“Here is where you will sit and then you will stand over here when I give the signal,” she was saying to him. An elaborate set of chairs resembling thrones had been placed on either side of and behind the altar. “Brother Sentiment will stand here.” She moved to the front of the altar. “The initiates will be escorted in by…”
“Excuse me, Chevaliere Valentino,” Beaujold interrupted her. “Do you mean that our esteemed Brother Schroeder is to be Hierophant of this… ceremony?”
“His Excellency, Brother Nash, is in Egypt, but I thought everyone knew that.” She looked at him in surprise. “He is studying the mysteries at Luxor.”
“Oh, of course. How silly of me. I had forgotten,” Beaujold looked at Simon, who nodded to him and smiled.
“Yes. Quite right,” Simon told her. “Brother d’Antin and myself have been on holiday in… Sicily.”
“Oh, that must be nice,” Valentino eyed them knowingly. “I plan to visit Sicily myself, very soon, I hope.”
“Vell!” Dambretti said in English trying to cover his Italian accent with a strange German concoction. “Zis looks to be in ze purfeckt order. A fine job, Chevaliere. Very goot.” Beaujold cringed physically at the horrible accent, but Valentino did not seem to notice it.
“Thank you, Sir Schroeder.” She bowed her head slightly, surprised and delighted by his praise. He was not what she had expected at all. His manner reminded her of Ramsay except for his curly black hair and the long scar on his cheek. Her morbid sense of curiosity made her want to ask him where he had gotten it. It did not detract from his looks at all, but instead lent a certain character to his features and he certainly seemed to be a character. Very confident and very handsome in his silly blue suit. She squinted at him and imagined him in a three piece white suit and a Panama hat. Much better.
“I’m sure you know the rest of the procedure then?” She looked up at him.
He flashed his perfect smile and she was amazed at her own reaction. If she had not known better, she would have thought he was flirting with her; furthermore, she was inclined to respond in kind which she blamed immediately on Ramsay. She thought he might actually be about to say something personal to her, but instead he waved one hand in dismissal.
“Of course,” he said.
“Good, then,” she took his arm again, hugging it more tightly than before. “Let’s get back to the house. Our brothers and sisters will begin to arrive soon and you can join me on the reception line. Perhaps we might speak privately after the ceremony if you would like to discuss Brother Nash’s work in Egypt.”
Dambretti nodded and glanced over her head at Beaujold. When the Frenchman gave him a warning look, he smiled and winked at the Knight of the Sword.
Chapter Eight of Twelve
Let their eyes be darkened, that they see not
“I refuse to eat that, my son. I don’t care if I do starve to death,” Mark told the ragamuffin who had brought him a roasted rat on a spit. The sight of it sickened him even though his stomach was glued to his backbone. His eyes flew open and he stared into the face of the Apocalyptic Knight who sat on the surface of the desk in front of him. “Hello?” He waved one hand in front of the man’s face. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. The tall man blinked and then focused his dark eyes on Mark’s face.
“You are starving for the Truth,” the man told him again.
“The truth is I am starving for a steak,” Mark corrected him. The memory of the three days and nights spent hiding in the catacombs with an infected wound in his side was another one that he wished he could have forgotten forever. He shuddered. Sadly enough, he clearly remembered recanting his statement and eating the rat within a few short hours of making the declaration.
“I cannot help you, my Brother,” the dark Knight added after a moment. “Your affliction is great. Your secrets, however, are safe. Not only from outsiders, but even from yourself. That you did not give them up either willingly or unwillingly is no longer in doubt. In that respect, you are innocent. Your salvation is assured if you return to Italy at once and confess your sins.”
“Does that mean you won’t cut off my head and send it to Italy in a cask?” he asked and smiled, feeling very relieved.
