The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death

by Brendan Carroll

  It was far too late for protests. She shrieked once in his ear and he clamped his hand over her mouth. He felt her body rise against him and he pushed harder. She certainly felt like an innocent maid. Vaguely he wondered how she had accomplished the illusion. He would have to ask her about it some other time. If this was some sort of game, he understood none of it and he was not about to make a habit of it.

  When it was over, she scrambled from the bed without another word. No giggles. No laughter and no teasing remarks. He should have had the last laugh, but it wasn’t funny. She was searching for her clothes in the darkness, bumping into the furniture as she scrabbled around the floor. He tried to apologize to her and tell her that he felt terrible about taking advantage of her drunkenness. She sniffed and coughed and he could tell that she was crying, but she did not answer him.

  He fell back on the bed and covered his face with his arms. He wondered why he had done it. To teach her a lesson? Hardly. The only lesson he could have hoped to teach her was to hate him. For gratification? Doubtful. He didn’t feel gratified in any way, shape or form. The worst thing about it was glaringly obvious. The very fact that he could do such a thing only proved that he was a criminal.

  The door opened and closed and she was gone along with his latest opportunity to get the key to the door. But it was just as well. Perhaps she would not be back and he could more easily keep his vow to himself not to touch her again, though he might have preferred to accomplish it some other way. His guilt was overwhelming to the point that it consumed his mind completely and washed everything else into oblivion. Even the immediate danger of his precarious situation eluded him while he sank deeper and deeper into a black depression. He found the rest of her wine and drank it before going back to sleep.

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  Three miles from the ruins of Pompeii in southern Italy, in a painstakingly restored authentic Roman villa, behind a picturesque rock wall topped with cast iron fencing, a strange assemblage of men was seated on either side of a long, lacquered table in one of the sunny rooms. In the center of the table was a white disc inlaid with a blood red cross pattee trimmed in gold. The room’s double doors opened out onto the sun terrace where the bright sunshine of the beautiful summer’s day glinted off the surface of the swimming pool and sent shimmering reflections dancing across the plastered ceiling above their heads.

  The Council Room was ominously quiet as the grim-faced members sat drinking wine and glancing expectantly at each other from time to time. The expressions on their faces ranged from worry to fear to anger as they waited for their leader to join them so that the meeting could get underway. Some of them drank from heavy glass goblets, while others used tankards made hammered gold or silver of varying designs. An empty burnished gold goblet of simple design sat up-side-down in front of an empty chair near the head of the table. The inverted goblet was decorated with a simple silver disc on which the letters IAAT were deeply engraved. It, like the others, was very old. A priceless relic of superb craftsmanship from days gone by.

  One of the men, a smallish blond with pale blue eyes set wide apart in an equally pale face, stared forlornly at the empty chair behind the goblet. Next to him, sat a sleeping man with a head full of curly black hair; his darkly handsome face was marred by a ragged scar that ran from the top of his left cheekbone to his jaw line. The smaller man bumped him roughly when he began to snore and he sat up, blinking in feigned innocence. Two steely-faced men eyed him darkly from across the table and he shrugged apologetically before closing his eyes and resuming his nap, unaffected by their disapproval.

  Presently, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed along the terrace, and they all stood in unison to await the appearance of the Grand Master. The sleepy Italian was the last to stand, pretending that he had forgotten where he was. He winked at one of the stern fellows across the table and the man scowled at him with open hostility.

  At last, the imposing figure of the Templar Master dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, entered the room and stopped at the head of the table. His faded blue eyes were large and watery as if the sunlight bothered them and his head was capped by a rather untidy mop of thinning, red hair. The men standing around the table watched him apprehensively as he surveyed each of them individually as if assessing them for proper attitude. He nodded in approval and then sat in his chair causing them all to follow suit. At once, a tall, thin boy dressed in neatly pressed brown slacks and a white shirt brought a crystal decanter and filled his glass with dark red wine.

