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

by Brendan Carroll

  She laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

  “Now I know why the company of women is dangerous,” he told her as his smile faded. “And for this reason none of us must presume to kiss wife…” he kissed her. “Mother…” he kissed her again. “Maid…” she kissed him. “Sister…” she kissed him again. He did not make it through the entire list of persons he was forbidden to kiss before he was breaking his vow again in the most sinful manner he could think of with much more than kisses. He would have to figure it all out later. It was not going to be easy to give her up and he wondered if it would be possible at all.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Seven men sat around Miss Penelope Martin’s long dining room table amidst the Victorian charm of pastel wall coverings, gaudily framed Degas prints, fresh flowers, art deco pewter statuettes, satin draperies and tableware made of fragile, antiue gold and white China. A porcelain mantel clock of Rococo design ticked off the minutes above a white marble fireplace. They glanced at each other occasionally, but there was hardly a hint of the convivial conversation usually accompanying meals at the bed and breakfast and they were the earliest diners she had ever served. Her other guests on the second floor were not due down for breakfast before eleven, their hostess had told them when Beaujold had asked. The Belgian waffles had been as good as Miss Martin had promised. They were now devouring a plate full of fat cinnamon rolls filled with plump raisins and drenched with creamy, orange flavored icing. Miss Martin was pleased to see that their appetites were normal even if their demeanors left something to be desired. The silence unnerved the normally congenial hostess.

  Christopher sat dejectedly at the far end of the table. Traces of the black grease paint were still visible in the tiny creases below his bloodshot eyes and around his eyelashes, giving him a rather Gothic appearance. The pain still coursing through his back, compliments of the Knight of the Sword’s well placed emphasis caused him to grimace every time he moved. The three newcomers had talked a bit at first, but the complete silence of their dining companions seemed to unsettle them as well. When the meal was finally over, Dambretti poured himself a glass of milk and looked at Beaujold pointedly. The two visiting Frenchman noticed the animosity between them immediately. One of them cleared his throat and Dambretti sat back, resuming his dark contemplation of the pattern on the tablecloth.

  Monshoor Dantine was actually Rene d’Antin. The other Frenchman was Jean-Paul DeVilliers. Both were from Paris and apparently very close friends and chefs in the employ of an exclusive dinner club in New York City. They were highly amused by Miss Martin’s waffles and blueberry syrup, but they insisted on getting her recipe for the jalapeno jelly that had caused the gluttonous German named Schroeder to drink an entire pitcher of milk before he could speak again.

  “We were surprised to find you here,” d’Antin broke the awkward silence, addressing his remarks to Simon most likely because, of all the others, Simon’s sad expression was the least intimidating.

  Dambretti was obviously angry with Beaujold and Beaujold was just being himself. D’Antin spoke in French.

  “We were under the impression that we would be representing France at the meeting. It is all very exciting. I understand that Gavin Nash has some great discovery to share with us.”

  “We are not here to represent any particular region, sir,” Simon answered him. “We were just visiting Brother Dambretti in Verona when he told us that he was coming here and he invited us to come along. Do you have any idea what the great news is, my brother?”

  “Did you not read Gavin’s letter?” deVilliers raised both eyebrows. “It was quite tantalizing. Something to do with the Ancient and Mystical Order of the Templars. Ah, those were real men.” His remark bought a punch in the side from his companion.

  Dambretti and Beaujold exchanged another cold glance. Simon sat up straighter in his chair, blinking at the man.

  “I believe you have confused the Templars with the Rosicrucians, my friend,” Simon told him. “Ancient and Mystical Order of the Rose Croix. Those are Rosicrucians, not Templars.”

  “Ah, so, yes, I believe you are right, brother. You are all on holiday, then?” D’Antin took up the conversation. He was a smallish man with hazel eyes and a pock-marked face. He wore a very expensively cut summer suit as did his companion. The man glanced at his friend and smiled. “And Monsieur Dambretti…” He looked at the dark face of the Italian who eyed him disdainfully. “He is representing Verona or perhaps Rome?”

  “Southern Italy, actually,” d’Ornan answered for Dambretti. He did not want to be too specific in case more of these characters showed up. The mention of the Templars had visibly upset him.