“You must not make light of these things, Brother Ramsay.” The man smiled very briefly and pushed himself off the desk. He stood looking down at him with a peculiar look on his face. “You are in a terrible position here, Brother. You have broken your vow of chastity. That much is true, but it is a minor thing in comparison to the other charges against you. Confession and penance will restore your salvation. But your memory loss is clouding your judgment. You do not know whom to trust. John Tellman was an impostor. He is dead for his troubles. I watched as they buried him in the garden. I do not have the authority to make a decision concerning your situation because there is no precedent from which to draw. The Grand Master will have to decide, but that will entail a trip together. You and I, but… I am not sure you would come willingly. You are full of doubts.”
“Ah, therein lies the dilemma.” Mark looked up at him. “You want me to go to Italy with you just like John Tellman did and now you say he was an impostor and he is dead. Furthermore, I have only your word that you are who you say you are. Who killed him? You? How can you expect me to trust you? I know who you are, Ritter von Hetz, but I also know how dangerous you are. If you want me to leave here with you, you are going to have to give me some sort of proof that I am who you say I am and a better reason to go with you willingly. How can I tell between reality and fantasy if what you say is true about my memory? I am still finding it very hard to believe that I am some mystical Templar Knight and that I’ve lived for eight hundred plus years and that I am immortal. It goes against reason and logic and those are two of the only things I have left other than my devotion to Meredith.”
“The woman fed you poison and you died,” the Knight pointed one long finger at him and he shuddered. “Do you not remember that?” He could read the thoughts of others, but he could not implant thoughts or ideas in their minds. He could not straighten the tangled web in Ramsay’s head. Only God could restore him.
“How do I know it was really poison?” Ramsay asked stubbornly. “She said and you say.”
The tall man grew angry at being compared with Valentino and brought his sword up, pressing it at the base of Mark’s throat.
“Do you not remember dying again when you threw yourself on your own sword?”
Mark simply stared up at him, refusing to answer any more of his questions.
“Get up! You are in need of documentation? Proof? I will give you proof.”
Mark stood slowly, avoiding the point of the blade and the Knight shoved him toward the door leading into the lab. Von Hetz found the light switch and the room came alive, a gleaming, bristling array of equipment arranged on stainless steel tables and in orderly glass cabinets. The German shoved him against a cabinet full of bottles, flasks and boxes of all sorts and shapes. He held the sword against him as he smashed the glass with one hand and reached in to take out a small glass bottle full of grayish liquid. He held it up briefly and then thrust it at the Knight of Death.
“What is that? You are the Alchemist. Tell me what that is!”
Mark looked down at the label. A chemical formula. His mind revolted when he tried to decipher it. Hg(CN)2. Mercuric cyanide. Poison. He could not remember what it might be used for, but the ingredients were clearly a problem and most likely what Valentino had used to poison him at her dinner table, if indeed she had poisoned him. It would certainly do the trick if it was an acidic enough compound. The label did not give the details of the composition.
“Poison,” he said simply and looked up at the man and raised both eyebrows. “Mercuric cyanide.”
“And deadly when ingested, no?” Von Hetz eyed him coldly.
“Most likely,” Mark admitted reluctantly. This was not a good development. He had a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. His poor, mistreated sto
mach… His eyes widened as he watched the man take the cap off the bottle. He set the open bottle on the counter.
“Drink it,” the Knight said and stood back from him, but kept the sword raised.
“You’re insane,” Mark objected and looked at him in astonishment. “It would be suicide.”
“You have two options, Brother Ramsay,” von Hetz told him in a low, menacing voice. “Either drink the poison and remain whole or I will take your head. You are of no use to me or the Order in your current condition. You must believe or all is lost. Think of it this way. If I am telling the truth, you will live and remain in one piece for at least a time. If I am lying you will die by poisoning. If you fail to comply with my orders you will die by my sword without question and without hope of redemption. The choice is yours. You must come to your senses or else I will have to kill you before you remember your mysteries and divulge them to these people. It would be the end of our Order and I cannot allow that to happen.”
