The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (5 page)

Another feeling asserted itself immediately
following the guilt. Hunger. It must have been days since he’d
eaten solid food and again he wondered how long he’d been their
‘guest’. Following that unpleasant sensation was fear, then disgust
and then regret. The car was no longer moving and he realized too
late that he had missed any chance he might have had for escape
when the Pixie crawled out of the car leaving their driver pointing
the muzzle of a double-barrel shotgun at a spot between his eyes.
Muggy night air quickly replaced the air-conditioned comfort in the
car with an oppressive heat that matched his mood.

The Pixie stood waiting for him while he
leaned over and tried to look up at the house before stepping out
onto the very uncomfortable white rocks filling the drive in front
of her ‘home’. There was nothing to do but get out. He moved slowly
and groaned loudly, pretending to be suffering from injuries that
had all but disappeared.

“Ow, ouch!” he said in earnest when his sock
feet met the rock drive. He held onto her shoulder and then hopped
over to the cool, green grass growing along the side of the drive.
'Home' was an impressive red brick, colonial mansion with three
floors full floors plus dormers and a wide, snowy white portico
across the center front with wide steps leading down to the drive.
The house was nestled in a jungle of green plants, trees and
flowering shrubbery.

The blond giggled and offered her arm again,
as he stood first on one foot and then the other picking the rocks
from his socks.

"Candy-ass!" Maxie grumbled. He stood
watching disgustedly from a few feet away with his pistol trained
on Mark's midsection.

Mark ignored him and looked up at the house
again. It was disturbing to see wrought-iron bars over all the
windows. He pushed the thoughts this sight caused aside as his
stomach made another feeble attempt to kill him.

“Come on, Mark Andrew; don't pay any
attention to Maxie. He's uncouth.” The Pixie tugged on his arm and
he followed her around the edge of the drive, keeping to the grass
until they reached the brick walk in front of the house.

Inside the foyer, the Pixie turned on the
man.

“You can go,” she told him. “Sir Ramsay will
be fine with me. He’s not going anywhere. Are you?”

She looked at him and he shook his head. What
else could he do?

Maxie rolled his eyes, muttered under his
breath and backed away from them.

She started off toward a corridor that led
under the wide curving staircase and he hurried after her, catching
her arm.

“I don’t even know your name,” he told her
when she stopped.

“You can call me Sister Discretion,” she
laughed at the apparent irony of the name and then dragged him down
the corridor.

Maxie followed at a distance, but had put
away the weapon. Mark tried to watch Maxie when he stopped near the
main staircase. The man unlocked a nondescript door underneath the
stairs and disappeared inside, slamming it loudly behind him. Mark
debated whether to make a break for it.

“This way to the kitchen,” she told him as
they continued on down the hall.

This last announcement made up his mind. He’d
deal with the goon later.

The house appeared deserted and he wondered
where the woman was that she had spoken to on the cell phone from
the car. Everywhere were flower vases full of fresh flowers of
every description color and scent. Silk and satin banners covered
the walls of the corridor, each one brilliantly colored and
decorated with strange symbols and emblems. They entered a huge
butler pantry full of shelves packed with food. He resisted the
urge to grab a bag of potato crisps and tear into them and followed
her through another swinging door into an expansive kitchen fit for
a king. The first stop was a small hand sink on one wall where she
handed him a bottle of soap.

“Here. Better wash up a bit,” she smiled at
him and brushed another bit of grass from his shoulder. “We’re a
mess.” Her exuberant attitude was baffling and he wanted to ask her
why she was so damned happy.

He looked at his bruised wrists and
blood-smeared hands and wondered again what his face looked like.
There was no mirror here and the shiny surfaces gave him only a
vague idea of what he might look like. He took the soap and washed
his hands while listening to her talk about germs and bacteria,
disease and third world countries while trying in vain to see
himself in the reflective surface of the sink fixtures, but his
image was too distorted to make out clearly. When he had washed and
dried his hands, she escorted him to a counter covered with
gleaming pink granite.

