“Things are always strange with us, Louie.” She nodded her head against his ribs. “I only wish that you could tell me what it is that you are thinking about. You tell such wonderful stories and everyone loves to listen to them again and again, but when it comes to expressing your feelings, you are without words.”
“I have never been good at fair speeches, Orri.” He chuckled. “I have a hard time in confession as well. I do not like talking about myself… not like that.”
“But you should tell me what is going on. Who is that woman? What does she have to do with my father?” she asked him again.
“You are right about one thing,” he told her. “I am very stubborn and I am very thick-headed. You have every right to know what is going on, but I still try to protect you… your feelings. I care about what you think about everything. Especially about me.”
“So what does this have to do with you? Why did she call you? Tell me, Louie! Please!” She sat up again and looked at him closely. “Tell me.”
Louis drew a deep breath and began to tell her about Catharine de Goth. He ended by quoting a bit of the Donum Dei. That Arcane knowledge called the Gift of God.
“Of whom the father is a virgin saith, Come my well beloved that we may embrace together, and we shall engender a new form which shall not be like to his parents.” He fell silent and she sat staring at him.
She had moved around the bed as he unfolded the fascinating tale of her grandmother and grandfather’s love affair and all the events that had occurred since any of them had last seen Catharine de Goth. He had gone on to tell her about his own flight from the south of France in the time of the Crusades in an attempt to distance himself from his Cathar roots. He had related to her how Lavon had been researching Guy’s death and part of what Lavon had revealed to Barry. He told her of how Barry had learned of his own connections with the Cathars.
“You see, this prophecy began to unfold through Mark Andrew Ramsay before you were born. Everything that has happened since then has been leading us to a point sometime in the future when the Merovingian bloodline will again come forward to rule the world.”
“You and I and almost everyone involved in the Order is a part of this prophecy. A prophecy that was hidden in an alchemical text that none of us had ever paid heed to other than the Alchemist and even Ramsay thought it was just another recipe for exotic elixirs. But you and I… this one passage can pertain to many of us, but especially to you and I. Our children… Thaddeus… are new forms. You are a new form not like unto your parents. Konrad. Lavon. Jozsef Daniel. Luke Andrew. Nicole. Omar. Dunya. Aurora and Anna. All of our children. Think about it, Oriel. You and I and all the rest of us are very unique individuals.”
“I always thought of myself as a simple man. Simple of brain. Simple of purpose. All I wanted to do was serve God. And then you came along and I was unable to resist your charms. Ramsay had put the seed in the ground and it had flourished in our minds. Never before had I ever considered that I might have a wife and family. It simply was not allowed and that was enough for me. But…” The Frankish Knight waved one hand wearily. “Now, even Barry will take a wife. Even your father, priest, Healer, rabbi. Four wives. And so many children! I would never have believed it possible. It is truly a miracle. When I first learned of Catharine’s true identity, I was horrified. I thought that my past had come back to destroy me, but after speaking with Barry, we have come to the conclusion that it is all the will of God as Lucio would say.”
Oriel nodded. Her head was spinning. Her grandmother! Her father’s mother. He would be elated. It was wonderful. Truly a miracle! And her grandfather. It must have been such a surprise to hear from her after all these years.
“Louis!” Her eyes lit up. “You spoke to my grandfather. Was he happy to hear from her?”
“There are things you do not understand, mon chere`.” He reached out his hand and pulled her up on his chest. “Things are not well between them. I would hate to think what would transpire if they were to meet again face to face. There is much troubled water and few bridges between the Master and her brother, Eduord de Goth. I am not sure about the details, but it would not be wise for them to meet.”
Chapter Twelve of Twenty
Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin; neither say thou before the angel, that it was an error
The day dragged on in Scotland and they heard no more from Eduord de Goth.
After he had driven away, they had set up an armed sentry at the gate. One of the groundskeepers, but no one had attempted to enter the estate by way of the drive. D’Brouchart had summoned a private helicopter, again with the aid of Omar Kadif. The Prophet had asked no questions, but had dispatched one of the Fox helicopters to pick up Catharine de Goth, in restraints, and transport her to St. Patrick’s Island where she was to be held under lock and key until further notice. The Prophet had also provided a small contingency of soldiers for security purposes… again, without question. A sure sign that things had changed for the better in at least one respect.
The house was quiet and only the occasional laughter of Greta or Vanni from the library showed signs that any one was alive there. The rest of them moved about like ghosts. The two children knew that something was wrong… terribly wrong, but with the resiliency natural to children and adolescents, they had recovered and now Greta was trying to teach the son of the Golden Eagle to read. He was as easy to teach as Il Dolce Mio had been. Once a thing was told or shown to him, he had it. No need to study or practice or dwell on it. He had started out completely illiterate at eight AM and by two o’clock he was reading on a fourth grade level and enjoying it immensely under Greta’s haphazard tutelage. He seemed completely enthralled with her, hanging on her every word and even mimicking her accent and her mannerisms which she found extremely funny. Simeon checked on them again and again and admonished them to be quiet, but he did not have the heart to chastise them too severely when their giggles got out of hand. One of the most wonderful noises in the world to Simeon d’Ornan was the laughter of children. He walked back up the stairs wearily to his father’s room, where his grandfather had sat all day, refusing food and drink, merely sitting in a chair next to the bed, alternately praying and meditating and snoozing and snoring.
