The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (19 page)

“My news, is no news,” he said slowly in
French, not his native tongue. “Brother Ramsay has not communicated
with my office in over forty-eight hours.”

“What of the world?” the Master asked another
question of the Knight.

“The world remains in balance, Your Grace.
The wars progress and the peace negotiations continue, though
without much success. A new uprising is brewing between the
Musselmen on the West Bank and the settlers, but should not break
for another week or so. There is nothing noteworthy to report from
Persia. The Gauls, as always, deny everything and the German’s are
innocent as usual. We have heard nothing from the Russians lately.
My concerns lie with the Chinese, sir. I believe that our little
yellow friends are practicing global feng shui, if you will and are
currently investing heavily in the western colonies. What they
intend is…"

At this, one of the men across the table from
Sir Dambretti pounded his fist against the wood, demanding
attention, effectively cutting off the Knight of the Golden Eagle’s
report.

The Grand Master turned his gaze wearily on
the man dressed all in black from head to toe. His face was darkly
weathered and heavily lined as if he spent a great deal of time
outdoors. His long hair was streaked with silver. His black eyes,
deep set and somewhat sunken on either side of his long nose,
burned with a smoldering fire. He locked eyes with the Grand Master
for several long seconds before capitulating. The Master was not
ready to hear from Konrad von Hetz, Knight of the Apocalypse,
harbinger of doom and gloom. They had enough problems already.

“Hold, Brother Hetz,” d’Brouchart said in a
low voice. But he was finished with the Italian whose comments had
already caused a few raised eyebrows from the French Knights at the
table. “I would hear from Sir Beaujold, Chevalier d’Epee, if you
please, Golden Eagle. We will discuss Cathay some other time.”

Dambretti smiled tightly, nodded briefly and
resumed his seat as another man stood. A tall, thin man with hazel
eyes and wisps of blond hair on his balding head.

“Your Eminence.” He bowed slightly to the
Master and then glanced at every other pair of eyes at the table,
lingering slightly when he encountered the Italian’s steady gaze.
“Pardon my bluntness, Brothers, but the Order of the Rose continues
to flourish especially in America.” His expression revealed his
obvious disgust at even having to pronounce the name of the order.
“It seems we may have underestimated their importance by a
considerable sum. That we have ignored them merely because of their
androgynous structure may have been a supreme act of pride for
which we will now all pay dearly. This latest development calls for
urgent, mayhap drastic action, no less than an undeclared state of
war.”

“Preposterous!” the exclamation, totally out
of order, emanated from the Chevalier d’Epee’s right, where a very
sturdy man with curling brown hair and dancing blue eyes stared up
at him in dismay.

“How so, Brother Argonne?” The Master allowed
the breach of protocol in light of the gravity of the situation and
recognized the Order's historian. Sir Beaujold yielded the floor
reluctantly to the Knight of the Throne.

“Your Grace.” The shorter man rose from his
chair to address the assembly. “Historically, all such androgynous
orders are but ephemeral deviations. No order permitting women as
members has survived, not since the elder days and especially not
in these so-called orders that are nothing more than groups of
businessmen and merchants masquerading as Knights of Christ. This
profane rejuvenation of the Order of the Rose is nothing more than
a social club for sexual perverts and libertines. A band of false
Knights dabbling in alchemy and the black arts. They worship Venus
and Aphrodite while devoting themselves to licentious activities
and corruption of the moral codes of our honorable Order. They are
hardly a formidable foe.

"The idea of war, declared or undeclared, is
ludicrous. They will fade and go the way of all pretenders given
time. It is my concern, begging Brother Thomas' pardon if I may,
that we are concerned with this matter at all. Begging his pardon
again, I submit to you that they are of no concern. However,
concerning Brother Ramsay, our concern should be centered on his
redemption rather than focusing on his association with this
spurious order, notwithstanding the Chinese threat, of course.”

“Of course,” the Italian muttered, but had to
smile.

The Knight of the Throne, whose sole duty was
recording and maintaining the Order's archives, glanced nervously
at the Chevalier d’Epee who glared at him angrily, as the Ritter
von Hetz’s fist pounded the surface of the table again. His
adherence to the archaic method of gaining attention grated on the
Master’s nerves. Of all the traditions that had fallen by the
wayside, why did he always insist on retaining the most irksome
ones? The Knight of the Apocalypse would not be denied.

“Brother Hetz?” The Grand Master gritted his
teeth. “What have you to say?”

Sir Argonne sat down and the Knight of the
Apocalypse who Sees unfolded his considerable height from the
chair. He addressed the Grand Master with utmost gravity and then
stared darkly around the table causing the rest of them to shift
uncomfortably in their chairs.