He sat on a barstool and watched while she
opened a set of double doors set in the dark, wood-grained
cabinets. The doors revealed a huge refrigerator, stuffed with more
food. He felt his mouth water and his stomach growled persistently
when she came back with an armload of items: sliced roast beef,
cheese, mustard, lettuce, pickles and olives. He picked up the
olive jar and began eating them immediately while she went for
bread and a knife from another cabinet.

She talked incessantly about someone named
Valentino. The roast beef was Valentino’s favorite sandwich and the
Swiss cheese was her favorite. Valentino liked mayonnaise. She
preferred mustard. Valentino liked white bread. She liked wheat.
The olives were gone by the time she had cut two slices from a loaf
of brown bread. He picked up the pickle jar and watched while she
spread the mustard on the bread and then layered it with roast
beef, cheese and lettuce. When she picked up the knife and began to
cut it carefully in half, he shook his head in exasperation and
slid the sandwich across the bar. She began to work on her own
sandwich while still talking. She should not be talking. She should
be quiet!

He wondered vaguely what day of the week it
was and whether he should refrain from eating the meat, but
considered these circumstances more than mitigating as he tore into
the sandwich. Her talking seemed more and more out of order. He
tried to eat and listen to her, but couldn’t manage both at once.
His sandwich was gone before she took the first bite of her skimpy
cheese concoction. He picked up the knife and cut two more pieces
of bread. He looked down at the bread knife in his hand and up at
her as she sat on another of the stools watching him with open
curiosity. It would have been easy to kill her and leave the way he
had come. He had no doubt that he could take the big guy, but
something nagged at the back of his brain. Why was he really here?
He glanced around and decided to wait a bit before making a move.
Besides, he didn’t really want to kill her and he wondered why the
thought had crossed his mind at all. Was he really an assassin?

He turned his attention to the sandwich and
piled on the meat and cheese.

“Wait,” she protested and slid off the stool,
making another trip to the refrigerator.

She brought a pitcher of something light
yellow and a bottle of red wine back to the counter and took down
two glasses.

No drinking at the table. No talking at the
table. He caught her arm and shook his head while biting into the
second sandwich.

“Oh, I forgot.” She put one hand over her
mouth. “No drinking with the food, right?”

He nodded and then shook his head.

“Oh, right,” she giggled. “No talking
either.”

It was not a laughing matter. Of all the
things he could not remember, why was this so important?

She waited patiently with a look of amusement
in her eyes as he ate yet another sandwich just as big as the first
two. When the last bite was gone, she slid off the stool and took
his hand. He was beautiful even with blood all over his face. His
eyes were deep blue with long black lashes and though his hair was
tangled and full of debris from the pecan grove, it was silky and
shiny black. Certainly Cecile had been right. He was much better
looking than Anthony although several years older. Furthermore, he
didn’t seem to be overly aggressive, but almost shy. It was
incredible to think that he actually seemed more afraid of her than
Maxie.

He grabbed the bottle of wine and followed
her again to a smaller set of stairs leading up from the kitchen.
When they were on the staircase, she started talking again. He
turned up the bottle and drank half of it. It was not very good.
Too dry for his tastes, but it was wet. Dry. Wet. Hot. Cold. And
so, hot as well as cold, dry as well as moist, before all other
medicines of Physicians. Fire. Air. Water. Earth. Ignus. Ayer.
Aqua. Terra. He shook his head as these strange words drifted into
his mind from somewhere in his past.

“Valentino has tried to teach me about you
guys,” she told him. “I just forgot about the eating thing. You’ll
have to forgive me, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I won't tell. It
just doesn’t make sense to me. I get some of my best thoughts
during meals. How can I let them slip away? If I don't say them out
loud, I'll forget them.”

Templars again. She was insane. She was
hallucinating or delusional. The thought occurred to him again that
they must have had him confused with someone else. It was the only
logical explanation. Perhaps he had wrecked his car and these two
nuts had found him in the ditch? He had seen it in the movies.
Christopher had insisted. Christopher. Christopher?