The sight of the big man holding vigil over his son’s bedside put Simeon in mind of another even more terrible time when his father had lain dead in the chapel atop the keep at St. Patrick’s Island. It was odd to think that his grandmother would now be in the chapel atop the keep. Edgard had instructed that she be locked in Ramsay’s chapel, given only a mattress to sleep on, bare necessities for her private use and food and drink three times a day. She was to have no conversation with any member of the contingency on the island. She would be allowed to have a Bible, if she asked for one and paper and pencils only. Merry Ramsay had witnessed his instructions to Simeon as Simeon had written a letter to be delivered into the hands of Asher Schumacher, Gatekeeper, upon delivery of the woman. A brief phone call to the acting Seneschal of the Red Cross of God, had told only that a ‘prisoner’ of some importance was on the way. That she was to be considered extremely dangerous and was to be treated courteously, but cautiously.
Merry had been appalled. The Master was putting Simon’s mother in prison without a trial or even a hearing. Without even the benefit of an arrest or charges. It sounded like something straight out of the dark ages, moreso, even because it surely was. She had voiced her concerns to Luke Matthew and he had told her none-too-gently to stay out of it, but she did not need d’Brouchart to tell her that the woman was dangerous. She had been the one elected to help Stephano clean Lucio’s bed after his former apprentice had placed him most carefully in a warm tub of water in the bathroom. Planxty had had the dubious honor of stitching him back together. Merry had witnessed none of this, but the sheer volume of blood on the bed clothes and on the floor and the furniture had convinced her that she did not want to see what had happened to the Italian.
Luke had
told her bluntly that he had been cut from stem to stern and left it at that. Now she sat beside his bed at her turn on watch while Luke Matthew went home to check on things and take a bath. Planxty would be coming shortly to relieve her. They had assured her that he would not be awake for another day or two, but she jumped every time his breathing changed. His color was returning very slowly but he barely moved or twitched an eyelid the entire time she sat with her magazine held loosely in one hand as she stared at his face. When they had first laid him back in the clean white sheets, he had been very closely matched in complexion to the linens. She had never seen anyone so white. His black hair had enhanced the effect, causing him to look more like marble than flesh.
She had begun to wonder about her own mortality. They had told her that the apples she had consumed in the Abyss had made her immortal, but she did not feel any different. Time enough had not elapsed since then to show whether she was still aging, but she had noticed that she had suffered no colds, viruses or flu symptoms since returning to Scotland where, before, she had been plagued with at least two bouts per season. She had also cut herself three or four times while working with Gil in the kitchen and the cuts, one of them quite severe, had healed in less than two hours. It was the only proof that anything had changed about her physically and it was not much. She wondered what it would feel like to die. Luke had told her that Lucio had died from his wounds and that Simon’s healing powers had relieved him of a great deal of the pain he would have suffered. Merry had questioned this. She did not understand. If he was immortal, and he would not die, why had Simon had to suffer the same pain? Luke had explained that without Simon’s help, Lucio might have revived and died several times in succession before he recovered. She still did not quite understand it, it seemed strange. His breathing changed again and she was startled out of her thoughts.
Planxty arrived in a clamor, but his noise did not disturb the unconscious Knight. Merry spoke to him briefly and left him the magazine to read before going downstairs.
Gil Pairaud was in the kitchen, fussing over a boiling stock pot full of chicken parts. He was making chicken soup supreme in order to be ready for the recovery of the two Knights. Chicken soup.
“Good for everything that ails both body and soul,” he told her when she raised the lid to take a peek. “You look like you could use a good 'pick-you-up'.”
Merry smiled and sat down at the table while he set about filling the blender with a variety of things from the refrigerator in his animated fashion, scurrying about nervously, spilling everything at least once.
“When we will ever have peace, Gil?” she asked him wistfully and laid her chin in her palm.
“What would we do with peace, mon chere?” He frowned at her as he zipped the blender off and on several times. “The world was not built on peace. The world was built on war and bloodshed. Much bloodshed. If a man may live in peace for more than a week, that man is lucky! Read your history, mon chere. We are blessed with the most widespread peace in the world as never known before in this time. There are more nations at peace right now than ever before in all of history. Always men have been at each other’s throats.” He made a slashing motion across his neck. “Always!”
He brought a tall glass of frothy pink liquid to her and then sat down facing her, smiling his bright smile below his equally bright blue eyes. His hair had receded to the back of his head, but there was a hint that it had once been bright red.
“I don’t understand what happened here,” she said as she stirred the fruity mixture with a long-handled spoon. It tasted like strawberries. “Why would she kill him?”
“Because she loves him.” Gil shrugged.
“What? That is not true. A woman does not kill the man she loves. Besides, she didn’t even know him.”
