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

by Brendan Carroll

  “What is your name, boy?” he asked when he had regained his breath.

  “My name is Lucius di Napoli, Sir.” The boy smiled at him with a perfect set of white teeth and then put his dirty hand to his face, wincing in pain. The white teeth were an unusual sight since most of the children in this Godforsaken place had rotted teeth from lack of proper nutrition and poor hygiene, but the long bloody slash down the side of the boy’s face made him grimace. It started under his left eye and ended at his jaw line, ruining his otherwise dirty, but handsome appearance. He also noticed that the dirt on the child was fresh, not accumulated layers of grime like the other little street beggars. This child had the look of nobility about him and he had meat on his bones. What was he doing here and how could he bear to smile with such a terrible wound on his face? Surely it had been put there by an Infidel’s dagger. The boy held up a curved dagger still sporting traces of blood. Mark recognized it as the knife that had been in his side only a few moments before.

  “Who cut you?” Mark demanded to know, though he knew it did not matter.

  “You did, Sir,” the boy said and winced again. “It is no matter, Master. We are safe here.”

  Mark pushed himself up and turned around. He was looking directly into the eyes of a Saracen woman standing in front of a brightly colored, tiled wading pool. Her dark eyes were wide with terror above the veil she wore over her the lower half of her face. She began babbling hysterically in her native tongue as soon as he turned. Something about murder and murderers and God’s Knights. She held a jeweled dagger in her left hand. He watched as one drop of blood dripped from the glittering tip of the curved blade and fell to the tiles in front of her bare, brown feet. The bright red drop hit the floor with a resounding crash that reverberated through the courtyard like the sound of thunder. A red stain welled up in front of him and colored the entire courtyard scarlet. He leaped upon the woman, taking her wrist in his hand, twisting her arm up behind her back and disarming her at the same time. She shrieked in pain and he threw her away from him before turning to stare into the wading pool through the ruddy glare.

  The body of his brother floated face down in the pink water. A swirl of darker red drifted near his head. He blinked at the sight of the dead man in disbelief. His brother. Luke Andrew. Not just a Brother of the Order. His twin brother. Eldest of the two sons of Sir Timothy Ramsay, named after the four apostles. A terrible calm had fallen over him as he turned to find the woman still babbling incoherently about devils, demons and God, calling him by his Brother’s name, cursing him as a demon and trying to crawl away from him, away from the sight of his dead brother, away from the crime that she had committed. He went after her, grabbed her by the foot and dragged her back to him screaming and kicking. A rage like nothing he had ever felt filled his mind. He fell on her and covered her mouth with one hand while ripping the long, loose robes from her body with the other. She fought him desperately, but he proceeded with the action ruthlessly taking what he should not have taken. There was no joy in it, no pleasure, only pain. Pain for her. Pain for him. And when the deed was accomplished and she lay whimpering pitifully beneath him, he drew the same bejeweled dagger across her throat from ear to ear and left her dying on the tiles while he went back to pull the body of his brother from the water.

  As he was climbing up the slippery steps, another screaming Saracen raced toward him from the far end of the courtyard. This one, a bearded, turbaned man with a sword drawn back over his head shrieked more curses at him concerning the violation of the Sultan’s daughter. Mark shoved the body of his fallen brother away from him and prepared to meet this new threat. The dark-eyed boy, still sporting the fresh wound on his cheek, waded into the pool after the dead man. Mark drew his own heavy broadsword and held it in front of him to greet the man who would try to kill him. The attacker misjudged Ramsay’s speed and leaped for him, very handily skewering himself on the upraised blade of the sword. Mark Andrew fell backwards from the momentum of the dead man’s body and got up again, blinking away the cold water, expecting more of the screaming demons. He kicked the Infidel away from him, before placing one foot on his chest, forcing him under the surface, effectively drowning his screams. When the man stopped thrashing, he wrenched his sword free and the man’s lifeless body floated to the surface, eyes wide, mouth open, rotted teeth stained red with blood. Mark screamed incoherently in the man’s face and then separated his head from his body with one swift blow. He held the head up by the hair and turned in a circle as if showing the world what he had done. He dropped the head and sheathed his sword after cleaning it on the man’s turban.