  “Ah, yes, sunny southern Italy. A lovely place. Just lovely,” Jean-Paul DeVilliers commented and raised his eyebrows at d’Antin as if they shared some fond memory of the place.

  “Yes, sunny, oui,” Simon agreed and glanced at the scowling visage of the German delegate. “And Herr Schroeder, he is our Brother from Berlin?” He felt that he had to be friendly.

  “Yes, of course,” d’Antin nodded. “Surely you have heard of the illustrious Grand Master of the Berlin Chapter?”

  Schroeder looked up as his name was mentioned and his scowl deepened. He did not speak French.

  “If,” the German spoke slowly in English “you would not mind so much, Brothers, please speak in the English as we are in America now and I do not speak the French. I would very much like to hear what is being said about me.”

  “Excuse moi, se’el vous plait.” D’Ornan smiled at the big, broad-faced man who looked very much like a simpleton. “I am sorry.”

  Dambretti perked up in his chair as he perceived the depth of the hostility in the man’s voice. Hostility, that’s what he needed at the moment. Someone he could take his frustrations out on. Simon shot a warning glance at Lucio before continuing. “Your friends were just saying that you are representing Berlin. I was wondering if there would be two representatives from Germany?”

  “No!” he answered rather rudely. “Valentino is lucky to have one from our chapter and if my Seneschal were not in poor health, he would have come here. Valentino is… how does one say? A thorn in the side.”

  “Really?” Dambretti leaned forward to engage the man’s attention. “How so?”

  “She is pushy,” the German took a huge bite of cinnamon roll and continued to talk while he ate. “I would have been much pleased if Gavin Nash were to be here. He is the Hierophant of the chapter and much better to work with. And further, it was his work that we have come to hear about, not hers. I do not like the pushy women.”

  “I see,” Dambretti smiled at the man and the scar on his face crinkled. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. The change was remarkable. DeVilliers elbowed his partner, nodded at the Italian and winked. The sarcasm in the Italian’s voice was not lost on the Frenchman. “Then this Miss Valentino is not in charge of the… how do you say… chapitre local?"

  “No, no, of course not,” the German waved one hand in dismissal, dripping icing onto the lace tablecloth. “She is Nash’s second. He is, unfortunately, in Egypt studying some scrolls or some such nonsense. I find her manners lacking and her methods most grating on the nerves.”

  “How many Knights does she have in training?” Dambretti asked and looked at d’Antin who cast a warm smile at him. DeVilliers was completely taken by the Knight of the Golden Eagle.

  “There are one hundred seventy plus members. Not all are Knights,” d’Antin answered him. “There are some two dozen postulants. Of course, some of the initiates are Chevalieres. And some… it is hard to say what they are. I’m not sure what the ratio of Chevalieres to Chevaliers is. Maybe sixty/forty in the Waco Chapter. Our Order is very popular among the women here. Cowgirls.”

  “And this Gavin Nash, you say he is studying scrolls in Egypt?” Simon asked, trying to bring the conversation back to the disturbing subject of the Templars.

  “Yes,” the German took up the conversation again
. “His last letter to the Order announced that he had made some remarkable discoveries concerning the Ancient Mysteries south of Cairo in some museum there. Something to do with the defunct Order of Templar Knights that was in the Holy Lands during the Dark Ages. It might have been interesting to discuss these findings with him.”

  “Defunct Order of Templars?” Dambretti narrowed his eyes. “What is this ‘defunct’? What does that mean, Brother Schroeder?”

  “Defunct. Dead. You know.” Schroeder waved one meaty hand. “They were a bumbling bunch of fools devoted to keeping the Holy Lands open to pilgrims from the west. The Christians. I read somewhere that their most outstanding accomplishment was in the art of getting themselves killed. And I find it disturbing that many of the more reputable orders claim to have descended from them. I for one would not want to connect myself with such idiocy. You should read about them sometime,” the man laughed and Dambretti laughed derisively with him.

