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

by Brendan Carroll

  “It’s not a fair trade, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll send your trinkets back when I have the time to unlace them.”

  “You had better not, Mark Andrew Ramsay.” She managed a smile for him. “I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

  He nodded and stood up. Merry looked up at him expectantly and he bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. She pressed something in his hand and he looked down at the keys to his car, resting in his bloody palm.

  “God be with you, Meredith,” he told her as he backed toward the open doors. He kept her face in his sight until he stumbled over the threshold and found himself on the verandah.

  Merry stood up shakily and stumbled to the door, holding on to the furniture as she went, overwhelmed by the urge to call him back, but she only managed to blink back the tears as she watched him disappear up the garden path. It was hard to believe he had ever been there. The clock on the mantel chimed and she shrieked before she realized what it was.

  “I will see you again, Sir Ramsay,” she whispered when she had recovered somewhat.

  She pressed her tear-stained face against her own reflection in the glass of the door. Turning away from the door, she looked down at the ring clutched in her hand and then pressed its smooth, cold surface to her lips.

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  Mark Andrew rushed blindly up the stony path. Over eight hundred years had passed since the last time he’d cried and he had no intention of allowing anyone to see him crying now. It was always Mark Andrew who caused others to cry. The death of his brother in 1187 had seen the last of his tears. He was far too old to start new habits and he had to get away from her before he lost his resolve. There was work to do on the hill top and they had to get away before the local authorities came out to investigate the disturbance. When he reached the summit of the hill, he found his Brothers straining against one of the newly cut blocks, trying to push it over the side of the pit. The body of the downed Knight was wrapped with von Hetz’ cloak and the Knight’s sword lay atop the shrouded body. Another, smaller bundle lay at the Knight’s feet. Mark swallowed hard and turned away from the sight. The body of Valentino’s security guard, along with his head, his shotgun and everything that might have indicated his passing was no longer in evidence. All signs of the bloody confrontation between Ramsay and his two latest conquests had been obliterated. There would be no signs that the Knights had ever come here. There would be no signs that anything had happened here other than some sort of abandoned stone works. Only the finest forensic investigation could ever detect that human blood had been spilled on these rocks.

  The dust had settled. Their work here was done. Finished.

  Each one of the men left standing atop the barren hill wore a different expression. Simon looked as if he was only just recovering from being ill. The Master wore an expression of disgust. Montague grimaced in pain and held one hand pressed against his shoulder while blood oozed through his fingers. He picked up the smaller bundle that had been wrapped in his own coat and tucked it under his uninjured arm before starting off down the trail. The Italian looked angry. He met Mark Andrew’s gaze briefly before jerking Beaujold’s sword off the body. He handed it over to Christopher Stewart then hefted the Knight’s body from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. With one last look around at their professional handiwork, he followed after Montague with the Healer on his heels. The Grand Master walked behind them carrying the baculus aloft in front of him like a priest in a funerary march. The sound of a song drifted back to him. Simon was singing in an ancient language. Words that Ramsay no longer recognized. Halfway down the trail, d’Brouchart turned and waited for him. Ramsay sent Christopher on ahead of him and the Ritter passed them by without comment.

  “This… lady friend of yours…” The Master swallowed hard and looked up at the sun. Sweat stood out on his forehead and the collar of his shirt was soaked. “How can we leave her behind?”

  “How can we take her, Sir?” Mark asked and looked him straight in the eye as his heart lurched.

  “We cannot take her with us. You know that,” d’Brouchart looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze.

  “She will hold her peace and keep silent,” Mark told him. “I give you my word, Sir. On my oath, she will hold her peace. These two who have perished here have no ties. She told me this much herself.”

  “And if she calls the police? What then?” D’Brouchart squinted at him. “She knows your name. She knows your face. She knows you live in Scotland. Scotland can become an extremely small hiding place for a murderer.”

  “If she turns me in,” Mark drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing “if she turns me in, I will pass along my mysteries and forfeit my own life. Is that good enough?”

  The Master met his gaze for several long moments before nodding briefly, turning on his heel and continuing down the hill.

  Christopher waited for him at the foot of the garden. They passed the red brick mansion and Ramsay averted his eyes from the windows of the house lest he see some glimpse of the woman there. If he should see her, his will would surely weaken and his broken heart might betray him in front of his Brothers. His mind was black with despair though he knew quite well that Merry would never turn him in. He suddenly took Christopher’s arm and dragged him toward the garage. He had to get away… Now!

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  Lucio Dambretti lowered his grisly burden into the rear of the white van. He backed away, blinking back tears as he remembered their little adventure on the way to this cursed place when Beaujold was wrapped in the expensive Persian rug. He regretted every word of it now. He had never had much love for the sanctimonious Knight of the Sword, but he was glad it would not be his duty to inform the Knight’s apprentice of the death of his Master. Simon would have that dubious honor. It would be Ramsay’s duty to transfer the mystery to his replacement and it would be the Master’s duty to bestow the gift of immortality on the new Knight. Sir James Argonne would record the events in archives and Sir Barry of Sussex would prepare his body for burial. Sir Montague would purchase a fine coffin for him in London with the impression of his sword carved on the surface. The Ritter would perform the funerary rites and Simon would sing the litany. Only Philip Cambrique would be spared any personal role in the process. He would simply arrange for the transfer of the body and procure the proper papers from Rome and Edinburgh. Sir Louis Champlain and Sir Hugh de Champagne would accompany the body to Lothian for entombment beneath Ramsay’s little chapel.

