The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (51 page)

Sir d’Brouchart had listened attentively to
her chatter while they checked into one of the rooms reserved,
supposedly for them on the third floor. So his Knights had
effectively spoiled a lot of things, it seemed. But the plump
innkeeper had no idea who had done what. Her details were nothing
more than gossip, not an eye witness account and some of it was
third and fourth-handed. She was not a member of Miss Valentino’s
‘social club’. It was one of those ‘things’ she told them. Miss
Valentino and Miss Sinclair were nice people and rich to boot, but
they were ‘odd’. Not Miss Martin’s ‘cup of tea’. The Grand Master
had to assume the lady was talking about Valentino’s sexual
orientation and that of most of the members of the Order of the
Rose. It was one of those clubs, the inn keeper told them.

That his men could have wreaked such havoc
was no surprise to him, but where were they now? What were they
doing? Had Ramsay killed all of them and escaped? He and Sir
William had searched the other rooms after her departure and found
signs of his Knights everywhere, but turned up nothing useful. The
iron bound chest sat empty in one of the rooms. Beaujold had not
succeeded in his personal mission and the Master had to wonder if
that was good news or bad. Instead of losing one Knight, he might
have lost four or five!

Clothes were scattered everywhere along with
the belongings of three other people who were definitely not
associated with the Knights of the Temple. Montague pointed out
that the disheveled condition of the strangers’ property indicated
that hasty searches had been made. These were apparently the
belongings of the three other guests Miss Martin had mentioned:
Monshoor Dee Villiers, Monshoor Dan Teen and Herr Schroeder.
Supposedly they had left with Monshoor Boo Joe. The word they had
received from Beaujold was that Christopher Stewart had been
apprehended alive and well, but Miss Penelope’s count of the men
who left her establishment together added up to seven. Through
investigating the rooms on the third floor, they surmised that the
original team, along with Stewart, and three strangers had left
together to attend Miss Valentino’s event. She went on to tell him
about the Eye-talian, the one with the pretty smile, in dreamy
tones that had caused him to raise one eyebrow in consternation.
Dambretti! His ‘wayward son’. The Master rued the day when Ramsay
and Dambretti had experienced their little ‘falling out’. Ramsay
somehow managed to keep the Italian under control, but without
Ramsay’s influence, Dambretti was lost.

“Miss Martin was speaking of Christopher
Stewart, no doubt, as the young man from Alaska,” Sir William said
from behind him. “I would assume that she has not seen the Ritter
as she certainly would have given a running commentary on him. The
others she mentioned must be owners of these other bags. It is all
very mysterious, is it not?”

“Yes, mysterious,” d’Brouchart nodded. “You
must go down and pay the woman for another few days. I don’t know
how long we will require these accommodations. Keep all the
rooms.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.” The well-groomed Knight
of the Holy City nodded curtly. Dressed in a three piece business
suit of silver-gray, he contrasted sharply to the Grand Master’s
pullover knit shirt and denim jeans. American attire, the Master
had called his ensemble. They had the unlikely appearance of a
lumberjack and a corporate lawyer. Miss Martin had eyed
d’Brouchart’s appearance with an unconcealed measure of mistrust.
His imposing figure, booming voice, wild, red hair and strange
accent must have frightened her. She had directed most of her
chatter to Sir Montague, even commenting on how much she liked his
British accent.

“We will use Mistress Martin to announce our
arrival to the woman,” d’Brouchart called after him as he was about
to leave. “I believe that she is in need of funds.” With a heavy
sigh, the Grand Master settled himself into the early American
rocker near the window, causing the spindles to creak ominously
under his weight. He rocked sub-consciously as he pondered his next
move.

