She flipped through the pages of Gavin’s handwritten notes to a spot marked with a red ribbon.
“Let’s see.” She held it up to the naked light bulb and read aloud. “The Knight of the Golden Eagle. Keeper of the Egyptian Secrets. Scholar of the Book of the Dead. He has passed through the Mysteries of Egypt, of Osiris and Isis, and of Serapis. He has seen the sun rise at Midnight and has been over the threshold of death at Thebes. How romantic. He reveals the light of the soul. Very impressive, but I have seen the sun at midnight in Norway. These things do not sound mysterious or useful to me.” She looked down at him.
“But you have not seen the midnight sunrise at Thebes. It is much more… enlightening.” He shrugged and cast one of his knowing winks at Christopher.
Christopher hoped that Dambretti had another of his endless tricks in store for the woman and he would have especially liked to see the Knight of the Golden Eagle take down her ugly bodyguard. The man was beyond endurance with his insulting remarks and vicious kicks. Worse even than Sir Beaujold. The thought of Beaujold made his empty stomach turn over. The vindictive Knight of the Sword was out there somewhere, pursuing his Master and his Master was not well. If he had not seen how ill Sir Ramsay had been the night before, he would have no worries concerning the outcome of such a confrontation as that sought by Beaujold, but…
“Bring this one, Maxie,” the woman jerked her head at Dambretti and turned to her watchdog who now sported a shotgun and a pistol. “I want to see how my method works on one who is not brain damaged.”
Maxie handed her the shotgun, put the pistol in his belt and knelt awkwardly beside the Knight. He used a small pocket knife to cut the bands securing his wrists. He stumbled back quickly when the Italian pushed himself up and stretched the kink from his back. Maxie yanked the shotgun from Cecile and trained it on the rather amiable Knight as he rubbed his numb hands together and frowned in amusement at the man’s obvious terror. He could have taken him, perhaps, but the shotgun was ready to fire and someone might get hit… accidentally. Christopher was a real problem. The others could take care of themselves, relatively speaking.
“Excuse me, Brothers,” Lucio spoke to them as if he were leaving for a doctor’s appointment in a crowded waiting room. He stepped carefully over their feet and legs. “I’ll just be a few moments.”
“Go with God,” Simon spoke softly to him in French.
“I’ll be back shortly, little Brother, do not worry your head,” Lucio assured him in Italian.
As they started out the door, the dark one struggled to his knees, straining his bonds against the bungee cords holding him in place, making the iron shelving creak and squeak in protest. She glanced back at him before closing the door and he began speaking. His deep voice echoed ominously in the empty concrete room.
“Heark ye, thou Whore of Babylon for thus sayeth the Lord God Almighty I am the first and the last. I am he that liveth, and was dead; and behold, I am alive forevermore, Amen; and have the keys of hell and of death. And upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon the Great, Mother of Harlots and abominations of the Earth. Repent; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight against them with the sword…” he quoted directly from Revelations. “You would come against the true Knights of Christ supposing yourself a daughter of Babylon?”
Valentino stood frozen in the doorway, frowning deeply in confusion. His voice was enough to scare anyone to death. His verse was one that had always frightened her. Everything from the Book of St. John’s Revelations frightened her. His question meant nothing to her outside the obvious insult. She did not understand what he was asking her. The dark Knight’s frown dissolved only to be replaced by something even more incomprehensible: a smile.
“Shut up, you old windbag!” Maxie shouted at him from outside the door.
“No, wait,” Valentino regained her composure and turned her frown on the man. “This is really neat stuff. Let me guess… you are the dreaded Knight of the Apocalypse? The dragon sword belongs to you, doesn’t it?”
“He is not a joke, signorina,” Dambretti said from behind her.
His tone was similar to one a father might use to explain the inexplicable to a child and she did not like it. “This situation is very serious. You would do well to let us all go and hope we never return. A lovely woman like yourself should have better things to do than tamper with the unknown. You do not understand his question because your order is a fraud. A pretense based on a lie. But it is of no concern to us. We did not come for you.”