Mark could think of no argument as he weighed his options He didn’t like the odds or the options, but he wanted his head to remain attached to his body whether he lived or died. He had seen too many heads detached from bodies in his lifetime. He had separated quite a few himself, but… Von Hetz gripped his sword in both hands and raised it behind his right shoulder in preparation of making the deadly stroke. Mark picked up the bottle, clearly angry and terrified at the same time. His hands shook with a mixture of fear and rage. He believed and he did not believe.
“All right, then,” he said hoarsely. “You’ll see. When I’m dead and you’re a murderer, you’ll be sorry!” He turned up the bottle and poured the contents into his mouth. It tasted like it looked. Awful, bitter, but it burned its way down his throat as if seeking the center of the earth without the need for swallowing. The fumes rose in his nose, taking away his breath and he recognized the smell.
The liquid concoction hit his empty stomach like a sack of cannon balls and his stomach rebelled immediately to the deadly assault. His stomach convulsed and tried to vomit it up. Von Hetz dropped his sword and stepped forward quickly, placing one hand over Mark Andrew’s mouth and the other behind his head. He kicked and struggled futilely. He could actually feel the cold knot in his stomach as he slid to the floor. The dark Knight knelt beside him, avoiding his kicking feet, ducking as he swung blindly at him with both fists. Within seconds he lost the will to resist and lay on the floor clutching his stomach, shaking at first and then convulsing, heaving violently while his antagonist gripped his head in a vice-like hold. When the thrashing ceased, Von Hetz let go of him, pushed him on his back and then leaned over him to look in his eyes.
“Forgive me, Brother,” the man told him and then stood up. It was the last thing Mark heard before his vision faded in what he thought surely was the grip of death. At least he was not to be mutilated. He had a distinct aversion to blades when he did not have hold of the hilt.
(((((((((((((
Dambretti caught Beaujold’s elbow in a vice-like grip and pulled him toward the fireplace in the dining room where the guests were busily piling their plates with food from the buffet. He popped an olive in his mouth and nodded to a young man who spoke to him before addressing the Chevalier d’Epee in low tones.
“We must make our move before the ceremony. I cannot bluff my way through it. And you are attracting attention to yourself with your less than friendly attitude, Brother d’Antin,” he smiled though it did not match his tone. “You cannot take on all these people even if they are just a group of merchants and seamstresses.”
“I am aware of that,” Beaujold retorted angrily, but managed to smile at the same time. “As soon as this crowd thins a bit we will make our way upstairs to his room. He is obviously not coming down to join us. It is apparent that he is not on the guest list.”
“All the more reason for caution,” Dambretti warned him. He did not want Beaujold going off half-cocked and beheading his friend at first sight. How on earth would they get him out in two pieces if they couldn’t get him out in one? “They are moving to the stairs now,” he nodded at Simon and Christopher who were edging toward the dining room door with their plates full of dainty appetizers.
The two Knights walked casually through the crowd and took up positions near their companions. Dambretti helped himself to one of Christopher’s little sandwiches and nudged the apprentice playfully in the stomach with his elbow, trying to reassure the nervous young man that everything would work out to the good. He really liked the boy and thought that Ramsay had made a good choice in spite of the apprentice’s impetuosity. He showed spirit and determination as well as loyalty. Christopher was much like his own apprentice had been when he’d first taken him on, but Volpi was getting older and sadly, would soon have to be replaced with a younger man.
Beaujold had always been too stiff-necked and unyielding in his beliefs. Beaujold’s apprentice was already in his thirties and displayed a temperament much like his Master. If anything happened to Beaujold, they would never miss him if his present apprentice took his place. Dambretti shuddered at the thought of losing a Knight. Even Thomas Beaujold. It had been years since one of them had passed into the halls of Amenti.
