The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (73 page)

He picked up his sword and walked
determinedly down the trail leading back to the red brick mansion
set amidst the dark green trees in the shallow valley between the
limestone hills. The sky seemed bluer here and the leaves of the
trees greener. The roses in the garden were pinker and the gazebo
whiter. Everything in this place stood out, sharply defined,
acutely burned into his mind. He longed for the soft colors of the
meadows, the cloud-smeared skies and the deep shadows of the
ancient and holy places where the oaks spread immense limbs
overhead and he could lie on the fragrant grass and listen to the
songs of the faeries next to some aged standing stone covered with
ancient moss.

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

Merry sat in the wicker peacock chair in the
library, staring out the window with a blank look on her face. Her
crystal blue eyes moved, but they did not see, as they scanned the
garden paths under the trees for something… anything. Christopher
Stewart stood near the window watching the same garden paths below
the patio. His face lit up when he saw Mark Andrew making his way
quickly down the path toward the house. The apprentice threw open
the glass doors and stepped outside. His Master glanced at him
briefly, nodded curtly and then disappeared into the house.
Christopher heaved a long sigh of relief that his Master had been
spared. He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled a little
tune as he clumped down the steps into the garden. He paused under
one of old weeping willows and glanced back the house as if unsure
whether to stay or go up the hill again. The sounds of shouts
drifted down from the new made quarry as the others struggled to
clean up the mess. Christopher turned and jogged up the path toward
the sounds of the voices. His Master would have to deal with Miss
Merry alone and he would be in enough trouble without at least
attempting to make amends to the others by volunteering his
assistance. Christopher could offer his Master no comfort, nor
could he help him avoid this unpleasant business with the woman or
the even more unpleasant business yet to come.

Inside the library, Mark Andrew knelt in
front of the Pixie one last time and took one of her hands in his.
The blank expression had been replaced by one much harder to bear.
Her eyes were full of profound sadness.

“Merry… Meredith,” he said her name and
realized inanely that he didn’t even know her last name.
Valentino’s disembodied voice rang in his ears. How so very
typical!

“Merry,” he began again. “I have come to say
farewell.”

“I know,” she nodded and placed one hand on
his cheek before touching the silver earrings entwined in the dark
strand of hair above his right ear. There were no tears, no
protests. “I love you, Mark Andrew.”

He smiled at her, slipped the little silver
ring from his pinky finger and dropped in her hand before pressing
her fingers to his lips.

“It’s not a fair trade, I suppose,” he said.
“I’ll send your trinkets back when I have the time to unlace
them.”

“You had better not, Mark Andrew Ramsay.” She
managed a smile for him. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

He nodded and stood up. Merry looked up at
him expectantly and he bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. She
pressed something in his hand and he looked down at the keys to his
car, resting in his bloody palm.

“God be with you, Meredith,” he told her as
he backed toward the open doors. He kept her face in his sight
until he stumbled over the threshold and found himself on the
verandah.

Merry stood up shakily and stumbled to the
door, holding on to the furniture as she went, overwhelmed by the
urge to call him back, but she only managed to blink back the tears
as she watched him disappear up the garden path. It was hard to
believe he had ever been there. The clock on the mantel chimed and
she shrieked before she realized what it was.

“I will see you again, Sir Ramsay,” she
whispered when she had recovered somewhat.

She pressed her tear-stained face against her
own reflection in the glass of the door. Turning away from the
door, she looked down at the ring clutched in her hand and then
pressed its smooth, cold surface to her lips.

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

Mark Andrew rushed blindly up the stony path.
Over eight hundred years had passed since the last time he’d cried
and he had no intention of allowing anyone to see him crying now.
It was always Mark Andrew who caused others to cry. The death of
his brother in 1187 had seen the last of his tears. He was far too
old to start new habits and he had to get away from her before he
lost his resolve. There was work to do on the hill top and they had
to get away before the local authorities came out to investigate
the disturbance. When he reached the summit of the hill, he found
his Brothers straining against one of the newly cut blocks, trying
to push it over the side of the pit. The body of the downed Knight
was wrapped with von Hetz’ cloak and the Knight’s sword lay atop
the shrouded body. Another, smaller bundle lay at the Knight’s
feet. Mark swallowed hard and turned away from the sight. The body
of Valentino’s security guard, along with his head, his shotgun and
everything that might have indicated his passing was no longer in
evidence. All signs of the bloody confrontation between Ramsay and
his two latest conquests had been obliterated. There would be no
signs that the Knights had ever come here. There would be no signs
that anything had happened here other than some sort of abandoned
stone works. Only the finest forensic investigation could ever
detect that human blood had been spilled on these rocks.