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

Sir Thomas Beaujold watched from his perch in
the oak tree behind the house as the woman, the stout man with the
shotgun and the Golden Eagle left the basement and proceeded down
the sidewalk. Dambretti turned to say something when the man
prodded him sharply with the gun barrel. For his efforts, he
received a painful kick in the stomach that sent him to his knees.
Valentino, who saw none of this, was walking in front of them,
carrying her cup of chocolate. She turned on the bodyguard and said
something rude to him before helping Lucio to his feet. After
another short tongue lashing directed at her disgruntled servant,
she preceded them into the house and, as soon as she was out of
sight, the man jabbed Lucio much harder with the twin barrels.
Lucio turned on him again, kicking him in the shin, causing him to
hop about painfully before the woman reappeared at the door. She
yelled at them to ‘Stop fucking around!’ and then they all went
inside.

Beaujold dropped to the ground silently. He
could not believe that his Brothers had all been captured by this
ridiculously small crew of unschooled pretenders. The others were
most likely in the basement. He looked about the garden greenery
cautiously for signs of the Apocalyptic Knight. Surely, she had not
taken the German prisoner. He sprinted across the yard and followed
them in through the open door, drawing his dagger from his belt as
he went. Ruefully, he thought of Ramsay, lying in the desert with
the sword through him and hoped that the wild animals had not found
him. Even the Knight of Death did not deserve such a horrible fate,
but he would have to find the others and free them first if,
indeed, they were all prisoners.

It had been quite a shock to see the van
still parked in front of the mansion. No wonder they had failed to
answer his calls. Simon always answered his cell phone, but it was
possible that there were no signals in this Godforsaken wilderness.
Without their help, he was never going to get the Knight back into
town and he couldn’t afford to report this unbelievable blunder to
the Grand Master. What would d’Brouchart say if had to tell him
that he’d lost Simon? Not only Simon, but Dambretti and Christopher
Stewart as well and that wild animals had eaten the Knight of
Death. He now regretted not having cut the man’s head off even
though it might be easier to take a prisoner back to Italy than a
dead body.

He was sure that Ramsay would be found guilty
and summarily executed, but now he had another problem, only
Dambretti had the Papal connections and proper documents necessary
for transporting a dead body back to Europe without being arrested.
If they had to take him home in pieces, he would need Dambretti,
whom he would just as soon have left in America. As far as Beaujold
was concerned the Knight of Death had already condemned himself.
There would be no redemption for the Chevalier du Morte, but if he
failed in this mission, there would be none for the Chevalier
d’Epee. He needed help to get Ramsay in the box.

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

Lucio Dambretti found himself sitting in a
pretty wicker chair on the verandah a short time later, still
dressed in the baggy sky blue uniform pants, boots and black tee
shirt. He had recovered his composure, overcome the latest pains
inflicted by Valentino’s ‘butler’ and, with his hands now secured
in front of him in standard handcuffs, a bit of his dignity had
returned. Valentino sat across from him, drinking coffee from a
china cup. A pistol lay on the table in front of her and her man
was no where in sight. She poured him a cup of coffee from the
matching coffee carafe.

“Cream and sugar?” she asked pleasantly and
he nodded.

“You are Italian, then?” she asked after a
few moments as she stirred the coffee for him.

“Of course, as are you,” he reached for the
cup awkwardly with both hands. It smelled wonderful and he was
greatly relieved to have a comfortable chair under him rather than
the concrete floor. His ability to sit comfortably on a hard
surface for long hours had disappeared years ago with the invention
of foam rubber and automobiles. Long days spent in the saddle
seemed like a dreadful nightmare to him now.

“Not Roman?” She asked and raised one eyebrow
as he picked up the cup carefully with both index fingers, working
around the inconvenience caused by the cuffs.

“No, a little town called Villa Ponti,
actually,” he told her.

“I meant Roman as in the Romans,” she
corrected him.

“Oh, those Romans. No, I’m not that old,” he
said as he sipped the coffee. She was fascinated to see this trick.
It was as if he’d had experience with such things as drinking tea
with shackles on his wrists. Italian. He had come from the same
world as her own ancestors. She wondered if perhaps any of her
great greats had crossed his path in some distance past. What a
shame they had to be on opposite sides... in every aspect. He would
have made an interesting pen-pal. Anything closer than that would
have been much too dangerous. Her fascination grew as he took a sip
of the coffee and returned the cup to the saucer without spilling a
drop. He smiled up at her and licked his lips.