  Next to Ramsay’s two chores, the Italian felt that his was one of the most distasteful when one of the Knight’s fell. He would be asked to examine the body to make sure that that Thomas Beaujold had indeed departed from the empty shell. Only once had Ramsay been required to repeat the Key of Death Ceremony, but that had been long, long ago under some very mysterious circumstances that Dambretti didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand. One of them had fallen while on a mission in Romania, buried by a rockslide. They had found the ‘body’ a week later in a small village inn, alive, but not alive. Ramsay had killed him and they had transported him back to France in a box, but the Key of Death had not worked for some strange reason and Ramsay had been forced to ‘take more aggressive steps’. What that meant, Dambretti had no idea. He shuddered to his toes at the memory and then closed the doors on the van.

  There would be much to do when they finally got back to Italy. He placed one hand on Simon’s shoulder and gave him a supportive smile. He purposefully turned away from the Grand Master, lest he be blamed for this entire fiasco as was usual. He stopped to watch the black El Dorado as it passed by them on its way toward the highway.

  “Your Grace?” He looked back at the big red-haired man and waited for instructions

  “There is much work to do, Golden Eagle.” The Master tugged on his coat sleeve, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Brother Simon, see to Sir Montague’s needs. Ritter, if you please,”
he said as he handed over the baculus to the German Knight.

  There would be favors to call in, documents to prepare, bribes to pay. Lucio hoped that he would not be called upon to assist in making the arrangements. He only wanted to get back home to Naples where he intended to get drunk and then sleep for a week or two after the burial, before wallowing in self-pity and guilt for a few years. Of course, Amelia would be there to help him get through it all. He could not help but feel a measure of responsibility for what had happened to the Knight of the Sword. The Italian had been senior to the French Knight by several centuries. If he had been more reliable, the Master would have put him in charge of the mission rather than Beaujold and then, perhaps, things might have turned out differently. In charge or not, he knew in his heart that the Master would place a great deal of the blame on him. It had always been so. Never in charge, but always responsible.

  Von Hetz held the baculus reverently, but frowned at the disappearing automobile carrying Ramsay and his irreverent apprentice.

  “Your Grace?” The German asked the same open-ended question as the Italian.

  “We will meet with him in Italy,” the Master told him after a protracted silence. He brushed his hands together as if washing them and turned toward the van as the healer held the passenger door open for him. “I will ride with Sir Beaujold. Golden Eagle, take the wheel.”

  Dambretti sighed and shook his head. He had hoped to drive Montague’s rental car back to town. He had actually hoped to have some excuse to lag behind so that he might say goodbye to the woman. Somehow he felt that he owed her an explanation for Mark Ramsay and all that had occurred. Somehow he had hoped to wrangle an invitation to return next summer… just to check on her. But it was not to be so. Not this time. He glanced back at the house once more, wondering if she might be watching them.

  Chapter Twelve of Twelve

  I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none.

  The chamber was dark, lit only by numerous yellow candles stuck in an iron candlestick and sputtering torches held in black metal sconces along the rough-cut stone walls, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing of beauty here. The floor was damp and water glistened on the dark walls. The smell of mold and his sister, mildew, hung in the smoky air. This was the most ancient part of the Villa, dating back to the height of the Roman Empire when the early Christians had sought out such places to meet and worship their new god. The walls were decorated with ancient graffiti. Names, dates, witty sayings and everywhere was the sign of the fish, the secret symbol of the Christians. No one had entered here, under the catacombs, in years. Not since the fearful days of the Inquisition when the Templars had been declared heretics, had these chambers seen signs of life. Here some had sought temporary refuge, tended by the sympathetic lay brothers until the chance to flee had come. The Church of Rome had betrayed them and they had expected no less, but they had allowed their own power, their own wealth and their own arrogance to bring their ultimate downfall, believing in an enlightened system of ‘Truth conquers All’ that was too radical for the times. The Church had wanted ignorance and blind obedience. Since then, they had taken great pains to work out a sort of truce with Rome. A mutually agreeable stalemate. Never trusting anyone or any institution with their secrets. Taking the greatest pains to conceal their missions, their goals, their activities under a number of different guises. Always being there when great events unfolded, but never being in evidence. Never taking the credit for anything that they did and never living down the reputation bestowed upon them by the corrupted Holy See since the time of the French King Philipe le Bel.

  It had been a shock to the Italian Knight and the Scot as well to hear the same false accusations on the lips of Cecile Valentino almost seven hundred years later. Almost seven hundred years of anonymity, clouded by legend, speculation and exaggeration. The Templars had taken on a magickal, mystical quality that time could only enhance to the point of absurdity. But Truth in this particular case might have seemed much less believable than fiction.