  The frightened boy was moving away from him, dragging his brother’s body with him. Mark Andrew clambered from the pool and took up the body of his brother, laying him on the floor carefully, crossing his feet and placing his pale, cold hands on his chest. He made the sign of the cross on his brother’s forehead and kissed his blue-tinged lips lightly. He had compounded his own grief by committing a terrible crime in front of the boy. Two crimes, in fact. Raping the woman and mutilating the dead. The sight of his brother’s lifeless face made him cry out in renewed anguish “Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonor: mine adversaries are all before thee.”

  He knelt on the floor and repeated a prayer for the dead, before turning on the boy, taking him up roughly by the collar of his filthy brown tunic. He pulled him off the floor, close to his face, looking into his eyes one long moment before speaking.

  “One misplaced word and the world will no longer know you, boy!” he threatened him in a low voice and then shoved him brutally to the tiles, unaffected by the terrified look on his face.

  “Ow!” Merry cried as her head bounced off the ground where Mark had suddenly shoved her without warning, waking her from a sound sleep. She sat up, rubbing the side of her head; looking at him in astonishment. He was sitting straight up, holding the golden sword out in front of him in both hands. His eyes were glazed as if he were not truly awake. The dangerous blade sparkled in the filtered light.

  “Mark?” she asked hesitantly and crabbed backwards out of reach of the sword.

  He turned his head to look at her, blinking in confusion. The terrified boy was gone. The tiled courtyard and the dead bodies were gone. Only green trees and soft, dappled sunlight were in front of him. He was no longer in the courtyard. He shuddered visibly and lowered the sword to his lap. He was shaking all over even though the air was warm.

  Merry crawled back to him and reached out cautiously to brush back his hair from his eyes. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her at first and then he let go a long breath. Sweat trickled down both sides of his pale face.

  “Are you all right?” She looked into his haunted eyes and he shook his head slowly, staring at her as if he did not believe she was truly there. “It’s me, Merry. Don’t you remember me?”

  “I thought you were a faery,” he said, managing a half-hearted smile. He looked down at his ruined clothes in confusion.

  “We have to get out of here,” she told him. “That horrible man might be back any minute. Can you ride?”

  He tried to get up on his own, but had to wait until helped him.

  “We’ll get you back to the house and get your car,” she told him as they hobbled toward the horses with him using his sword as a crutch. “I’ll go with you, Mark. Anywhere you want to go, but we have to be careful. I'll get you to a doctor if you like or a hospital. Is there anyone we can call for help?”

  All he could do was shake his head. The only one he could trust was Christopher and he didn’t know where Christopher was at the moment. The stallion pranced and snorted as he dragged himself painfully onto the short, black blood-encrusted saddle, again with her help.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  “Monsieur le Knight,” Sir Montague read to the Grand Master from the parchment paper in his hand. He looked up, his eyes snapping with indignation. “Monsieur le Chevalier. Surely this is a joke!”


  “Go on, read it, William,” d’Brouchart said irritably from his position in the rocker.

  “Monsieur le Chevalier and Master Extraordinaire of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. This is preposterous, Sir!” Montague could not contain his consternation.

  “Read, man!” d’Brouchart raised his voice sharply.

  “Please allow me to welcome you to America and especially to Texas and the heart of pecan country…” the man’s voice trailed off to silence.

  “Montague!” The Grand Master warned him.

  “I have so longed to meet with you, most Excellent sir. It has been a life-long goal and now I am beside myself with excitement that you have come here, all this way, just to meet with me. I would be honored to have you as a guest in my house. I will greet you as a Brother with open arms. Odds bodkins! The bloody bitch thinks you are a joke!” Montague made a rude noise.

  “Brother Montague, please, calm yourself,” d’Brouchart said and actually smiled at the Englishman. “Continue, I implore you.”

