She took hold of his right hand, twisting it around painfully to look at the ring on his finger. He watched her carefully, trying to judge the depths of her particular brand of insanity. She nodded and let go of his hand.
“Do not try to speak to the servants. I have told them that you are here on a religious retreat,” she told him and laughed. “I told them that you might try to cast the evil eye on them. Illegal immigrants. You gotta love them. Maxie is in charge of security. He runs things from that end. Do not provoke him, Mr. Ramsay. These people belong to me. All of them, including Merry. I trust you will behave yourself like a good monk.”
With that last warning, she left him alone to wait on the inestimable security ‘expert’. He passed the time trying to wriggle his hands free, but the cords only tightened under his efforts. The man arrived promptly and with his usual gentle grace, yanked the cords loose from his wrists and then helped him from the bed onto the floor. It seemed to amuse him greatly to see the fresh blood on his head and no clothes on his body. He laughed and kicked Mark’s clothes across the floor to him and then waited and watched him with an annoying smirk on his ugly face while he dressed. Instead of the shotgun he waved a nickel-plated 9 mm pistol.
“After you, dipshit," he said as he opened the door for Mark and stepped back.
The servants’ quarters were on the third floor, Maxie told him as they ascended the service staircase. His 'room' was one of the dormer rooms on the fourth floor. Maxie occupied a room on the fourth floor as well. A comforting thought. The rather cramped bedroom had darkly finished furnishings and heavy bars on the window. It was not bad for a prison cell as cells went. He had seen worse… somewhere. When had he been in prison? Where?
A black leather bag lay on the bed. His? He did not recognize it. Maxie seized the opportunity to give him one last vicious shove that sent him sprawling across a chair in front of a small writing desk. He righted himself and turned, ready to attack the man in spite of the gun, but Maxie took no chances. The man backed out of the door and caught the doorknob in his free hand.
“I suggest you get cleaned up,” he said as he closed the door. “Miss Valentino is expecting you for lunch.”
He figured the strange words were perfect. She probably was expecting him for lunch… as the main course. He was about to look in the bag when the door opened again. Maxie stood looking at him. Now what?
“By the way, I just wanted you to know that she knows what happened between you and Miss Priss. You didn’t make a good first impression.”
“And is that supposed to mean something to me? Should I care to impress a psychotic kidnapper?” Mark asked. “I don’t really give a damn what you or anyone else here thinks of me.”
“Well, you should. But I guess you don’t have any sense,” Maxie shrugged. “You’re one lucky bastard and you’re too stupid to know it. What fool in his right mind wouldn’t fantasize about a piece of work like little Miss Merry?” The man laughed.
Mark frowned in confusion.
Mark looked at him in consternation. “I don’t think that luck had anything to do with it, but that should be proof positive that I am not who you think I am, but you, sir, are a criminal and it is you that a judge will find guilty of a variety of crimes. I, on the other hand, would be willing to walk out the door and leave here without filing charges for the sake of Miss Merry. Does kidnapping mean anything to you? Assault? Armed robbery? Grand theft auto?”
“I didn’t rob you and I didn’t steal your damned car. It’s a rental anyway,” Maxie laughed. “But you’re a good one to be calling me a criminal. You’re supposed to be the assassin. A cold-blooded murderer. Killed hundreds, thousands to here Miss Cecile tell it. You don’t look like much to me. Too pretty to be of much use in a practical sense. The world would call me a hero if I killed you right now. And just because my employer is a bit… weird, doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if you try to hurt her. I know which side my toast is buttered on so to speak. You just need to keep your ancient ass out of Miss Merry’s bed.”
‘Don’t provoke him!’ Mark heard Cecile's only words of wisdom. The man was trying to goad him.
Maxie raised the pistol. Assassin again. Who had he killed? When? Only a Hitler or a Caesar could claim such numbers.
“You’re not supposed to talk to me,” Mark told him and turned his attention to the bag. “Your Valentino told me that the servants were not supposed to talk to me. I’m a monk on retreat, you see.”
