“No, it doesn’t,” he nodded and smiled at her. “In fact, it keeps most of my Knights in the prime of their lives. Ready for almost anything… any time.”
Maxie opened the door to the library and ushered the Knight of the Sword into the room. The man looked ghastly. His thin hair was muddy and stuck to his head, his clothes were disheveled and dirty. He had a long rip in the fabric of his shirt under his right arm and a slash in his left boot just above his ankle. He limped slowly into the room, pressing his right arm against his side where Ramsay’s deadly sword had struck at his ribs. He locked eyes with d’Brouchart briefly and then stood with his eyes lowered, silently waiting for the Master to speak. He was outdone and totally ashamed.
“Sir Beaujold, what of Ramsay?” D’Brouchart spoke to the man in French and then stood up.
“He has escaped me,” Beaujold told him flatly in French and looked back at the security agent frowning. “I would have had him, but for the interference of these two… morons.”
“Had him?” Montague turned from the bookshelf, casting a disdainful look at the man. “You mean you would have cut off his head without waiting to ascertain his condition.” The Knight of the Holy City was also fluent in French and extremely agitated to see the Knight of the Sword in such poor condition. He was embarrassed for him, ashamed to be associated with him. The man deserved it as far as he was concerned. The Frenchman would have killed Ramsay without a decent hearing.
“You will have some explaining to do, sir,” the Grand Master narrowed his eyes at the Knight of the Sword. “Where are your Brothers? Your incompetence has embarrassed this office. I should have placed Dambretti or Barry in charge of the mission!”
Cecile Valentino laughed.
“I beg to differ, sir,” she said in perfect French, startling and embarrassing all three of them. “I believe the reverse may have been true had not the morons interfered. I saw no sign that Sir Ramsay was ready to capitulate when he had his sword under your chin, sir. Nor do I remember seeing him limp away when he left you in my charge.”
D’Brouchart chuckled softly and sat back down. He resumed the conversation in English. Beaujold’s face went from ashen to deep red. Maxie shifted nervously behind him, as cold sweat beaded on his forehead. It made his head hurt even worse as another wave of nausea overtook him. Why did she insist on provoking these maniacs? Didn’t she realize that he was the only man in the house and Ramsay was still out there somewhere?
“And what of my other Knights?” he asked Beaujold. “Have you seen them?”
“I have not,” Beaujold told him. “The last I saw of Brother Dambretti, he was being led into this house by that woman.” He nodded at Valentino. “And as far as the others, I believe that they were taken prisoner and placed in the basement. However, there is a great deal of blood upstairs in Ramsay’s bedroom. I am afraid that something terrible has happened to the Knight of the Golden Eagle.”
Valentino glanced at Maxie who snorted and then eyed the blond man sourly. She had almost forgotten about the Italian and the promise she had so carelessly given to the perverted bodyguard. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was he still upstairs? Surely Maxie had taken him out to the old shelter with the others. So whose blood was in the bedroom upstairs? Her heart skipped a beat as the possibilities flashed through her mind. If the perverted idiot had done irreparable damage to Dambretti, she would be in very serious trouble. She had had the same trouble with the sadistic bastard when they had killed d’Brouchart’s apprentice. Only her intervention had saved the young man from a much worse fate than a simple shot to the back of his head.
Valentino frowned deeply at him. If Maxie had ruined her plans, she would kill him herself.
“Enough!” she snapped. “You have seen your Knight. Now let’s get on with the exchange.”
(((((((((((((
Lucio Dambretti sat on the huge slab of limestone outside the defunct fall-out shelter, staring at his feet dejectedly. Konrad von Hetz stood a few paces away with his hands on his hips looking up the trail where Ramsay had disappeared. They had waited for almost forty-five minutes for the Knight of Death to return. The German’s wet hair had dried in the hot summer breeze and he was beginning to perspire, wetting it again. But the heat and the uncomfortably hot Texas weather was not nearly as disturbing as what he had seen in the Golden Eagle’s mind. The blond woman was up there somewhere and Ramsay had gone to her, even after all they had been through. That Ramsay had not betrayed the Order was a great relief, but the woman was another problem altogether. Sir Ramsay was hopelessly enmeshed in an emotionally devastating conundrum concerning the woman and what to do about her. The problem was serious, but not without remedy.