  “But Your Grace, this sounds like something Elmer Fudd would write to Bugs Bunny!”

  “Who to whom?” D’Brouchart frowned.

  “Never mind, Sir.” Montague cleared his throat and looked at the letter again. “You may be received at my residence. Sir, she condescends to receive you. What luck!”

  D’Brouchart chuckled at Montague’s discomfiture.

  “She is very well accomplished at touching the nerve, is she not?” he asked the Knight of the Holy City.

  Montague drew up short of another outburst at this underhanded insult. He had lost his objectivity. He read the rest of the letter without comment. Cecile informed him of the number and condition of her ‘guests’ and hinted at making an ‘equitable exchange’.

  “So! We will be received at nine tomorrow morning.” Sir Montague looked at the Master in disbelief. “And we are going?”

  “Of course,” the Grand Master answered shortly and stood up. “That is what we came here for. She has three of my Knights and one apprentice. We still don’t know who she has and who is still free. Let us move into their chambers and wait there on the chance that some one of them may return here.”

  “What does she intend to do? Does she expect you to give yourself over in return for their release?” Montague asked him.

  “She does not want me, Brother,” d’Brouchart eyed him coldly. “She wants the Tree of Life.”

  Montague sighed. After all this time, to be held hostage by a group of idiots was more than he could comprehend. He followed his Master out of the pleasant little room and down the hall. It would be a very long night.

  ((((((((((((()))))))))))))

  Lucio Dambretti sat on the carpet in the room where she had held Mark Ramsay prisoner for almost four days. His hands rested on his knees as he sat straight up, cross-legged, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Valentino leaned against the dresser while Maxie stood nervously near the door with his shotgun. The Knight had fallen easily under her hypnotic, lucid-dream technique. Much easier than Mark Andrew.

  “Who are you?” she asked the first question.

  “Some would call me Lucius di Napoli. Others know me as Lucio Apolonio Dambretti,” he answered.

  “Where did you get that scar on your face?” she asked, smiling down at him in satisfaction. First things first.

  “In Jerusalem,” he did not blink at the absurdity of the question.

  “How did you come by it?”

  “In the Service of God.”

  “Tell me about it,” she said.

  “I pulled a dagger from the Knight,” he said simply.

  “What Knight?” She smiled and looked at Maxie.

  The big, ugly man looked bored. What difference did it make? She’d never asked him about his scar! She was insane. Next thing she’d be doing was asking the dipshit about the strange tattoos on his chest. They looked like some kind of Egyptian stuff with birds and eyes without faces and dogs and cats and monkeys and stars and moons. All kinds of junk.

  “Eques de Ordo Supremus Militaris Templi Hierosolymilitani, Eques de Mortu, Eques Marcus Andreas Ramsay,” he told her. “We fell. It was an accident.”

  “What was an accident?” she asked. This was even more interesting than she had expected.

  “This,” he raised one hand slowly and pointed to the scar. “This was an accident. We fell in the water. It was my fault.”

  “The water? What water?” she asked.

  “The water in the well. In the catacomb. Before the death of his brother.”

  Maxie cleared his throat. Time was short. She needed to ask more important questions.

  “His brother? Which brother?”

  “His brother. Eques Lucas Mattias Ramsay. They killed him. And the woman was killed.”

  “What woman?” Valentino was fascinated by this revelation. There had been two Ramsays?! One was quite enough.

  “The woman in the palace courtyard. The Sultan’s daughter. He slit her throat. The company of women is a dangerous thing!”

  “And what did Sir Ramsay do when that happened?”

  “He… killed them... he killed the Infidel dog. He killed her. All of them. He killed them all. There was blood. He killed her. Non nobis Domine, non nobis sed Nomini Tuo da Gloriam.”

  “Who?” Valentino glanced at Maxie. The man shook his head. They were running out of time. “Who killed her?”

  “I will not betray my Brother. One misplaced word and the world will no longer know me.”