“I’m not a servant, dipshit,” Maxie snarled and backed out of the door again. “I will have my chance at you sooner or later so don’t get too comfy here. She’ll get tired of you just like she did the others and then your ass will belong to me and we’ll get to know each real good before you leave. I’m a patient man.”
“I’m very glad to hear that we’ll be close, Mr. ahhh, sir. I like to kiss my victims just before I cut off their heads,” Mark could not help but antagonize the man a bit, but wondered why he would say such a thing. Was he as deviant as this brute? Had he been gay before he lost his memory?
“So I hear,” Maxie laughed and then slammed the door, obviously unimpressed by the threat.
Barely had the lock turned in the door before Mark had checked the small, barred windows and the two other doors in his room. A closet and a tiny bath. A shower and a shave were in order and he needed to find his socks and shoes if possible. He definitely needed to make his getaway soon before things got any crazier.
(((((((((((((
The black, leather bag provided a good assortment of clothes, two pairs of shoes and a pair of plain, rather worn, black boots, belt and a shaving kit. Almost everything in the bag was black, including the tee shirts. With a sigh of relief, he chose a pair of black cargo pants with numerous pockets and a black, safari-style shirt still in the wrappings from the cleaners. The bill attached to the wrapping provided no real clue to his identity, listing only the price he had paid for the cleaning service arranged by a Marriott hotel in Chicago. Chicago sounded as foreign to him as Zimbabwe. There was nothing in his shaving kit that could have been used as a weapon. Disposable razors, shaving cream, cologne, toothbrush… a rather mundane assortment that anyone might have carried. No clues whatsoever to his identity or mission… mission!
Why that word? Assassins would be sent on missions, wouldn’t they? Perhaps someone had sent him here to kill the idiot with the shotgun. But the man hardly seemed to have a brain worthy of attention by… by…. Who would have sent him? Interpol? Scotland Yard? The Surete? He might be able to get out of the room with a little work, but first things first. He knew that he would be going down to lunch. Perhaps a better opportunity would present itself then.
He took his shower, shaved and dressed in the clean clothes. While he waited, he inspected his rooms again for possible weapon equipment. The antique tub was porcelain, on gold clawed feet. The pedestal sink and mirror above it, offered nothing useful. He surveyed his situation critically. Perhaps the mirror frame might be broken and the mirror itself used as a blade… He would have to do a bit of dismantling if nothing better presented itself soon. Thinking was becoming a chore, especially when he had very little to think about outside the last few hours of his life. He wondered if anyone knew he was missing, if anyone was looking for him.
While he was searching the interior of the little closet, a car horn sounded from somewhere below. He had to climb onto the cramped, velvet lined-bench in the dormer window sill in order to look down into the driveway. The white limousine in which he had arrived sat where they had left it. A Jeep was parked behind it and another car was parked diagonally behind the Jeep. Black. Gleaming darkly in the sun. A Cadillac el Dorado. His mind lurched. This was his car!
He recognized it and it was like finding a long, lost friend. A rental Maxie had said. Not really his, but perhaps there were papers there. Drivers license or other documents. Clues to his life. He pressed his forehead against the glass and watched the activities below with great int
erest. Two men were searching the car. Mark felt his temper rise as they ransacked his personal belongings. One of them took a black case full of CD’s from the passenger seat and flipped through them. Their shiny surfaces flashed and sparkled in the sun. Next, they removed a long, black box from the boot. Valentino came from the house to join them, carrying a mug in one hand.
Mark slapped the window in frustration. He could not see She stood by watching as one of them partially opened the box and allowed her a peek inside. Whatever it was he knew instinctively that it was the very thing he needed to jog his memory. She nodded her head vigorously and pointed back toward the house. The man took the box in the house and Valentino followed him. The other man continued his search through the car, turning up nothing more of importance. And what had been in the box? His machine gun? His sniper rifle? Surely, an assassin would carry some sort of weapon. Whatever it was, it angered him beyond measure to see it in their hands. Mark felt like crying in desperation as the man got into the car and drove it away, out of sight.