  The Master drank from the goblet and clunked it loudly on the table in front of him. The meeting had been called to order almost an hour earlier by the venerable Seneschal, Philip Cambrique, Chevalier d’Orient. Now the presence of the eminent Grand Master, Edgard d’Brouchart, signaled that the meeting would get started. They had been forced to wait as always, in order that Sir d’Brouchart might impress upon them their subordinate positions.

  He held out one meaty hand toward the empty chair on his left and the young man stepped forward again. He reverently picked up the empty golden goblet and presented the cup to the Master who accepted it with equal gravity. The young valet poured a bit of wine into the cup and stepped back quickly as the man up-ended the goblet in front of the empty chair, spilling the wine across the table.

  A murmur erupted around the table and a muffled “No!” sounded from the far end of the long room where eleven apprentices sat in two rows of heavy, medieval-style armchairs placed against the wall. Each of these fellows, ranging in age from fifteen to fifty, was there at the beck and call of his Knight with the exception of one: Christopher Stewart had no Knight at this meeting. His Master was the reason that this unscheduled meeting had been called. The ‘no’ had inadvertently erupted from his lips, and he had received a punch in the ribs from one of the older apprentices sitting behind him. Apprentices did not speak unless spoken to in Council. He looked about the table, searching for a sympathetic face and found the formerly dozing Italian Knight gazing at him with a peculiar expression in his dark eyes.

  “Sirs, Most Respected and Honored Brothers and Fellows,” d’Brouchart began his address in French. “You are all aware of the need for this assembly, the nature of our emergency and the grievous news that has reached us from abroad.”

  A stilted silence greeted him.

  “Brother Dambretti,” the Master turned his watery blue eyes on the Italian sitting halfway down the table on his left.

  “Your Excellency,” Dambretti answered and tore his gaze away from Christopher with the hint of a smile sparkling in his dark eyes.

  “What news?”

  Lucio Dambretti, Chevalier l’Aigle d’Or pushed back his chair and the legs grated on the marble floor, echoing against the white marble panels covering the walls. He stood to address the assembly, glancing at each of them before beginning, indicating that his ‘news’ concerned them all. He was tall, but not too tall and dark, definitely of local stock. His black, curly hair was cut short, but not too short. A frown creased his brow and crinkled the pale scar on his left cheek.

  “My news, is no news,” he said slowly in French, not his native tongue. “Brother Ramsay has not communicated with my office in over forty-eight hours.”

  “What of the world?” the Master asked another question of the Knight.

  “The world remains in balance, Your Grace. The wars progress and the peace negotiations continue, though without much success. A new uprising is brewing between the Musselmen on the West Bank and the settlers, but should not break for another week or so. There is nothing noteworthy to report from Persia. The Gauls, as always, deny everything and the German’s are innocent as usual. We have heard nothing from the Russians lately. My concerns lie with the Chinese, sir. I believe that our little yellow friends are practicing global feng shui, if you will and are currently investing heavily in the western colonies. What they intend is…"

  At this, one of the men across the table from Sir Dambretti pounded his fi
st against the wood, demanding attention, effectively cutting off the Knight of the Golden Eagle’s report.

  The Grand Master turned his gaze wearily on the man dressed all in black from head to toe. His face was darkly weathered and heavily lined as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors. His long hair was streaked with silver. His black eyes, deep set and somewhat sunken on either side of his long nose, burned with a smoldering fire. He locked eyes with the Grand Master for several long seconds before capitulating. The Master was not ready to hear from Konrad von Hetz, Knight of the Apocalypse, harbinger of doom and gloom. They had enough problems already.

  “Hold, Brother Hetz,” d’Brouchart said in a low voice. But he was finished with the Italian whose comments had already caused a few raised eyebrows from the French Knights at the table. “I would hear from Sir Beaujold, Chevalier d’Epee, if you please, Golden Eagle. We will discuss Cathay some other time.”