  Valentino shivered and then resumed her former line of questioning.

  “Go to Egypt, Lucio. Leave Jerusalem. Where are you now?” she asked casually.

  “In the Temple of the Sun,” he answered in a matched tone and relaxed visibly.

  “What do you see?”

  “I see the High Priest and the Light of the Eastern Heaven.”

  “What do you hear?”

  “I hear the wind blowing among the stars.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I am but a simple priest in the underworld. I am a prophet in the opening of the Earth. I behold the Mysteries of the underworld. I direct the ceremonies of Mendes. I am assistant…” his voice trailed off and then he resumed speaking. “Good and evil. Light and dark. Life and death. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “And what is the nature of your sin, my son?” she asked and raised both eyebrows at Maxie.

  “Of my crime, sir?” He frowned in confusion. “I have committed no crime. I am no heretic in the eyes of God. I worship no idols. I have defended the Holy City against the Infidels. I serve the Creator. I am but a Poor Knight of the Temple of Solomon. I proclaim my innocence to the people! I will not deny my allegiance to God. Rome is the heretic. Rome is the heretic, the murderer, the whore of Babylon!”

  He had moved to another location without being instructed. He was, it seemed, as unpredictable as Ramsay and he was not in a pleasant place. His face was covered with sweat and he had lost much of his healthy color.

  “You are guilty of the sin of fornication.”

  Maxie grumped in disgust and shifted on his feet uneasily. Why was she toying with this dangerous man? Hadn’t she learned her lesson from the first one? Had she not bemoaned the loss of her virginity to him, of all people! Why did she think he would care? All he wanted to do was get the hell out of her life before he ended up dead, but payday was still three days away.

  “I have sinned, it is true. I have committed adultery, not fornication. I am a married man,” he lowered his head and then got to his knees, placing his hands behind him. He waited, perfectly still as if for her to do something physical to him. Maxie moved apprehensively, expecting something more.

  Cecile pushed herself off the desk. “Married? Who are you married to?”

  “I am married to the Order, my lady,” he told her in a whisper that now sounded desperate. He had moved again. “I cannot marry you. I cannot help you.”

  “You must re
pent and receive your penance.” Valentino smiled and shrugged. She had no idea what she was saying. She was not even Catholic. The Italian seemed to have a number of skeletons in his closet.

  “I beg forgiveness, Father. I accept the penalty for my transgressions,” he answered.

  “What is the nature of your sin?” She frowned.

  “I have lain with a woman,” he confessed and appeared to be truly upset. “I am ready to receive the punishment, Master. I accept the penalty for my sin, but do not punish her. She is ignorant. Her soul should not be on my conscience.”

  Valentino’s frown deepened. Was he referring to her? Was she now just a sin for him to regret? What punishment was he waiting for? The thought made her angry, but didn’t she now regret the same ‘transgressions’?

  “For penance, you must…” Valentino tapped her front teeth with one finger. “Say ten Hail Mary’s and twelve Our Father’s and reveal the secrets of Osiris and Isis to purge your soul of this terrible sin and the weight of your burden. You cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven with the burden of these secrets on your heart.”

  The Knight of the Golden Eagle raised his head very slowly looking directly at her before raising his eyes to a point on the wall somewhere above her head. This action unnerved her and she pushed herself off the dresser, ready to run, but he was still in the trance-like state, half awake, half asleep.

  “Oh great Hermes, thou wert right when thou spake saying unto them ‘O Egypt, Egypt! A time shall come, when, in lieu of a pure belief, thou wilt possess naught but ridiculous fables, incredible to posterity; and nothing will remain to thee, but words engraven on stone, the only monuments that will attest thy piety.”

  “Who is Hermes?” she asked, surprised by this outburst.

  “I cannot say,” he raised his chin slightly.

  “Unburden your soul,” she told him.

  “My soul is not burdened, Father.” He smiled the same smile he had used so well to pique her interest to begin with. “My spirit is pure, but I see that yours is less than righteous.”