“She told me all about the battles,” she said
as she led him along the upstairs hall. “It must have been awful.
Were you at the battle of the Horns of Hattin?”

He caught her arm and spun her around. “What
do you know of Hattin?”

“Nothing!”

She looked up at him in surprise. The mention
of the ancient battle confused and confounded him. He could smell
the burning brushfires and hear the screams of the soldiers as the
enemy charged up the hillside, killing and hacking everything and
everyone to bits, even the horses. “She just told me that it was
horrible. No survivors. The infidels killed everyone.”

“Not true,” he objected and shook his head.
“There were survivors.” How did he know?

“Then you were there.” Her face lit up.

“Perhaps. When did it occur?” He asked hoping
to gain another to clue to his identity.

She stopped and frowned fiercely. “Let me
see…. I know. 1187! There. You see. I have been studying you.”

“Did you say eleven eighty-seven?” He asked
as she continued up the stairs.

“Yes. I'm good with numbers usually."

She glanced back at him and he nodded. She
was insane. That would make him…. How old? “Twelfth century, yes,
I’m sure of it.”

“What is today’s date?” he asked her suddenly
and she laughed.

“You must be kidding,” she answered.

“Of course. I’m a regular comedian,” he said
sourly.

He turned up the bottle and finished off the
wine. They stopped in front of a carved oaken door and he was
treated to eye candy for dessert as she unpinned a key from inside
her dress. The room was opulent, like a faery tale and it made a
lovely backdrop for the Pixie. All white and gold, light colored
woods with flowers and ribbons and cherubs painted on the drawers
and tables. The central attraction was a huge canopy bed, hung with
gossamer draperies and littered with gold and white, tasseled
pillows and cushions.

She pulled him past the bed to the far side
of the room where three marble steps led up to an equally
well-appointed bath done in gold and white. She turned on the water
and the Jacuzzi jets in the tub and poured liquids from several
different bottles and jars into the swirling water. The scent of
vanilla and cinnamon filled the room. She went around the room
lighting candles while he stood silently watching her. He had to
get away. She was a witch and he would soon be under her spell
without hope of escape. He had to dispatch the man downstairs,
steal the keys to the car and leave…

All thoughts of Maxie and what he wanted to
do to the man left him when she pulled the dress over her head,
slipped the flimsy wisp of lace that passed for underwear down her
legs and stepped into the tub. He blinked at her in dazed silence.
This was not right. He should not be here. He drew a deep breath at
the sight of her standing before him in the shell-shaped Jacuzzi
like Botticelli’s Venus come to life.

The scene before him wavered and was replaced
by another image. A colorful tiled pool in the middle of a
magnificent room, no, a courtyard, surrounded by billowing
draperies of soft lavender, white and gold. The tiles were covered
with blood and the water in the pool was tinted pink with it. The
body of a man floated face down near the bottom of the pool. The
woman had killed him. She turned to look at him with the murderous
knife still in her hand. Blood, dark crimson, dripped from the
blade to the tiles. Her dark eyes grew wide with fear when they
locked with his. A red haze covered his vision when she threw off
the veil covering the lower half of her face and began to scream.
He drew his dagger from his belt, took a step toward her and fell
up the steps of the Pixie’s bath. She knelt beside him.

“I didn’t realize that you were exhausted.
Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked him and began to undress him
where he lay. His mind reeled from the blow his head had taken on
the tub during the fall. He pressed one hand against his head and
felt a knot already in evidence under his hair. “What you need is a
hot bath and a good night’s rest… a good Knight’s rest. You are a
good Knight, aren’t you?”

He pushed himself up and sat on the steps,
trying to help her as she removed his blood and dirt-stained shirt.
The vision was ridiculous. She was right about the bath. He felt
gritty all over. She was talking again about the very same subjects
as before. Fantasy. She was obsessed with knights and crusaders and
the fairy realm. This time she spoke of nymphs and faeries and
flowers and crowns and love. It was useless to try to follow the
disjointed, one-sided conversation.