  These unadorned yet hallowed halls served the Order in more ways than one. Tonight’s purpose was not one that gave cause for celebration, but never-the-less gave pause for reflection and meditation and would, ultimately give those involved reason to wonder if their work, their sacrifice and their Holy Commission were nothing more than vain dreams of a time that would never come to pass.

  The Chevalier du Morte could see nothing from beneath the heavy black hood covering his head. He could sense the presence of the ten men in the room with him as he knelt before the stone altar. Five Knights aligned on either side of him, standing with their backs against the wall. Every man’s face deeply obscured within the shadows of the hooded mantles they wore over their white surcoats and chain mail. The sound of each movement was amplified inside the hollow rock chamber. The jingle of chain mail and the squeak of leather belts and scabbards seemed unnaturally loud as the men gathered there in full dress uniform, swayed slightly to and fro. Ramsay wore no surcoat, no mantle nor weapon, no boots nor even socks on his bare feet which were crossed at the ankles behind him as he knelt on the damp floor. His clothing was reduced to a single pair of loose black trousers and the hood. His wrists, also crossed behind his back, were tied with a length of new rope, securely fastened and knotted to preclude any hope of escape.

  The accused knew where he was, knew the identity of every man in the room though he did not know where each would be standing. The hood was provided rather for the comfort of the punishing Brothers, rather than the confusion of the condemned. He would not know which of them approached him when the punishment began and would not be able to accurately associate mercy or brutality with the rightful owner. Such anonymity would help to prevent future retaliatory efforts on the part of the prisoner.

  They had been arguing for more than two weeks around the Council Table at the Villa in southern Italy. Sir Ramsay had never witnessed anything like it in all the years that he had been a member of the Council of Twelve. Never had the Master allowed such a round table discussion to last for so long before calling for a vote. The pros and cons had been hashed and re-hashed after the funeral and the Initiation and Rites had been completed for the installation of the new Knight of the Sword.

  Sir Ramsay had, naturally been excluded from these discussions. He had spent the time under house arrest in the guest quarters. Only Christopher had been allowed to attend him and the boy knew nothing of what was passing in the Council Chamber. The inactivity and boredom had driven him to distraction and he was almost glad to have the thing over and done.

  Christopher would be allowed to take him home after Simon pronounced him well enough to travel. Christopher Stewart’s punishment for leaving the compound without authority would be suspension from Sir Barry’s Academy for one year. The young man had barely contained his joy when the sentence had been announced. He felt like Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch. A whole year’s respite from the stern schoolmaster. The only thing he regretted was the separation from his friend Armand de Bleu and, since Armand’s Master was one of the French Knights aligned with Sir Beaujold’s manner of thinking, Armand would never receive permission to visit Scotland. Of course, Sir Ramsay had been sorely disappointed. He wanted the prescribed three year training to be over and done so that Christopher could begin his real training in Scotland. He had much to learn about alchemy and there was much to teach about life and death and the Order and God. Mark Andrew was worried about Christopher’s stubborn streak and even now in the stuffy confines of this stone chamber of horrors, he was worried that his apprentice would do something impetuous when he learned what had transpired here.

  A communal shudder seemed to pass through the room as the Grand Master entered the stuffy chamber with an unnamed attendant witness, who was not a Knight of the Council, near his right shoulder. The two men made their way down the dual line of fully armored Knights. As he passed, each pair turned to face the altar. The unnamed man, also
wearing a hooded mantle, would be one of the lay brothers or older apprentices. He would actually stand in for the Knight of Death and participate in the punishment in order to bear witness to the fact that it was meted fairly.

  The Grand Master, also dressed in the same garb as his Knights, stood between Ramsay and the altar. The man heaved an audible sigh and placed one gloved hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Brother Ramsay, do you understand the charges of which you have been found guilty?” His deep voice echoed in the stone chamber.

  Mark Andrew nodded his head and felt the cool, comfort of the silver filigreed earrings braided into a lock of his hair brush against his bare neck under the hood.

  “Do you willingly accept the penance meted out by this court?”

  He nodded again. “I do,” came the muffled reply from the bowed head of the Knight of Death.

  “Have you any further words for thy Brothers’ sakes?” The Master asked him.

  The convicted man nodded his head yet once more.

  “Speak,” the Master’s voice seemed to crack just a bit under the strain.

  “I looked for some to take pity, but there was none; and for comforters, but I found none,” Mark Andrew recited these most fitting words from the Holy Scriptures, Psalms, Chapter 69, as he braced himself against what he was about to receive. A barely audible groan escaped one of his Brothers, though none of them moved or spoke out in his defense. That time had passed.

  “So be it,” the Grand Master stepped away and resumed his post behind the altar, where the light from the guttering candles cast his face in dark shadows.

  He raised one hand and made a fist as a signal to the Knight who had drawn the first tile to step forward. The Knight moved forward and stopped beside the kneeling Chevalier du Morte.

  “Let the Twelve of Twelve begin,” the Grand Master dropped his hand and turned his back to them. He would be the last to administer his share of the punishment.