The members of the Order of the Rose filed past them on their way to the patio. The guests smiled and nodded to them, thanking them for the fine faire as if they had provided it. The Knight of the Golden Eagle had to suppress the overpowering urge to use his own secret as he watched them go by, but it was too demanding and these people meant nothing to him. Ideally, they would be here only a short time longer and then he would never see any of them again. Dambretti felt the familiar flutter of butterflies in his stomach or maybe more like moths as their precarious position came back to the forefront of his mind when he caught sight of a stout, scar-faced man standing near the patio doors. He looked completely out of place and very nervous. He allowed a quick survey with his inner sight and was immediately repulsed by what he saw. The man was definitely not a member of Valentino’s order. Lucio leaned close to Christopher and nodded toward the man.
“I don’t like the looks of that one,” he said in a low voice. “What do you think, my son?”
“He acts like he’s watching everyone. I’d say he’s security. He has a pistol under his coat,” Christopher answered him. “I saw it when he was filling his plate at the table.”
“Ahhh. Very good, Christopher. Then we should watch for more of them,” Lucio told him and then passed the news along to his Brothers. “No sign of Brother Hetz?” he asked Christopher after a moment. The apprentice shook his head. He had been scanning the crowd constantly for signs of the Apocalyptic Knight. He was quite sure he was here somewhere.
Something nagged at the back of his mind, causing him to turn around in time to see a young blond woman descending the stairs. She was dressed in a stunning lavender gown of the same shade as the Healer’s uniform. The flowing, gossamer material however, was much more appealing on her. The dress made with extra long sleeves, puffed above the elbows and tight on the forearms looked as if it had been designed for a mediaeval princess. The bodice was low, square cut, revealing a sinful amount of tan flesh. Laces of dark purple velvet ran down the sides and front of the bodice. The crisscrossed lacing made him want to cut it loose with his dagger. He shook off the irreverent thought and concentrated on her angelic face. She wore a myrtle wreath in her curly hair and a sad look on her face. Her eyes were electric blue when she met his gaze. There was almost a shock of recognition though he had never seen her before. She came down the stairs and walked directly toward him. The sadness had been replaced with a peculiar expression and his heart leapt into his throat as he thought she would speak to him and call him by his correct name. It was very hard to keep his composure when she held out her hand, but instead of clasping it in the accepted greeting, he bent low over it, kissing it lightly instead, as if she were some great lady from a royal family. Beaujold turned in time to witness his behavior and cleared
his throat loudly.
“You must be Herr Schroeder,” she said, ignoring the rude Frenchman.
Her voice made Lucio’s heart leap though she sounded slightly hoarse as if she had been crying. She was, indeed, something from a fairytale and her eyes held him captive for the briefest moment. He closed his eyes for a second and thought she would disappear. What was she doing here? Surely she did not fit in with these people.
“Yes, he is,” Beaujold butted in, jarring him from his trance. “And you are?”
“Sister Discretion,” she cast a cool look directly into the stern blue eyes of the Knight of the Sword and frowned.
“I am Chevalier d’Antin and this is my brother, Chevalier DeVilliers,” Beaujold brushed Dambretti away from the girl and took her hand in the more traditional greeting, placing his begrudging kisses on her cheeks while she smiled shyly at Dambretti over his shoulder.
“Welcome to the Coryelle Chapter of the Order of the Rose,” she answered Beaujold lightly, almost distractedly, before meeting Dambretti’s eyes again. He was such a fine looking fellow. From Cecile's descriptions of the German Hierophant, she had expected Frankenstein's monster. The Frenchman’s jealousy of her attentions to him was quite understandable. She frowned apologetically at him.
Lucio’s smile faded abruptly. It seemed that she looked completely through him into his soul, yet without knowing, and then… she smiled at him and her face glowed with unnatural light.
“You are to be replacing Gavin?” she asked Lucio when Beaujold released her.
“I would-a replace anyone necessary at-ta your request, signorina,” Dambretti said inanely and bowed his head slightly. Beaujold cleared his throat loudly. He had forgotten his accent. “Ahhh, ja! Und-a vat-ta ist your part-a in zis, meine-a fraulein-a?” he added quickly and Christopher actually moaned at his terrible Italian accented faux-German English. Simon slapped his forehead and then smiled broadly at the young woman when she frowned at him.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 32