“Hmmph,” Valentino grumped and hesitated briefly, then stepped back and locked the door, leaving the rest of them in darkness. She followed Maxie out as he prodded Dambretti with the shotgun. “There you go with the male, macho stuff,” she said as they made their way down the tiled corridor. “You sound just like Ramsay. Look at you. All of you. Such big, strong, brave Knights of the Temple. Immortals, no less, and a mere woman has taken you prisoner. It must really irk your pious asses.”
“Wine is strong, kings are stronger, women are even stronger, but Truth conquers all,” the Italian quoted something that sounded like scripture, but she did not recognize it. She glanced over her shoulder at him and found him smiling at her again.
“I’m glad we agree on something, sir,” she quipped as she headed for the verandah. “It is truth I would like to discuss with you.”
(((((((((((((
Chevalier Edgard d’Brouchart stood, hands on hips, staring out at the distant limestone hills and outcroppings from the third floor window of Miss Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast. The spines of the hills were exposed under the hot midday sun like the dried bones of a mythical monster. Miss Martin had been extremely cordial, but had informed them sadly that they were a day late for all the excitement out at Miss Valentino’s party. She escorted them up to the last empty room on the third floor. Only a few of their friends who had rented the rooms for them had returned from the country and were still probably out there searching for the missing horses. It was awful, just awful. Imagine! Thieves and burglars right under their noses. It would be the talk of the town. And Miss Valentino’s big party had been ruined. Miss Martin was sadly disappointed that some of her guests had checked out early, not wanting to be involved in such goings on. She had counted on a full house for at least two nights. It was awful! Sad! Frightening!
Sir d’Brouchart had listened attentively to her chatter while they checked into one of the rooms reserved, supposedly for them on the third floor. So his Knights had effectively spoiled a lot of things, it seemed. But the plump innkeeper had no idea who had done what. Her details were nothing more than gossip, not an eye witness account and some of it was third and fourth-handed. She was not a member of Miss Valentino’s ‘social club’. It was one of those ‘things’ she told them. Miss Valentino and Miss Sinclair were nice people and rich to boot, but they were ‘odd’. Not Miss Martin’s ‘cup of tea’. The Grand Master had to assume the lady was talking about Valentino’s sexual orientation and that of most of the members of the Order of the Rose. It was one of those clubs, the inn keeper told them.
That his men could have wreaked such havoc was no surprise to him, but where were they now? What were they doing? Had Ramsay killed all of them and escaped? He and Sir William had searched the other rooms after her departure and found signs of his Knights everywhere, but turned up nothing useful. The iron bound chest sat empty in one of the rooms. Beaujold had not succeeded in his personal mission and the Master had to wonder if that was good news or bad. Instead of losing one Knight, he might have lost four or five!
Clothes were scattered everywhere along with the belongings of three other people who were definitely not associated with the Knights of the Temple. Montague pointed out that the disheveled condition of the strangers’ property indicated that hasty searches had been made. These were apparently the belongings of the three other guests Miss Martin had mentioned: Monshoor Dee Villiers, Monshoor Dan Teen and Herr Schroe
der. Supposedly they had left with Monshoor Boo Joe. The word they had received from Beaujold was that Christopher Stewart had been apprehended alive and well, but Miss Penelope’s count of the men who left her establishment together added up to seven. Through investigating the rooms on the third floor, they surmised that the original team, along with Stewart, and three strangers had left together to attend Miss Valentino’s event. She went on to tell him about the Eye-talian, the one with the pretty smile, in dreamy tones that had caused him to raise one eyebrow in consternation. Dambretti! His ‘wayward son’. The Master rued the day when Ramsay and Dambretti had experienced their little ‘falling out’. Ramsay somehow managed to keep the Italian under control, but without Ramsay’s influence, Dambretti was lost.
