark felt none of the revulsion he had
experience from a similar action performed by John Tellman. There
was nothing perverse about the kiss. Nothing sexual. Only an act of
recognition and brotherly love. Mark felt him draw a cross on his
forehead. If the Knight of the Apocalypse wanted to behead him then
and there, he would not have resisted. In fact, he would have
welcomed the act as justly deserved.

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

“I feel ridiculous,” Dambretti turned back
and forth in front of the mirror in their bedroom at Miss Penelope
Martin’s Bed and Breakfast. He was wearing a strange,
quasi-military uniform belonging to Herr Schroeder, a crown of silk
myrtle leaves and a rose colored baldric with a pair of doves
encircled by an embroidered, heart-shaped wreath. At his side was a
shiny metal Calvary saber with a red tassel and a cheaply enameled
Schroeder family crest on the hilt.

“You look ridiculous, my Brother,” Simon
tugged on the baldric, smoothing it across the Italian’s chest. The
Healer had carefully tucked and folded the excess material of
Schroeder’s over-sized coat, securing it with a stapler borrowed
from Miss Martin’s desk.

“If I have to wear this, I'm not going,”
Dambretti protested and frowned at the wreath. "I look like a silly
version of Father Christmas."

"Not really. You have no beard and no pet
donkey,” Simon objected and glanced at Beaujold who was
meticulously going through d’Antin’s bags. He picked up his own
myrtle wreath and set it on his head before looking in the mirror
doubtfully. “I believe I will wear my own sword. These are toys.”
He pulled on the tassel of Dambretti’s saber.

Dambretti took off the sword and tossed it on
the bed where it rattled hollowly in its metal scabbard.

"Pet donkey?" Dambretti muttered the question
under his breath and grumbled more in Italian about improprieties
and silliness.

Beaujold came up with yet another myrtle
wreath and sighed audibly. It seemed they would all be wearing the
silk leaves in their hair. Christopher could not stifle a giggle as
he surveyed the Italian. He looked like a fairytale prince in the
light blue, double breasted coat with its high, stiff collar, gold
buttons and satin fringed epaulets. Red stripes ran down each pant
leg, disappearing into the tops of shiny knee boots. The uniform
must have fit the big German, Schroeder, like a glove, but it hung
on the Italian and the boots were a couple of sizes too wide and
half a size too short. He kicked the boots off and sat down on the
bed, reaching for his own boots. He carefully pleated and tucked
the pants legs down inside the boots. When he stood up again, Simon
checked the gathered waist of the pants and tightened the belt one
more notch. One wrong move and Lucio would lose his pants, no
doubt.

The Italian cast a disdainful look at the
apprentice and then winked at him. Beaujold came up with a box full
of medals of every conceivable description. He brought the box to
Dambretti and began to take out different ribbons, holding them up
in front of his chest, admiring them. Each one was an elaborate,
miniature work of art embellished with crosses of varying designs,
triangles containing different emblems, circles, scrolls, roses and
myrtle leaves. Very impressive. All were made of gold and attached
to colored pieces of satin ribbon.

Beaujold found a pair of slacks and a light
brown sports jacket for Christopher in d’Antin’s bag. Everything he
needed except for shoes. None of the shoes at their disposal fit
the apprentice. He would have to wear his black combat boots.
Judging from the colors of their uniforms the ‘Holding of the Rose’
promised to be a colorful affair if nothing else and Christopher
would stand out like a sore thumb, but it could not be helped.

The bed and breakfast had become a veritable
hive of activity. People from all over the outlying areas, as well
as, several countries had congregated there before traveling out to
the mansion. The dining room and both sitting rooms were full of
people dressed in uniforms, suits and formal dresses. They all wore
myrtle wreaths on their heads or carried them in their hands. It
seemed that attire was a matter of personal taste after all for
most of the attendees. Some of the women wore uniforms similar to
the three Knights of Solomon's Temple while others opted for formal
gowns. Most of the men were dressed in suits and ties, preferring
to display their various medals and medallions on their lapels or
on ribbons. The four interlopers descended the stairs hesitantly at
first and then with more confidence as they took in the scene below
them. It took them fifteen minutes to make the short trip from the
foot of the stairs to the front doors, a mere half dozen steps.
They had the chance to practice their greetings in force, as the
members of the Order of the Rose stopped them again and again.