His amazement was complete. The woman acted
as if he were her guest for Sunday tea. She really didn’t know much
after all and Beaujold had been totally wrong in his assessment of
the Order of the Rose. Von Hetz had uncovered part of her ignorance
already and his quote had completely gone over her head. She knew
nothing of importance. Brother Argonne’s summation had been closer
to the truth. Their order was a social club. It would all fade with
time. He scanned the patio and as much of the garden as he could
see for signs of the Frenchman or the Scot, knowing quite well that
neither had gone far. As much as Beaujold despised himself and
Ramsay, he would not leave any of them behind. Of course his pride
was hurt immensely at being caught by a woman and a band of
untrained civilians, but even that could be blamed on Beaujold,
which he fully intended to do in his report to the Grand Master.
D’Brouchart had made a mistake putting the Frenchman in command. If
he could manage to escape, it would help his own self-image a great
deal and add a few positive notes to his report as well. If he
could be sure the shotgun was not lurking nearby, he could make
good on his escape at that moment. He smiled.

“You like to smile, don’t you?” she asked in
amusement.

He laughed. “Smiling and laughing are much
more profitable than weeping and gnashing one’s teeth, no?”

“You are an unusual person, Mr. Dambretti,”
she said. “What sort of things make a person like you happy?”

“Happiness is a state of mind. I have
generally learned to live for the moment since plans have the
strangest way of going awry and you never know what the next moment
will bring.” He gestured at the table with both hands. “A few
moments ago, I was chained in a cold, stone dungeon. A short walk
and a few nasty kicks later, I am sitting in the sunshine, drinking
coffee with a beautiful woman in the midst of a paradise garden.
Life is ironic like that. Si?”

“You make the best of every situation then?”
she asked.

He tried the trick with the cup again,
looking for a distraction, finishing off the rest of the coffee.
She shoved a covered wire basket of warm apple turnovers toward him
and pulled back the linen cloth. The aroma was irresistible. He
waged a short inner battle and lost. He put down the cup and picked
up one of the pastries. The appetizers he’d eaten at her party had
long since deserted him.

“Do you also eat in silence?” she asked.

He nodded and she waited patiently for him to
finish off the pie. He didn’t eat quite as fast as Mark Andrew and
didn’t reach for another, but licked his lips again and smiled at
her as if he would like to eat her heart for the main course.
Ramsay would have eaten the whole plate full and looked around for
more.

“Merry tells me that your friends were about
to behead Sir Ramsay last night,” she resumed the conversation.
“Would you have done it?”

“An unanswerable question,” he shrugged.

“How so?” she asked.

“The Hand of God; it is in everything. You
are a fatalist,” she said. So Merry had intervened in time to save
Ramsay’s life just as she had said. “Fatalists are not usually so
amiable.”

“That is because I am not a fatalist,” he
objected and started on the second cup of coffee she had poured for
him. “A fatalist is one who believes in Fate. There is no such
thing as Fate. Belief in such myths has no place in the life of
God’s servants. As I accept the Will of God, I also accept that He
will keep me and preserve me even unto death.”

“Then you consider yourself a Christian?” She
asked.

“I do not consider myself anything other than
a poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple. It is up to God to consider me.
As far as your Christianity… I am a heretic,” he told her.

“Then as an initiate in the Mysteries of
Osiris and Isis, you worship the ancient gods of Egypt?” she
asked.

“I do not consider them gods in the sense
that you might imagine. They are legends who might well have been
as human as you and I at one time. The uninitiated attach all sorts
of titles to legendary figures, even that of god or goddess. If
Osiris and Isis ever actually existed, then they were a king and
his queen. Divinely empowered with magickal abilities perhaps, but
human none-the-less. You might say they are more like agents of the
mind in this day and age. An attempt to personify ideas, rather
than real living beings or gods.”

“You call yourself a heretic? You also call
yourself a Knight of Christ. How is it then that you are a
heretic?” She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and
steepled her hands in front of her face, watching him intently.