Lucio’s conversation with the woman had been highly disturbing and Lucio was wrong for having delved into his Brother’s business in such a personal manner, but even so, Lucio could not be punished for being inquisitive. He could be punished for being infatuated with this woman, but it was hardly worth mentioning. It was the old secret that the Italian harbored concerning Sir Ramsay’s past. Never would he have thought it possible that Mark Ramsay could be a criminal. That he could have been a criminal for over 800 years and that Lucio Dambretti had been aware of it all those centuries was nothing less than miraculous. Von Hetz admired Dambretti’s devotion to his former Master and mentor, but it did not excuse either one of them. A Knight of the Council was required to report such things. In keeping quiet, Lucio had made himself an accessory to the crime even though Ramsay had threatened him. Another minor crime, threatening to inflict harm, coercion, intimidation; it was nothing less than extortion on Ramsay’s part. A crime any way it was viewed. Ramsay was guilty of a heinous crime and he could not go unpunished. There were no statutes of limitations in the Order. The matter would have to be addressed and the sooner, the better.
Von Hetz had long suspected something dreadful was buried in Ramsay’s brain, but considering the Knight’s vocation, he had never delved too deeply when making his mental connections with the Knight of Death. He confined his probing to very basic, very simple levels such as where the Knight might be or what he might be feeling at any particular moment, strictly on the superficial level. These ‘sightings’ were usually done at the express request of the Grand Master or whenever unusual circumstances or events transpired such as those that had precipitated this trip to America.
The Ritter did not hold Dambretti’s reluctance to enter the water-filled tomb against him. He knew quite well that the Italian had an unnatural fear of water and dark places. His fear must have increased tremendously upon the thought of entering a dark place completely flooded with water, but human nature was such a pitiful melee of treachery and deceit, especially when women and honor were involved. Ramsay would forgive the Italian for his hasty words even though his anger was simmering and his suspicions were piqued at the moment. Lucio had put up an admirable fight against the intrusion into his thoughts, but his efforts had only brought the secret more quickly to the surface. The Ritter suppressed the urge to reach out to Ramsay’s mind even though he thought he already knew what might be occurring on top of the hill. If Ramsay raped the girl or murdered her in a jealous rage, he would be in deeper trouble than ever and he had definitely been in the blackest of moods when he had left them. The punishment for rape was severe enough, but to kill an innocent Christian, especially a woman, without even the somewhat mitigating excuse of war to justify the crime, the only punishment would be death. The tall man chewed his lip thoughtfully. What would be done, would be done. But the question remained: Go up or go back?
“What shall we do now, Brother?” Simon asked. The Healer stood at his elbow echoing his thoughts aloud. The Healer had been strangely quiet since emerging from the cavern, concentrating his attention on the young apprentice. Christopher had very nearly drowned in the last moments of their captivity. He was still coughing up foul, black water from his lungs.
“We are obligated to return him to the Master,” vo
n Hetz said without looking at him. “It will be for Sir d’Brouchart to decide.”
Dambretti stood up. His humiliation was complete. He had almost failed his Brothers in their need; he had angered his friend and Brother to the point of committing a serious crime and then betrayed him to the Apocalyptic Knight after eight centuries! Now they were all in danger again from above and below. He looked up the hill and then down the path toward the mansion. He was certain that Brother Ramsay would not have gone back up the hill if he had not made that foolish remark about ‘his woman’. The Scot would have simply left her sleeping there and been done with it, but he had been stupid and opened his mouth… again. His words had been totally out of order and uncalled for. Now he had most likely made the Scot an enemy for life of and in the case of the immortal Knights of the Council that meant a long, long time. He owed him everything! And now he owed him an apology if could get close enough to deliver it. He doubted he would get the chance to ask his Brother for forgiveness before he was either one or both of them were dead. If Ramsay hurt the woman and found out afterwards that his words had been empty braggadocio… the Italian shuddered at the ramifications.