“Miss Martin was speaking of Christopher Stewart, no doubt, as the young man from Alaska,” Sir William said from behind him. “I would assume that she has not seen the Ritter as she certainly would have given a running commentary on him. The others she mentioned must be owners of these other bags. It is all very mysterious, is it not?”
“Yes, mysterious,” d’Brouchart nodded. “You must go down and pay the woman for another few days. I don’t know how long we will require these accommodations. Keep all the rooms.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.” The well-groomed Knight of the Holy City nodded curtly. Dressed in a three piece business suit of silver-gray, he contrasted sharply to the Grand Master’s pullover knit shirt and denim jeans. American attire, the Master had called his ensemble. They had the unlikely appearance of a lumberjack and a corporate lawyer. Miss Martin had eyed d’Brouchart’s appearance with an unconcealed measure of mistrust. His imposing figure, booming voice, wild, red hair and strange accent must have frightened her. She had directed most of her chatter to Sir Montague, even commenting on how much she liked his British accent.
“We will use Mistress Martin to announce our arrival to the woman,” d’Brouchart called after him as he was about to leave. “I believe that she is in need of funds.” With a heavy sigh, the Grand Master settled himself into the early American rocker near the window, causing the spindles to creak ominously under his weight. He rocked sub-consciously as he pondered his next move.
(((((((((((((
Sir Thomas Beaujold watched from his perch in the oak tree behind the house as the woman, the stout man with the shotgun and the Golden Eagle left the basement and proceeded down the sidewalk. Dambretti turned to say something when the man prodded him sharply with the gun barrel. For his efforts, he received a painful kick in the stomach that sent him to his knees. Valentino, who saw none of this, was walking in front of them, carrying her cup of chocolate. She turned on the bodyguard and said something rude to him before helping Lucio to his feet. After another short tongue lashing directed at her disgruntled servant, she preceded them into the house and, as soon as she was out of sight, the man jabbed Lucio much harder with the twin barrels. Lucio turned on him again, kicking him in the shin, causing him to hop about painfully before the woman reappeared at the door. She yelled at them to ‘Stop fucking around!’ and then they all went inside.
Beaujold dropped to the ground silently. He could not believe that his Brothers had all been captured by this ridiculously small crew of unschooled pretenders. The others were most likely in the basement. He looked about the garden greenery cautiously for signs of the Apocalyptic Knight. Surely, she had not taken the German prisoner. He sprinted across the yard and followed them in through the open door, drawing his dagger from his belt as he went. Ruefully, he thought of Ramsay, lying in the desert with the sword through him and hoped that the wild animals had not found him. Even the Knight of Death did not deserve such a horrible fate, but he would have to find the others and free them first if, indeed, they were all prisoners.
It had been quite a shock to see the van still parked in front of the mansion. No wonder they had failed to answer his calls. Simon always answered his cell phone, but it was possible that there were no signals in this Godforsaken wilderness. Without their help, he was never going to get the Knight back into town and he couldn’t afford to report this unbelievable blunder to the Grand Master. What would d’Brouchart say if had to tell him that he’d lost Simon? Not only Simon, but Dambretti and Christopher Stewart as well and that wild animals had eaten the Knight of Death. He now regretted not having cut the man’s head off even though it might be easier to take a prisoner back to Italy than a dead body.
He was sure that Ramsay would be found guilty and summarily executed, but now he had another problem, only Dambretti had the Papal connections and proper documents necessary for transporting a dead body back to Europe without being arrested. If they had to take him home in pieces, he would need Dambretti, whom he would just as soon have left in America. As far as Beaujold was concerned the Knight of Death had already condemned himself. There would be no redemption for the Chevalier du Morte, but if he failed in this mission, there would be none for the Chevalier d’Epee. He needed help to get Ramsay in the box.
(((((((((((((
Lucio Dambretti found himself sitting in a pretty wicker chair on the verandah a short time later, still dressed in the baggy sky blue uniform pants, boots and black tee shirt. He had recovered his composure, overcome the latest pains inflicted by Valentino’s ‘butler’ and, with his hands now secured in front of him in standard handcuffs, a bit of his dignity had returned. Valentino sat across from him, drinking coffee from a china cup. A pistol lay on the table in front of her and her man was no where in sight. She poured him a cup of coffee from the matching coffee carafe.