  Dambretti smiled tightly, nodded briefly and resumed his seat as another man stood. A tall, thin man with hazel eyes and wisps of blond hair on his balding head.

  “Your Eminence.” He bowed slightly to the Master and then glanced at every other pair of eyes at the table, lingering slightly when he encountered the Italian’s steady gaze. “Pardon my bluntness, Brothers, but the Order of the Rose continues to flourish especially in America.” His expression revealed his obvious disgust at even having to pronounce the name of the order. “It seems we may have underestimated their importance by a considerable sum. That we have ignored them merely because of their androgynous structure may have been a supreme act of pride for which we will now all pay dearly. This latest development calls for urgent, mayhap drastic action, no less than an undeclared state of war.”

  “Preposterous!” the exclamation, totally out of order, emanated from the Chevalier d’Epee’s right, where a very sturdy man with curling brown hair and dancing blue eyes stared up at him in dismay.

  “How so, Brother Argonne?” The Master allowed the breach of protocol in light of the gravity of the situation and recognized the Order's historian. Sir Beaujold yielded the floor reluctantly to the Knight of the Throne.

  “Your Grace.” The shorter man rose from his chair to address the assembly. “Historically, all such androgynous orders are but ephemeral deviations. No order permitting women as members has survived, not since the elder days and especially not in these so-called orders that are nothing more than groups of businessmen and merchants masquerading as Knights of Christ. This profane rejuvenation of the Order of the Rose is nothing more than a social club for sexual perverts and libertines. A band of false Knights dabbling in alchemy and the black arts. They worship Venus and Aphrodite while devoting themselves to licentious activities and corruption of the moral codes of our honorable Order. They are hardly a formidable foe.

  "The idea of war, declared or undeclared, is ludicrous. They will fade and go the way of all pretenders given time. It is my concern, begging Brother Thomas' pardon if I may, that we are concerned with this matter at all. Begging his pardon again, I submit to you that they are of no concern. However, concerning Brother Ramsay, our concern should be centered on his redemption rather than focusing on his association with this spurious order, notwithstanding the Chinese threat, of course.”

  “Of course,” the Italian muttered, but had to smile.

  The Knight of the Throne, whose sole duty was recording and maintaining the Order's archives, glanced nervously at the Chevalier d’Epee who glared at him angrily, as the Ritter von Hetz’s fist pounded the surface of the table again. His adherence to the archaic method of gaining attention grated on the Master’s nerves. Of all the traditions that had fallen by the wayside, why did he always insist on retaining the most irksome ones? The Knight of the Apocalypse would not be denied.

  “Brother Hetz?” The Grand Master gritted his teeth. “What have you to say?”

  Sir Argonne sat down and the Knight of the Apocalypse who Sees unfolded his considerable height from the chair. He addressed the Grand Master with utmost gravity and then stared darkly around the table causing the rest of them to shift uncomfortably in their chairs.

  “My Brothers,” his voice was deeper and more resonant than the Master’s. He did not speak to them in French, but in his native German, disdaining the use the common language normally reserved for Council. “Behold! He was brought forth into the presence of a female like unto the great Whore of Babylon. She has ensnared our beloved brother, the Chevalier du Morte, in her chaotic web of deceit. She has profaned his body with fornication. She has whispered the foulest heresies unto his ears, proclaiming that she is at once High Priestess as well as High Priest.” He paused and waited as another round of murmurs circled the table. When his Brothers grew quiet, he continued “She has taken knowledge of both male and female in unholy union and she has murdered one of our own. She has given our beloved alchemist the liquor of the traitorous Anthony of Sardinia and has blinded him both physically and mentally to the truth of his purpose, the obedience of his vows and the fulfillment of his duty. She has brought him unto ruin and laid claim to his immortal soul through treachery and guile. She has set herself up to be Grand Master and lusts after the Mystery of Life.”