“I will go for him,” Dambretti told them. “I drove him away. I will go for him. I know where he is, Brother.”
Von Hetz turned his gaze on the Italian, surveying him slowly, as if searching his thoughts… again. Simon frowned and shook his head.
“I’ll go with you, Sir,” Christopher spoke up from his perch on a smaller boulder where he had been cleaning the mud from his daggers. The young man stood up, waiting for Dambretti’s answer.
“Go and take the boy,” von Hetz nodded to him. “There is the matter of Sir Beaujold. Watch for him, Brother. An extra pair of eyes may be needed,” the German warned and turned to Simon. “We will go down to the house and see what has become of Miss Valentino, and her servant.”
Lucio retrieved his sword from the boulder and sat down, wiping it clean on his shirt. The silver blade, ornately engraved with Egyptian hieroglyphs, sparkled in the sun and thinking with some regret that he did not have his own apprentice with him. Most likely he would need to pass along his Mysteries before the day was over, before Ramsay administered the Final Rites to him and cut off his head. Even worse, he might have his head cut off before he passed along his Mysteries and Ramsay administered the Final Rites. Either way, he felt sure that he was about to die and all for nothing. Nothing except his incredible ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He regretted that he would not be able to say goodbye to Amelia. She was a good, Sicilian girl. He jerked his head toward the Apocalyptic Knight and was relieved to see that the man was no longer looking at him. It wouldn’t do for the man to learn about his latest in a long line of good, Sicilian girls.
He looked up at Christopher and smiled crookedly.
“Are you ready then, il mio dolce?”
The young man returned his smile and nodded before coughing up another mouthful of nasty water. Lucio could see that the apprentice wanted nothing more than to wreak a bit of revenge on the Knight of the Sword and the ugly man with the big gun. Behind both their smiles was a look of fatalistic doom wherein they assumed that this small act might be their last official assignment as members of the Order. They both had some explaining to do.
(((((((((((((
Mark pulled on his sticky, damp boots and stood up, grimacing slightly at the feel of the cold, blood and water soaked leather against his bare feet. He retrieved his shirt and pulled it on over his head. His hair was still damp as he brushed it back out of his face. His fears had returned with a vengeance. He should not have allowed her to keep him here with her for so long. Even the few minutes they had spent together in the observatory might have meant the difference between life and death for either or both of them.
“Hurry!” he urged her as she laced up her own boots and then stood up in order to fasten the buttons on her jeans.
“Where are we going?” She looked up at him with just a hint of fear in her voice. She regretted having kept him here for so long. She might have taken the only advantage he had, the only chance he had left to escape the man bent on killing him. The curly-haired one with the dancing eyes had surely told the others where she was… where he might be found.
“Back to the house,” he told her and took her arm. “We have to get away from here before it’s too late. We have to get my car. You say the keys are in your room? Can I find them?”
“Probably not and besides, I’m not letting you out of my sight,” she told him as he started down the ladder.
Once they were out in the open, they broke into a run, dashing for the relative safety of the stunted trees and bushes growing further down the side of the hill. Instead of following the path past the old shelter, they cut across the rough ground, slipping and sliding on the steep incline, keeping themselves concealed as much as possible behind the limited vegetation. At one point, they were forced to lie flat on their stomachs under a gnarled cedar as they waited for Sir Dambretti and Christopher Stewart to pass on the trail above them. Mark watched these two with a mixture of pain and regret. The mud was drying and sticking to them and very soon they would be the same color as the earth.
Merry tried in vain to scrape some of the goo off of her as they ran through the twisting garden paths to the patio. Mark motioned for her to be quiet as they edged down the wall to the first set of double doors. He leaned cautiously around the door facing and then jumped back, slumping low and shaking his head. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, listening as if he could hear them. Merry could hear nothing. Valentino and several others were in the library. Mark crawled past her without the slightest hint of noise, though he still carried the sword and the dagger, one weapon in each hand. Merry crawled after him, trying to emulate his movements.