Presently, he heard a key in the lock of his door.
He climbed quickly out of the window seat and sat on the bed trying to calm down, trying to look bored and aggravated rather than enraged and desperate. His heart pouned, his head still hurt and his face burned with residual anger. He hardly expected to go down to lunch now. She had found something else that captured her attention. The door opened and the dark-haired woman entered, still carrying the mug. One of the men from the yard followed her inside, carrying another black, leather bag that matched the one on the bed.
“The rest of your clothes,” she announced as the man dropped the bag. He’d not closed the hasps, nor zippered it very well. It burst open and spilled his tumbled belongings on the floor.
Mark said nothing, but raised one eyebrow in disgust at the man.
“Sorry,” the man mumbled and looked at Valentino apprehensively. It was quite obvious that he wanted to get away.
“Very impressive,” Valentino mused as she kicked at the bag and dragged out a shirt with her toes. “I like Ralph Lauren myself, but each to his own. At least you have developed good taste in your old age. I expected Calvin Klein or maybe Armani for you. Or a kilt or two.”
Mark looked at her without comprehension at first and then noticed the little symbol on the over-sized tee-shirt she wore over a pair of striped shorts. She was talking about fashion while he was having a heart attack. He picked up a tan shooter’s shirt and held it up. The label said Tag Safari. Safari? He knew it was a shooter’s shirt. It had quilted pads on both shoulders. Was he a hunter of exotic game perhaps?
“I’m flattered. I must have missed a turn in Timbuktu, no doubt. I hope you found my car keys as well?”
"I found something much more interesting than that, Mr. Ramsay," she said and then held up one of his CD's. The Scottish singer Loreena McKinnitt’s The Book of Secrets lay on top. “How quaint. Scottish folk music? No acid rock. No raging punk?”
“My apologies, Chevalier Ramsay, for his clumsiness," she smiled down at his clothes. "They don't work for me. Mechanics from town. You know, your accent reminds of Sean Connery. I really liked him in the Name of the Rose. Have you seen it? It’s about Bernard Gui, the famous Inquisitor, and his investigation of some mysterious murders at a monastery somewhere in France or something. Anyway it should have been right up your alley. He’s the one who decided that the Cathars were heretics in the fourteen century. You must remember him. I understand that the Cathars were of special interest to the Templars?”
“Who decided they were heretics? Bernard Gui or Sean Connery?” he asked and her smile faded.
Mark felt insulted, incensed and infuriated by the woman. She was again insinuating that he was several hundred years old again. He remembered Gui alright, but not personally. He ignored her and began to pick up his clothes[, smoothing and folding them carefully as if he hadn’t another care in the world. There was a bit more color here. A brown jacket, another white shirt, some ties and dark brown slacks. He tried to ignore her and the idiot with the shotgun behind her in the hall.
“Fastidious, aren’t we?” She asked after a moment. “I see your eye is better.”
He nodded, but did not look at her. It seemed completely proper not to look at her. She was trouble in every sense of the word.
"You know why you are here,” she stated.
“I do not,” he contradicted her.
“You are Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay, Knight of Death,” she told him. “Master of the Key of Death. Order of the Red Cross. Templar. Poor Knight of Christ? Ring a bell?”
“You have me confused. I am not a bell-ringer,” he said simply, still avoiding her eyes.
“I am not ignorant of your identity and your humor leaves something to be desired.”
“I have no brothers,” he said again and a pang of sorrow struck him from out of the blue.
“I am particularly interested in your Grand Master, the Knight of the Temple, in charge of the Council of Twelve, Sir Edgard d’Brouchart.”
Mark froze momentarily at the mention of the name. The Grand Master. He saw him in his mind: a fierce, strong man, though somewhat short of stature, fair of countenance, with long, locks of curly red hair and deceptively mischievous blue eyes. He continued folding his clothes. The image put fear into his heart as nothing he could have imagined until that point. Even the dreaded Maxie seemed to pale in comparison to the man she had mentioned.