  Another murmur started and quickly rose in pitch as the Knights made louder and louder declarations of disbelief, protest and anger. The Seneschal pounded the table for order in vain until the Knight of the Apocalypse finally stepped up onto the table and raised both arms to the ceiling, throwing his head back. His long dark hair fell in strands down his back as he turned in a complete circle, causing the men to cease their babbling in fear of what might happen next. The dark Knight stopped and dropped his head forward, looking directly into the eyes of the Italian Knight before speaking. “He lives, he dies, he lives again. He lives, he dies, he lives again… for her pleasure. I am become a stranger unto my brethren. Thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, and I will take thy wives before thine eyes, and give them unto thy neighbour, and he shall lie with thy wives in the sight of this sun.”

  The apocalyptic Knight ended with a scriptural quote as every eye in the room widened in horror at the meaning of his words. He lowered his arms and sank down upon the table, sitting cross-legged in the center of the red cross with his arms crossed over his chest and his head down.

  “I am the Knight Who Sees,” his voice trailed off as if he were going to sleep in the middle of the table. The words seemed to echo in the marble enclosure much longer than they should have. The Knight of the Apocalypse’ fervor and pronouncements always left them breathless, puzzled by his cryptic riddles and shaken by his power to instill fear into their hearts. Even unto the hearts of the immortals. But these words, with the exception of the last scripture concerning wives, were not couched in riddles or vague innuendo. These words were as clear as spring water and their meaning held a shocking revelation. They had lost their Knight of Death… to a woman, no less. The thought was inconceivable to everyone at the table with one exception.

  Sir Dambretti was visibly shaken by the archaic manner in which the Apocalyptic Knight delivered his oration and the fact that the last, most enigmatic phrase seemed to be directed at him, personally. The Italian thought that von Hetz’ use of the High German language, which was very difficult to understand even for seasoned veterans, was merely an attempt to intimidate them all. Surely his grave pronouncements were a bit exaggerated and what had he, Lucio Dambretti, to do with wives? He had no wife!

  “Bother Simon,” the Master’s voice softened somewhat as he addressed the youngest of the assembly when silence returned.

  The small blond man who looked to be about thirty years old, stood nervously to address the group, never taking his eyes off the dark figure sitting on the table. He was Simon D’Ornan, Chevalier du Serpent, Mystic Healer, Father Confessor for the Brothers and the Master’s favorite.

  “Your Excellency,” he nodded to the Master and then bowed his head politely to eac
h of them, smiling slightly, nervously, and then returned his attention to the Master, frowning. He had prepared no statement. He said nothing further.

  “Is there a chance for healing? Is it possible that our beloved Brother Ramsay is not lost to us?” d’Brouchart asked him.

  “If by ‘liquor of the traitorous apprentice’, Brother Hetz means the potion of which the apprentice, Anthony, was capable of preparing, it is possible that he is lost in a manner of speaking. However, I have no firsthand knowledge from whence to draw any valid conclusions. This potion is something beyond my sphere of understanding. You would be more inclined to know of these things. Concerning Brother Ramsay, it is a most unusual circumstance. I would have to examine him in person, Your Eminence. It is unlikely that Brother Ramsay would allow it, as you all know. He is not and never has been the most amiable of Brothers among us. The very nature of his mission affects his demeanor profoundly. I believe that the weight of his office lies heavily on his soul.” Simon licked his lips and glanced at the Knight of the Apocalypse before continuing in a lower voice. “As for Brother Hetz’ prophecy, I hardly think that Brother Ramsay would engage in such… such… licentious behavior if he were in a normal frame of mind.”

  “But what is normal, Brother?” Louis Champlain asked the question very quietly from across the table.

  “But there may be a chance for recovery?” The Master voiced his question again, ignoring Louis’ question.

  “Possibly,” d’Ornan answered gravely. “Anything is possible through God.”

  “He has broken his vows!” Beaujold stood suddenly without being recognized. “He must be destroyed. He is the Knight of Death. He alone of all of us could bring about our destruction. He is Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, lest you all forget.”