The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (42 page)

“That went very well,” Beaujold told them as
he slid under the steering wheel of the van. “Let us hope that the
rest of the evening goes as well.”

“Spes mea in Deo est,” Simon muttered and
pulled at his high collar. His face was burning and he wiped at his
cheeks where he still felt every kiss he had received on his way to
the door.

“Amen to that,” Beaujold agreed as he started
the van and put it in gear.

They were greeted at the mansion like a
monarch and his retainers. A troupe of servants met them at the
drive and escorted them into the house to a parlor decorated with
fresh flowers and banners of every color and description. The smell
of roses permeated the house. Garlands of red, yellow and white
roses nestled in dark green ferns in every nook and cranny. They
found themselves seated on a brocaded sofa drinking sweet, red wine
in the formal sitting room. Silver and gold candles burned in an
elaborate centerpiece in front of them on a white and gold coffee
table.

Presently a short, dark-haired woman dressed
in a shimmering, opalescent gown came to greet them. She resembled
a hummingbird as she flitted into the room. A rose red baldric was
draped over her shoulder, bearing almost the exact same crest as
Dambretti’s. A gold belt encircled her waist and a small lady’s
dagger with a bejeweled handle was tucked on her left side. She
took them in at a glance and decided that Dambretti was the one she
had been dreading to meet since he wore the symbol of the High
Priest. His face lit up when her dark eyes met his and she visibly
flinched. They stood as she entered and she addressed herself to
Dambretti first by kissing his cheeks and clasping his arm in the
fashion they had rehearsed.

“The Ritter von Schroeder, I presume?”

"Ja! Yes!" he answered enthusiastically. "Und
meine Kollegen"

Celia rolled off something to him in German
that his 'kollegen' did not understand and proceeded to introduce
herself to each of them in turn, with the accompanying kisses and
hand clasps and patting.

Beaujold looked at Dambretti coldly and then
watched Christopher with a discerning eye as he received and
delivered his kisses. The Knight of the Sword was obviously
displeased with the apparent ease with which his Brother and the
apprentice performed this profane duty. D’Ornan, himself, had to
resist the urge to cross himself before kissing her. With this
distasteful ordeal out of the way, they relaxed a bit, but did not
dare look at each other. Each one of them would have to confess
this sin as soon as possible. They were not exactly used to sinning
so blatantly… at least not in front of each other.

“I am so glad you gentlemen decided to come
early,” she told them, but her attitude said otherwise. She was
obviously put out by their arrival before the scheduled time.
“Perhaps I can give you a short tour around the grounds so that you
can get an idea of where everything is.”

She took Dambretti’s arm when they all
agreed, and led them around the ground floor of the house and then
outside, across the patio and into the garden. All the while, she
talked about the Order and the growth of the local Chapter and how
proud she was of the progress they were making and so on and so
forth. Dambretti managed to keep her talking with barely more than
a few nods and shakes of his head coupled with several ‘ja’s’ and
‘nein’s’. It was the smile that did it. She had never seen such a
beautiful smile on a man and especially a man with a hellish scar
running the length of his left cheek. The two French Knights
followed behind them taking mental notes, speaking to each other in
low whispers and prompting each other to look at this or look at
that as they passed various points of interest that might be
helpful later on.

Christopher tagged along behind the two
Knights, sullen and quiet. All four of them kept their eyes open
for signs of Ramsay or the dreaded Knight of the Apocalypse or even
the traitorous apprentice. When they came to within view of the
slanted doors leading to the basement, Christopher caught D’Ornan’s
arm and directed his attention to the doors with a nod of his
head.

Valentino took them to the gazebo, which
would serve as their temple for the Holding of the Rose ceremony.
She showed them the altar, the candle sticks, the registry books,
the ceremonial sword and other symbolic tools and emblems that were
to be used for the initiation ceremonies. Dambretti surveyed the
cozy little place with amusement and studied the unfamiliar items
with the proper gravity. Mid-summer’s Eve. An especially auspicious
night for ceremonies… pagan and otherwise.