The dust had settled. Their work here was
done. Finished.

Each one of the men left standing atop the
barren hill wore a different expression. Simon looked as if he was
only just recovering from being ill. The Master wore an expression
of disgust. Montague grimaced in pain and held one hand pressed
against his shoulder while blood oozed through his fingers. He
picked up the smaller bundle that had been wrapped in his own coat
and tucked it under his uninjured arm before starting off down the
trail. The Italian looked angry. He met Mark Andrew’s gaze briefly
before jerking Beaujold’s sword off the body. He handed it over to
Christopher Stewart then hefted the Knight’s body from the ground
and slung it over his shoulder. With one last look around at their
professional handiwork, he followed after Montague with the Healer
on his heels. The Grand Master walked behind them carrying the
baculus aloft in front of him like a priest in a funerary march.
The sound of a song drifted back to him. Simon was singing in an
ancient language. Words that Ramsay no longer recognized. Halfway
down the trail, d’Brouchart turned and waited for him. Ramsay sent
Christopher on ahead of him and the Ritter passed them by without
comment.

“This… lady friend of yours…” The Master
swallowed hard and looked up at the sun. Sweat stood out on his
forehead and the collar of his shirt was soaked. “How can we leave
her behind?”

“How can we take her, Sir?” Mark asked and
looked him straight in the eye as his heart lurched.

“We cannot take her with us. You know that,”
d’Brouchart looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze.

“She will hold her peace and keep silent,”
Mark told him. “I give you my word, Sir. On my oath, she will hold
her peace. These two who have perished here have no ties. She told
me this much herself.”

“And if she calls the police? What then?”
D’Brouchart squinted at him. “She knows your name. She knows your
face. She knows you live in Scotland. Scotland can become an
extremely small hiding place for a murderer.”

“If she turns me in,” Mark drew a deep breath
and let it out slowly before continuing “if she turns me in, I will
pass along my mysteries and forfeit my own life. Is that good
enough?”

The Master met his gaze for several long
moments before nodding briefly, turning on his heel and continuing
down the hill.

Christopher waited for him at the foot of the
garden. They passed the red brick mansion and Ramsay averted his
eyes from the windows of the house lest he see some glimpse of the
woman there. If he should see her, his will would surely weaken and
his broken heart might betray him in front of his Brothers. His
mind was black with despair though he knew quite well that Merry
would never turn him in. He suddenly took Christopher’s arm and
dragged him toward the garage. He had to get away… Now!

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

Lucio Dambretti lowered his grisly burden
into the rear of the white van. He backed away, blinking back tears
as he remembered their little adventure on the way to this cursed
place when Beaujold was wrapped in the expensive Persian rug. He
regretted every word of it now. He had never had much love for the
sanctimonious Knight of the Sword, but he was glad it would not be
his duty to inform the Knight’s apprentice of the death of his
Master. Simon would have that dubious honor. It would be Ramsay’s
duty to transfer the mystery to his replacement and it would be the
Master’s duty to bestow the gift of immortality on the new Knight.
Sir James Argonne would record the events in archives and Sir Barry
of Sussex would prepare his body for burial. Sir Montague would
purchase a fine coffin for him in London with the impression of his
sword carved on the surface. The Ritter would perform the funerary
rites and Simon would sing the litany. Only Philip Cambrique would
be spared any personal role in the process. He would simply arrange
for the transfer of the body and procure the proper papers from
Rome and Edinburgh. Sir Louis Champlain and Sir Hugh de Champagne
would accompany the body to Lothian for entombment beneath Ramsay’s
little chapel.