“Cream and sugar?” she asked pleasantly and he nodded.
“You are Italian, then?” she asked after a few moments as she stirred the coffee for him.
“Of course, as are you,” he reached for the cup awkwardly with both hands. It smelled wonderful and he was greatly relieved to have a comfortable chair under him rather than the concrete floor. His ability to sit comfortably on a hard surface for long hours had disappeared years ago with the invention of foam rubber and automobiles. Long days spent in the saddle seemed like a dreadful nightmare to him now.
“Not Roman?” She asked and raised one eyebrow as he picked up the cup carefully with both index fingers, working around the inconvenience caused by the cuffs.
“No, a little town called Villa Ponti, actually,” he told her.
“I meant Roman as in the Romans,” she corrected him.
“Oh, those Romans. No, I’m not that old,” he said as he sipped the coffee. She was fascinated to see this trick. It was as if he’d had experience with such things as drinking tea with shackles on his wrists. Italian. He had come from the same world as her own ancestors. She wondered if perhaps any of her great greats had crossed his path in some distance past. What a shame they had to be on opposite sides... in every aspect. He would have made an interesting pen-pal. Anything closer than that would have been much too dangerous. Her fascination grew as he took a sip of the coffee and returned the cup to the saucer without spilling a drop. He smiled up at her and licked his lips.
His amazement was complete. The woman acted as if he were her guest for Sunday tea. She really didn’t know much after all and Beaujold had been totally wrong in his assessment of the Order of the Rose. Von Hetz had uncovered part of her ignorance already and his quote had completely gone over her head. She knew nothing of importance. Brother Argonne’s summation had been closer to the truth. Their order was a social club. It would all fade with time. He scanned the patio and as much of the garden as he could see for signs of the Frenchman or the Scot, knowing quite well that neither had gone far. As much as Beaujold despised himself and Ramsay, he would not leave any of them behind. Of course his pride was hurt immensely at being caught by a woman and a band of untrained civilians, but even that could be blamed on Beaujold, which he fully intended to do in his report to the Grand Master. D’Brouchart had made a mistake putting the Frenchman in command. If he could manage to escape
, it would help his own self-image a great deal and add a few positive notes to his report as well. If he could be sure the shotgun was not lurking nearby, he could make good on his escape at that moment. He smiled.
“You like to smile, don’t you?” she asked in amusement.
He laughed. “Smiling and laughing are much more profitable than weeping and gnashing one’s teeth, no?”
“You are an unusual person, Mr. Dambretti,” she said. “What sort of things make a person like you happy?”
“Happiness is a state of mind. I have generally learned to live for the moment since plans have the strangest way of going awry and you never know what the next moment will bring.” He gestured at the table with both hands. “A few moments ago, I was chained in a cold, stone dungeon. A short walk and a few nasty kicks later, I am sitting in the sunshine, drinking coffee with a beautiful woman in the midst of a paradise garden. Life is ironic like that. Si?”
“You make the best of every situation then?” she asked.
He tried the trick with the cup again, looking for a distraction, finishing off the rest of the coffee. She shoved a covered wire basket of warm apple turnovers toward him and pulled back the linen cloth. The aroma was irresistible. He waged a short inner battle and lost. He put down the cup and picked up one of the pastries. The appetizers he’d eaten at her party had long since deserted him.
“Do you also eat in silence?” she asked.
He nodded and she waited patiently for him to finish off the pie. He didn’t eat quite as fast as Mark Andrew and didn’t reach for another, but licked his lips again and smiled at her as if he would like to eat her heart for the main course. Ramsay would have eaten the whole plate full and looked around for more.
“Merry tells me that your friends were about to behead Sir Ramsay last night,” she resumed the conversation. “Would you have done it?”
“An unanswerable question,” he shrugged.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 38