He remembered his own initiation into the
Order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. There had been
no flowers, no candles and no chairs for the spectators or
participants. In fact, there had been very little light at all in
the cold, stone chamber beneath the cathedral. The participants had
carried guttering torches and covered their faces while he had been
stripped of almost everything he held dear and then bullied into a
state of mental and physical exhaustion, questioned, mentally
browbeat and buffeted soundly with fists when he hesitated to
answer the questions. All the while, the Masters tried to force him
to recant his faith and perform profane rituals with an idol. He
had passed the test, but just barely. Before it had finally ended,
he had almost been convinced that they actually wanted him to break
his vows and fall from grace, but afterwards, he understood that it
had only been a test of his devotion to the Order’s purpose and a
preparation for things to come. The Brothers had designed the
initiation in such a way as to serve as a barometer for each new
member, to learn whether they could trust him to uphold the tenets
of the Order, even in the face of the enemy. Had he capitulated and
given in to his fears in the face of their heretical demands, he
would have been thrown out of the Order in disgrace. He winced
audibly at the sharp clarity with which he still remembered that
terrible night from so long ago. They had turned his faith
up-side-down and then brought him right again in a very short space
of time, but his participation in the initiations of succeeding
members of the Council had shown him that the Initiation was
necessary and right and he had seen some very unlikely fellows cry
like babies. But that was not what this was about. Faith had
nothing to do with Valentino’s order.

This celebration or ceremony was, indeed,
just a social gathering and meant nothing. There would be no blood,
no sweat and no tears unless, of course, the caterers had put too
much pepper in the appetizers. He smiled at her as she showed him
where the High Priestess would stand and then his smile disappeared
as she showed him where he would stand in for Gavin Nash, their
absent High Priest. Lucio glanced at Simon who shrugged. They would
have to make their move and get out of there before the induction
ceremonies began. He would never be able to pull off the part of
the High Priest.

“Here is where you will sit and then you will
stand over here when I give the signal,” she was saying to him. An
elaborate set of chairs resembling thrones had been placed on
either side of and behind the altar. “Brother Sentiment will stand
here.” She moved to the front of the altar. “The initiates will be
escorted in by…”

“Excuse me, Chevaliere Valentino,” Beaujold
interrupted her. “Do you mean that our esteemed Brother Schroeder
is to be Hierophant of this… ceremony?”

“His Excellency, Brother Nash, is in Egypt,
but I thought everyone knew that.” She looked at him in surprise.
“He is studying the mysteries at Luxor.”

“Oh, of course. How silly of me. I had
forgotten,” Beaujold looked at Simon, who nodded to him and
smiled.

“Yes. Quite right,” Simon told her. “Brother
d’Antin and myself have been on holiday in… Sicily.”

“Oh, that must be nice,” Valentino eyed them
knowingly. “I plan to visit Sicily myself, very soon, I hope.”

“Vell!” Dambretti said in English trying to
cover his Italian accent with a strange German concoction. “Zis
looks to be in ze purfeckt order. A fine job, Chevaliere. Very
goot.” Beaujold cringed physically at the horrible accent, but
Valentino did not seem to notice it.

“Thank you, Sir Schroeder.” She bowed her
head slightly, surprised and delighted by his praise. He was not
what she had expected at all. His manner reminded her of Ramsay
except for his curly black hair and the long scar on his cheek. Her
morbid sense of curiosity made her want to ask him where he had
gotten it. It did not detract from his looks at all, but instead
lent a certain character to his features and he certainly seemed to
be a character. Very confident and very handsome in his silly blue
suit. She squinted at him and imagined him in a three piece white
suit and a Panama hat. Much better.

“I’m sure you know the rest of the procedure
then?” She looked up at him.

He flashed his perfect smile and she was
amazed at her own reaction. If she had not known better, she would
have thought he was flirting with her; furthermore, she was
inclined to respond in kind which she blamed immediately on Ramsay.
She thought he might actually be about to say something personal to
her, but instead he waved one hand in dismissal.