Next to Ramsay’s two chores, the Italian felt
that his was one of the most distasteful when one of the Knight’s
fell. He would be asked to examine the body to make sure that that
Thomas Beaujold had indeed departed from the empty shell. Only once
had Ramsay been required to repeat the Key of Death Ceremony, but
that had been long, long ago under some very mysterious
circumstances that Dambretti didn’t understand and didn’t care to
understand. One of them had fallen while on a mission in Romania,
buried by a rockslide. They had found the ‘body’ a week later in a
small village inn, alive, but not alive. Ramsay had killed him and
they had transported him back to France in a box, but the Key of
Death had not worked for some strange reason and Ramsay had been
forced to ‘take more aggressive steps’. What that meant, Dambretti
had no idea. He shuddered to his toes at the memory and then closed
the doors on the van.

There would be much to do when they finally
got back to Italy. He placed one hand on Simon’s shoulder and gave
him a supportive smile. He purposefully turned away from the Grand
Master, lest he be blamed for this entire fiasco as was usual. He
stopped to watch the black El Dorado as it passed by them on its
way toward the highway.

“Your Grace?” He looked back at the big
red-haired man and waited for instructions

“There is much work to do, Golden Eagle.” The
Master tugged on his coat sleeve, pulled his handkerchief from his
pocket and mopped his brow. “Brother Simon, see to Sir Montague’s
needs. Ritter, if you please,” he said as he handed over the
baculus to the German Knight.

There would be favors to call in, documents
to prepare, bribes to pay. Lucio hoped that he would not be called
upon to assist in making the arrangements. He only wanted to get
back home to Naples where he intended to get drunk and then sleep
for a week or two after the burial, before wallowing in self-pity
and guilt for a few years. Of course, Amelia would be there to help
him get through it all. He could not help but feel a measure of
responsibility for what had happened to the Knight of the Sword.
The Italian had been senior to the French Knight by several
centuries. If he had been more reliable, the Master would have put
him in charge of the mission rather than Beaujold and then,
perhaps, things might have turned out differently. In charge or
not, he knew in his heart that the Master would place a great deal
of the blame on him. It had always been so. Never in charge, but
always responsible.

Von Hetz held the baculus reverently, but
frowned at the disappearing automobile carrying Ramsay and his
irreverent apprentice.

“Your Grace?” The German asked the same
open-ended question as the Italian.

“We will meet with him in Italy,” the Master
told him after a protracted silence. He brushed his hands together
as if washing them and turned toward the van as the healer held the
passenger door open for him. “I will ride with Sir Beaujold. Golden
Eagle, take the wheel.”

Dambretti sighed and shook his head. He had
hoped to drive Montague’s rental car back to town. He had actually
hoped to have some excuse to lag behind so that he might say
goodbye to the woman. Somehow he felt that he owed her an
explanation for Mark Ramsay and all that had occurred. Somehow he
had hoped to wrangle an invitation to return next summer… just to
check on her. But it was not to be so. Not this time. He glanced
back at the house once more, wondering if she might be watching
them.

I looked for some to take pity, but there was
none; and for comforters, but I found none.

The chamber was dark, lit only by numerous yellow candles stuck in
an iron candlestick and sputtering torches held in black metal
sconces along the rough-cut stone walls, but it didn’t matter.
There was nothing of beauty here. The floor was damp and water
glistened on the dark walls. The smell of mold and his sister,
mildew, hung in the smoky air. This was the most ancient part of
the Villa, dating back to the height of the Roman Empire when the
early Christians had sought out such places to meet and worship
their new god. The walls were decorated with ancient graffiti.
Names, dates, witty sayings and everywhere was the sign of the
fish, the secret symbol of the Christians. No one had entered here,
under the catacombs, in years. Not since the fearful days of the
Inquisition when the Templars had been declared heretics, had these
chambers seen signs of life. Here some had sought temporary refuge,
tended by the sympathetic lay brothers until the chance to flee had
come. The Church of Rome had betrayed them and they had expected no
less, but they had allowed their own power, their own wealth and
their own arrogance to bring their ultimate downfall, believing in
an enlightened system of ‘Truth conquers All’ that was too radical
for the times. The Church had wanted ignorance and blind obedience.
Since then, they had taken great pains to work out a sort of truce
with Rome. A mutually agreeable stalemate. Never trusting anyone or
any institution with their secrets. Taking the greatest pains to
conceal their missions, their goals, their activities under a
number of different guises. Always being there when great events
unfolded, but never being in evidence. Never taking the credit for
anything that they did and never living down the reputation
bestowed upon them by the corrupted Holy See since the time of the
French King Philipe le Bel.