  D’Ornan leaned his elbows on the table and tried to get the Italian’s attention. The last thing they needed was to alienate these fellows. That would spoil his half-baked plan. Beaujold clunked his glass of orange juice loudly on the table. He had remained silent throughout the exchange, but Dambretti’s involvement met with his immediate disapproval though he detested the fat German and he did not appreciate the denigrating remarks about the Order.

  “Do you make it a habit of studying the Templars?” Beaujold spoke for the first time, startling everyone at the table.

  “I do not.” Schroeder shook his head and smiled at him. “I find that the Dark Ages is very aptly named. The Templars were a prime example of the ignorance and superstition that plagued Europe and kept the entire continent from progressing for several hundred years. The Catholic Church did us all a favor when they rounded them up and burned them at the stake. They were a disgusting bunch of money lenders and land grabbers hiding behind the skirts of Papal protection. It was probably the only smart thing the Catholic Church ever did when it turned on them.”

  D’Ornan slapped his hands against his face. This was not good and rapidly getting worse.

  “Perhaps,” he said quickly, trying to avoid having Miss Penelope Martin’s dining room destroyed “Miss Valentino knows something of Brother Nash’s work and would be willing to discuss it with us?”

  “Ha!” Schroeder was oblivious to the tension he had created. “It would be interesting to get that one to discuss anything at all. It is my opinion and not mine alone, that she has too much interest in her own private agenda to be concerned with the good of the Order in general. But it is my understanding that Brother Nash has found that the Templars managed to discover some very interesting things in Egypt about immortality and ancient building methods. Also, the arts of meditation and healing, as well as, the ability to turn lead into gold. The legendary Philosopher’s Stone as it was called in the Middle Ages. They apparently knew where the Ark of the Covenant was hidden and the Holy Grail as well. It seems they were a very resourceful group of heretics and lunatics. I doubt any of it is true.” The man snorted and turned up his glass.

  “And what of Armageddon?” Beaujold asked him darkly. “Did Brother Nash mention that subject?”

  “Armageddon?!” The sillier of the two Frenchmen said as they looked at each other. “Please, no. Not that. I am sick to death of hearing about the doom and gloom of the end of the world. That is all a bunch of superstitious nonsense.”

  Beaujold almost smiled. He had been training soldiers for years to fight in that great battle. Nonsense, indeed.

  The Healer shook his head and sighed audibly. Simon wondered if all the Germans were of such gloomy dispositions. Certainly most that he had ever known were very dark and not in the least, happy people. This one was not much different from the Apocalyptic Knight in his lack of positive attributes, but he also lacked any redeeming qualities that the Healer could discern.

  D’Antin had picked up on the rising level of tension in the room and he tried another tack. He smiled at his friend and patted his arm.

  “And who is this quiet young fellow here?” He nodded to Christopher. “He reminds me of a Kung Fu master.” The apprentice’s long-sleeved black shirt, black cargo pants and boots were certainly out of place in the sultry mid-summer heat of Texas. “We have not been introduced.”

  “Christopher Stewart,” Christopher answered the man in spite of the glare he received from the Knight of the Sword. “This is my first trip with my Brothers. I had no idea just how hot it would be in Texas this time of year. I’m from… Fairbanks… Alaska.” Christopher eyed the men suspiciously. He knew exactly what was going on here and didn’t like it at all. “That’s why… I mean that’s why I’m wearing this… black that is… I mean.”

  “I see,” d’Antin smiled knowingly at the young man. “Alaska. The great wilderness. Bears and Eskimos. A good place to snuggle up by the fire, no?”

  “Oui, on a bare skin rug, yes? Whale bones and blubber and all that?” DeVilliers raised both eyebrows at Christopher suggestively.

  “I’m a vegetarian,” Christopher told him solemnly and was immensely pleased at the reaction he got from the Frenchman. He had learned the trick from Sir Ramsay. ‘If you are ever totally lost, Christopher, do your best to remain that way until I can find you,’ his Master had told him.

  “Oh, I see, a fruit and nut specialist,” d’Antin laughed and DeVilliers chuckled.

  Dambretti leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his smile behind his hand. They were obviously not on the same page. He was going to have some fun after all… perhaps.

  “So which of these fine gentlemen are you with?” deVilliers asked the apprentice point blank.