“You have me confused with someone else,” he reiterated almost rotely. “My name is… John. John Larmenius. Period. End of story,” he lied and waved one hand in dismissal. “These elegant titles and mysterious words mean nothing to me. I suggest that you release me and I will continue on with my business.” Perhaps he had killed Mark Ramsay and stolen his car and his belongings and then they had mistaken him for this fellow, Ramsay. “How do you know that I didn’t kill this Ramsay fellow and now you think that I am your man?”
She laughed at his suggestions and he was surprised to hear it. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She held the cup under her nose and smelled the contents again and again without tasting it.
“My name is Cecile Maria Valentino, Chevalier,” she announced after a moment. “I am the Grand Master of the Rose Cross.”
“Grand Master?” He finally turned to look at her directly. “Don’t you mean mistress or matron?”
“That, too,” she told him. “Whatever the title, I am in charge here.”
“Then Chevalier is not your family name?” He asked, attempting to aggravate her. “A title then?”
“Of course,” she looked at him as if he were stupid. “Chevaliers and Chevalieres. Don’t play with me, Mr. Ramsay. You know it is a title. You are a Chevalier yourself. A Knight of the Order. You are trying to mock me because you think women don’t belong in chivalric orders. You have worn that title for countless years and you think that women are nothing more than vessels for your seed.”
“Countless years,” he repeated the words and went back to his work. “Do I appear so old to you? Vessels for my seed? Do I look like a fucking farmer? Your language is a bit strange.”
“Appearances are not what they seem,” she shrugged and smelled the cocoa again. “I am really surprised to see that you have been able to maintain your looks so well. As I said, I had expected less. But do not take my position lightly. I consider myself a worthy opponent in all things.”
“All things?” He asked wondering what the hell she was talking about. “How in the name of St. John are you my opponent?”
“There! You see? Who else but a Knight of Christ would say ‘in the name of St. John’? You don’t hold all the secrets, Sir Ramsay. Perhaps I’ll bargain for your Key as well. It could be very useful in the long run. I might find myself surrounded by people I would rather not be associated with… forever.”
“You would become an assassin then, if the need arose?” He needed to know more about this particular subject. He had to assume that
she was insane, but she might know something useful. “You are doing quite well now assassinating me by way of starvation. You really need to let me go before something terrible happens to you and your household.”
“Finally a threat,” she smiled. “Perhaps you do have a temper after all.”
She headed for the door and he resisted the urge to attack her physically. He reached for his dagger, but remembered he had none. These sudden urges to kill and destroy bothered him immensely. There must be some truth in what they were saying. It was hard to accept, but the instinct to kill was hovering just below the surface.
“Wait!” He called to her before she closed the door. She turned back to him with renewed interest. “What is it you want? Are you planning to keep me locked here forever?”
“You know what I want,” she told him. “I want an audience with d’Brouchart and I want your Key.”
“Of course, I forgot,” he nodded. He could give neither, even if he wanted to.
“Of course,” she repeated
When she was gone, Mark Andrew finished folding his clothes and stored them away in the bags before stashing them under the bed, hoping to make a good getaway soon. If he was lucky, he could take his belongings with him, if not, he’d leave them. There was nothing of any real value in the bags. He stretched out on the bed and stared up at the trim on the wall paper around the room. It was covered with French fleur-de-lys designs in blue and white.
How many times had he seen that very same emblem adorning the shields of the Frankish Knights when he had served under William of Chartres during the fifth crusade? Fleur-de-lys. Named after flowers. Entirely wrong. The emblem represented water. The sea and the men from beyond the sea… He sat up suddenly, but any further memory fled before his distraught eyes. He lay back again, ignoring the rumblings in his stomach and relaxed, breathing deeply, forcefully calming his mind. Images crawled in black and white, reversed like film negatives across the backs of his eyelids.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 6