They left the patio, went down and around the house to the door leading into the kitchen. The Knight made a foray inside the service door, crouching low against the wall until he could see into the kitchen. There were two servants at work, the cook was preparing dinner and a maid was putting away dishes in the cupboard. Mark straightened up and looked back at Merry. He smiled at her from his mud-smeared face and flicked some cedar needles from her shoulder, causing her to smile in return. They were a mess.
“Sometimes the direct approach is best,” he told her quietly, repeating von Hetz’ words. “Act natural,” he added and then had to smile at her appearance. Her muddy face reminded him of the Celtic lads who had covered themselves with mud and blue paint just to scare their enemies to cowardice. He shook his head at the unexpected memory. Was he that old? Surely not. The sword was a problem. He tucked the Flaming Sword inside his bedraggled trousers alongside his right leg away from the two servants and put Merry on his left side to cover the cut in his pants.
They walked into the kitchen as if nothing had happened. The cook glanced up at them, frowned when Merry shrugged apologetically and then went back to his salad. The maid stared at them indifferently. She would have to clean the mud from the floors. She muttered something in Spanish under her breath and shook her head.
Merry headed straight for the back stairwell and Mark nodded to the maid who eyed him suspiciously as he passed. The passage up to the second floor and into Merry’s bedroom was almost too easy. She closed the door softly and then began rummaging frantically through the drawers in her dresser. Her hands shook as she pulled her clothes out, throwing them helter-skelter about the room in panic. She looked up at him and shook her head. The keys were not there. Not where she remembered hiding them.
“I swear I put them here,” she told him and began to cry in frustration. His keys had been important to her. She remembered stealing them from Cecile’s desk in the library and bringing them up here. She remembered how it seemed as if she had to have them, had to have everything pertaining to him in her possession. Even his rental car keys. She remembered how the keychain looked in every detail. A clip held the keys on a silv
er chain attached to a gold and silver medallion into which his initials had been engraved and filled with black lacquer. Just his initials. MAR. No address. No phone number. She had needed it. Mark opened the door a crack and looked out into the strangely quiet hallway. Merry attacked her bureau with the same reckless abandon, pulling out the drawers, dumping the contents on the floor, all the while muttering ‘Where? Where?’
Mark could hear someone walking up the stairs, two someones. He watched the top of the stairs with one eye, waiting to see who was coming. Beaujold’s head appeared above the top riser, followed closely by Maxie’s ugly face still sporting the bandage on his nose. Mark eased the door to and signaled for her to be quiet. Merry froze and they waited until Maxie had escorted the Knight down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor. Mark nodded to her and she began searching even more desperately than before.
Mark opened the door again and resumed his surveillance of the hallway.
(((((((((((((
“Sir, I must protest!” Montague pleaded with d’Brouchart as they made their way up the steps and back inside the mansion. “Do not do this. There must be some other way.”
“Enough!” d’Brouchart raised his voice and held up the baculus as Montague opened the door. “I will have my Knights returned to me.”
Sir Montague cringed away from the twisted ivory staff with the orb of cracked amber on top. The golden claws surrounding the imperfectly cut crystalline ball reflected the light in brilliant flashes. He could see the triangular white emblem suspended inside the crystal with the red cross emblazoned on it. He had never seen the baculus of the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, but he had heard of it. It was unclear why the Master had it now. He had told the woman that he needed to get the missing ingredient for the Tree of Life from the Range Rover before they could continue with the exchange of 'goods'. The thing frightened Montague and he knew quite well that it had absolutely nothing to do with the ceremony associated with bestowing immortality. All he knew about the baculus was that it was ancient, perhaps even prehistoric if the words of Louis Champlain held any water at all. According to the Knight of the Golden Key, the baculus, like the Golden Key, had been handed down from the Atlantean god-kings to the extinct race of Djinn until it had passed into the hands of the poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon. It was as enigmatic as the pyramids in Egypt and as mysterious as the stone rings at Salisbury. Whatever its source, its power was great and mystical and he wanted nothing to do with it. He held the door open for the Master and they stepped into the spacious foyer of the mansion.
The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death Page 51