  “Actually, I’m with all three of them.” Christopher looked at Dambretti and frowned. The Italian raised one eyebrow in amusement. The young man needed help. He was completely lost and he was getting deeper and deeper in the woods. “I mean we are together. We came together. I’m with them.” Christopher certainly knew what time it was, but what he wanted to say would have certainly brought on the wrath of God if Beaujold heard him say anything out of order.

  “Oh, oui. The four musketeers then. All for one and one for all, no? And a fine one I should say. You are from New York. I hear your accent. Rene and I would be happy for your company on the return trip. We were thinking of diverting to Niagra for a holiday, weren't we, Rene?”

  “Leave him alone, Jean-Paul.” D’Antin elbowed his companion. “You’re embarrassing him. I think you have said enough.”

  Christopher sat up in the chair and grimaced at the pain the simple motion caused. He looked at Simon, but Simon was looking at his plate, suppressing a smile. He dared not look at Beaujold who sat on his left. DeVilliers obviously thought that Christopher was a paid companion.

  Finally Dambretti intervened. “We are all Brothers, no? I say share and share alike. Are your rooms to your liking? I find Miss Penelope’s decor as charming as her accent, no?”

  Simon snapped his head up and looked straight ahead, shocked at Dambretti's sudden change in temperament. It did not bode well.

  Schroeder looked up from his third cinnamon roll. “Mine is not cool enough. I will stifle up there.”

  “I just love that Italian accent. Our room is perfect, thank you.” D’Antin perked up. “Such a lovely view.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Dambretti nodded and returned the man’s blinks. “I would like to see the view from your room for myself. That is, of course, if your roommate doesn’t mind?”

  Beaujold stood up suddenly, scraping his chair on the hardwood floor. He seemed highly agitated.

  “If you will excuse me. I must go upstairs and lie down. I have a headache,” he told them brusquely and strode from the room without looking back.

  Simon watched him leave with great relief. “Please pardon him, Brothers, he suffers from migraines.”

  “Oh, really? And jealousy, no?” d’Antin looked at Lucio again. “I can see why. Jean-
Paul has an excellent remedy for headaches, don’t you?” He turned his gaze on his companion who nodded and actually giggled.

  “I’m sure he will find an aspirin somewhere,” Simon said quickly. “He is… it’s not a good idea to disturb him when he is in one of his moods.”

  “He did seem like a bear.” DeVilliers laughed.

  “Yes, he is,” Dambretti agreed and looked at Simon. “But when he is feeling well, he’s like a big teddy bear.”

  Christopher choked on his milk and sprayed the table in front of him.

  Lucio stood up. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a great pleasure, but we must go and see to our Brother’s head, no?”

  DeVilliers and d’Antin burst out laughing at his suggestive remark. Lucio nodded toward the door and Simon got up immediately to follow him out. Dambretti took Christopher by the arm on his way out and dragged him along with them.

  “Wait!” D’Antin got up and followed after the Italian. “Perhaps when your friend is feeling better, we can get together this afternoon before we go out to the meeting. We would be glad to show you the view from our room, Brother.”

  Dambretti looked back at him and gave him his best smile.

  “That sounds… delicious,” he answered. “Simon here might be interested to learn a new remedy for headaches. He fancies himself a healer of sorts.”

  They piled out the door together, leaving the two Frenchmen laughing and the German eyeing the last of the cinnamon rolls on the platter in front of him.

  Beaujold was pacing the floor in their room when they burst through the door, breathless from the enervating conversation.

  “Brother Lucio,” Simon said as soon as the door was closed behind them. “A word with you.”

  “Shhh!” Lucio hushed him. “I know what you are going to say, my Brother.”

  Beaujold turned to stare at them with a very grim look on his thin face.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” he asked them as they stood near the door in a tight group. “I refuse to associate with… these… these degenerates. They openly flaunt their perversion. An abomination in the eyes of God! If you will recall, the mere accusation of such behaviors a few hundred years ago sent so many of our Brothers to the dungeons of the Inquisition. And did you hear what that German fool said about the stake? I should have slit his fat jowl from ear to ear. I tell you I cannot stand to be in their presence. It sickens me!”