“Of course,” he said.

“Good, then,” she took his arm again, hugging
it more tightly than before. “Let’s get back to the house. Our
brothers and sisters will begin to arrive soon and you can join me
on the reception line. Perhaps we might speak privately after the
ceremony if you would like to discuss Brother Nash’s work in
Egypt.”

Dambretti nodded and glanced over her head at
Beaujold. When the Frenchman gave him a warning look, he smiled and
winked at the Knight of the Sword.

Let their eyes be darkened, that they see
not

“I refuse to eat that, my son. I don’t care if I do starve to
death,” Mark told the ragamuffin who had brought him a roasted rat
on a spit. The sight of it sickened him even though his stomach was
glued to his backbone. His eyes flew open and he stared into the
face of the Apocalyptic Knight who sat on the surface of the desk
in front of him. “Hello?” He waved one hand in front of the man’s
face. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. The tall man blinked
and then focused his dark eyes on Mark’s face.

“You are starving for the Truth,” the man
told him again.

“The truth is I am starving for a steak,”
Mark corrected him. The memory of the three days and nights spent
hiding in the catacombs with an infected wound in his side was
another one that he wished he could have forgotten forever. He
shuddered. Sadly enough, he clearly remembered recanting his
statement and eating the rat within a few short hours of making the
declaration.

“I cannot help you, my Brother,” the dark
Knight added after a moment. “Your affliction is great. Your
secrets, however, are safe. Not only from outsiders, but even from
yourself. That you did not give them up either willingly or
unwillingly is no longer in doubt. In that respect, you are
innocent. Your salvation is assured if you return to Italy at once
and confess your sins.”

“Does that mean you won’t cut off my head and
send it to Italy in a cask?” he asked and smiled, feeling very
relieved.

“You must not make light of these things,
Brother Ramsay.” The man smiled very briefly and pushed himself off
the desk. He stood looking down at him with a peculiar look on his
face. “You are in a terrible position here, Brother. You have
broken your vow of chastity. That much is true, but it is a minor
thing in comparison to the other charges against you. Confession
and penance will restore your salvation. But your memory loss is
clouding your judgment. You do not know whom to trust. John Tellman
was an impostor. He is dead for his troubles. I watched as they
buried him in the garden. I do not have the authority to make a
decision concerning your situation because there is no precedent
from which to draw. The Grand Master will have to decide, but that
will entail a trip together. You and I, but… I am not sure you
would come willingly. You are full of doubts.”

“Ah, therein lies the dilemma.” Mark looked
up at him. “You want me to go to Italy with you just like John
Tellman did and now you say he was an impostor and he is dead.
Furthermore, I have only your word that you are who you say you
are. Who killed him? You? How can you expect me to trust you? I
know who you are, Ritter von Hetz, but I also know how dangerous
you are. If you want me to leave here with you, you are going to
have to give me some sort of proof that I am who you say I am and a
better reason to go with you willingly. How can I tell between
reality and fantasy if what you say is true about my memory? I am
still finding it very hard to believe that I am some mystical
Templar Knight and that I’ve lived for eight hundred plus years and
that I am immortal. It goes against reason and logic and those are
two of the only things I have left other than my devotion to
Meredith.”

“The woman fed you poison and you died,” the
Knight pointed one long finger at him and he shuddered. “Do you not
remember that?” He could read the thoughts of others, but he could
not implant thoughts or ideas in their minds. He could not
straighten the tangled web in Ramsay’s head. Only God could restore
him.

“How do I know it was really poison?” Ramsay
asked stubbornly. “She said and you say.”

The tall man grew angry at being compared
with Valentino and brought his sword up, pressing it at the base of
Mark’s throat.

“Do you not remember dying again when you
threw yourself on your own sword?”

Mark simply stared up at him, refusing to
answer any more of his questions.

“Get up! You are in need of documentation?
Proof? I will give you proof.”