“How do you know?” he asked her and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Where have they taken her? She was quite beautiful, no? Monsieur Dambretti is very handsome. Perhaps it was a love feud.”
“I don’t think so.” Merry shook her head. “She is Monsieur d’Ornan’s mother. How would Lucio have met her? No one even knew she was alive until the other day.”
“How do you know?” he asked again. “The world is very, very small, oui`?” He held up thumb and forefinger. “Will they turn her over to the police?”
“No police. No. You know how it is.” She frowned at the drink. “She is like the rest of us, I suppose. We are beyond all that. There will be no hearing, no trial by her peers. Master d’Brouchart will be judge, jury and executioner. Just like when they ordered that fellow, Martin St. John to be hanged.”
“Oh?” Gil’s face lit up with curiosity. “Did they hang him?”
“They tried, but it is a long story. He didn’t actually get hung… not all the way, but he died all the same.”
“That is the man that the Prophet now looks like, no?” Gil asked her.
“Yes. He was dying and Lemarik gave his body to his beautiful son. Omar is not so beautiful any more. I hear that he is not happy with his new looks.”
“We are never truly happy, mon chere.” Gil matched her sigh with his own. This was fascinating news to the Frenchman. He had heard many rumors, many stories and legends about the members of the Red Cross of Gold, but none told so candidly as these. Merry was simply relating family history to him. “So you believe they will hang her?”
“No! I don’t believe she did it. How could she? Where is the weapon?” Merry scowled. “And we still have the problem of motivation, but it will all be cleared up when Lucio wakes up. He will tell us what happened and that will be that.”
“Then why did they send her away to…” Gil frowned again. “Where did they send her?”
“To St. Patrick’s Island. They are going to keep her in the chapel on top of the keep. A spooky place. I’ve been there a couple of times. Mark Andrew designed it himself and it looks just like him. I would not want to be left alone in there. Especially at night. And that is where they beheaded…” She slapped her hand over her mouth. Luke had warned her about talking too much. She was beginning to be as loose-lipped as Planxty Grine.
“Who?” Gil asked. “Who beheaded who? Is this a ghost story? I love good ghost stories, mon chere! Please tell me. We have nothing but time on our hands.”
“Well, I shouldn’t be talking about it.” Merry looked about. “But you are family after all. I mean, you are a Templar.” He nodded his head vigorously. “Well, when Simon killed himself and they put him in the chapel atop the church, they went up there and performed that rite of death on him, you know, the one that they do with the golden sword? That one. And somehow they joined the elder Simon’s soul with the younger Simon’s soul and now we have one Simon that has both Simon’s in his head.”
“Oh, really?!” Gil was truly amazed by this story. He’d heard many things from the old man who was once an apprentice to the former Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon, but Planxty preferred to talk about faeries and dragons.
“Yes, really.” Merry told him and fell quiet.
“And what do you think they will do with the woman if Master Dambretti says that it was she who attacked him?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about it, but she knew that her own husband would have had no trouble dispatching the woman to hell. He had said as much and it had seemed totally out of character for the husband she had grown to love more than life. To think that he would offer to kill a woman was beyond her comprehension. They had come to that impenetrable wall that separated the Luke Matthew that she knew from the one she would never know.
“What do you think of little Vanni?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, he’s real cute! The image of his father.” She smiled. “And just about as bad it seems.”
“He is a character,” Gil agreed. “Where is his mother? Could this woman have been his mother perhaps?”
Merry stared at the cook. He really was quite ignorant of them.
“No,�
�� she said simply and stood up. “She is not Vanni’s mother.”
“And the other woman… Madame Andrea Nicole. She was not his mother?”
“No. No, she wasn’t.” Merry took the glass to the sink. She was trying to remember if Gil had even been here when Lucio had married Nicole. She didn’t think so. Planxty must have been talking again.
“But she was Monsieur le Compte’s daughter?” He followed her to the sink. “Where did she go?”
“She was Mark Andrew’s daughter. Why do you call him le Compte?” she answered with her own question.
“Because…” He waved one hand about. “He has a great estate with much land and many servants and a big family! Many riches. He has his own island kingdom in the sea like the kings of old. A great fortress. I saw him riding about the Isle of Ramsay on several occasions when we lived there. He even held out against the Fox! It was all very grand and mysterious.”
“He would ride through on his great horse with his Knights following him. As you know, if you know feudal history at all, the great land barons who became Knights of old, they were all nobility to greater or lesser extents. If he is not a count, he should be. Perhaps even a Prince… perhaps. I am surprised that they do not call him Laird Ramsay. He carries himself as royalty. He must have been a duke, at the very least.” He did not sound as if he were complaining, just making an observation. “He is a leader of men. One can tell. These men would follow him into perdition and back.”
“They already have,” she said wearily as she got up from the table. She set the glass in the sink and left the puzzled cook standing in the kitchen.
He stared after her retreating figure. He had wanted to ask her where Monsieur le Compte had gone this time. He hurried down the stairs to the wine cellar and pulled his cell phone from his pocket.
“Monsieur de Goth!” He said in a low voice. “I have news of Lady Catharine.”
Thoth, the Atlantean Page 24