“My Brothers,” his voice was deeper and more
resonant than the Master’s. He did not speak to them in French, but
in his native German, disdaining the use the common language
normally reserved for Council. “Behold! He was brought forth into
the presence of a female like unto the great Whore of Babylon. She
has ensnared our beloved brother, the Chevalier du Morte, in her
chaotic web of deceit. She has profaned his body with fornication.
She has whispered the foulest heresies unto his ears, proclaiming
that she is at once High Priestess as well as High Priest.” He
paused and waited as another round of murmurs circled the table.
When his Brothers grew quiet, he continued “She has taken knowledge
of both male and female in unholy union and she has murdered one of
our own. She has given our beloved alchemist the liquor of the
traitorous Anthony of Sardinia and has blinded him both physically
and mentally to the truth of his purpose, the obedience of his vows
and the fulfillment of his duty. She has brought him unto ruin and
laid claim to his immortal soul through treachery and guile. She
has set herself up to be Grand Master and lusts after the Mystery
of Life.”

Another murmur started and quickly rose in
pitch as the Knights made louder and louder declarations of
disbelief, protest and anger. The Seneschal pounded the table for
order in vain until the Knight of the Apocalypse finally stepped up
onto the table and raised both arms to the ceiling, throwing his
head back. His long dark hair fell in strands down his back as he
turned in a complete circle, causing the men to cease their
babbling in fear of what might happen next. The dark Knight stopped
and dropped his head forward, looking directly into the eyes of the
Italian Knight before speaking. “He lives, he dies, he lives again.
He lives, he dies, he lives again… for her pleasure. I am become a
stranger unto my brethren. Thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will
raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, and I will take
thy wives before thine eyes, and give them unto thy neighbour, and
he shall lie with thy wives in the sight of this sun.”

The apocalyptic Knight ended with a
scriptural quote as every eye in the room widened in horror at the
meaning of his words. He lowered his arms and sank down upon the
table, sitting cross-legged in the center of the red cross with his
arms crossed over his chest and his head down.

“I am the Knight Who Sees,” his voice trailed
off as if he were going to sleep in the middle of the table. The
words seemed to echo in the marble enclosure much longer than they
should have. The Knight of the Apocalypse’ fervor and
pronouncements always left them breathless, puzzled by his cryptic
riddles and shaken by his power to instill fear into their hearts.
Even unto the hearts of the immortals. But these words, with the
exception of the last scripture concerning wives, were not couched
in riddles or vague innuendo. These words were as clear as spring
water and their meaning held a shocking revelation. They had lost
their Knight of Death… to a woman, no less. The thought was
inconceivable to everyone at the table with one exception.

Sir Dambretti was visibly shaken by the
archaic manner in which the Apocalyptic Knight delivered his
oration and the fact that the last, most enigmatic phrase seemed to
be directed at him, personally. The Italian thought that von Hetz’
use of the High German language, which was very difficult to
understand even for seasoned veterans, was merely an attempt to
intimidate them all. Surely his grave pronouncements were a bit
exaggerated and what had he, Lucio Dambretti, to do with wives? He
had no wife!

“Bother Simon,” the Master’s voice softened
somewhat as he addressed the youngest of the assembly when silence
returned.

The small blond man who looked to be about
thirty years old, stood nervously to address the group, never
taking his eyes off the dark figure sitting on the table. He was
Simon D’Ornan, Chevalier du Serpent, Mystic Healer, Father
Confessor for the Brothers and the Master’s favorite.

“Your Excellency,” he nodded to the Master
and then bowed his head politely to each of them, smiling slightly,
nervously, and then returned his attention to the Master, frowning.
He had prepared no statement. He said nothing further.

“Is there a chance for healing? Is it
possible that our beloved Brother Ramsay is not lost to us?”
d’Brouchart asked him.

“If by ‘liquor of the traitorous apprentice’,
Brother Hetz means the potion of which the apprentice, Anthony, was
capable of preparing, it is possible that he is lost in a manner of
speaking. However, I have no firsthand knowledge from whence to
draw any valid conclusions. This potion is something beyond my
sphere of understanding. You would be more inclined to know of
these things. Concerning Brother Ramsay, it is a most unusual
circumstance. I would have to examine him in person, Your Eminence.
It is unlikely that Brother Ramsay would allow it, as you all know.
He is not and never has been the most amiable of Brothers among us.
The very nature of his mission affects his demeanor profoundly. I
believe that the weight of his office lies heavily on his soul.”
Simon licked his lips and glanced at the Knight of the Apocalypse
before continuing in a lower voice. “As for Brother Hetz’ prophecy,
I hardly think that Brother Ramsay would engage in such… such…
licentious behavior if he were in a normal frame of mind.”

“But what is normal, Brother?” Louis
Champlain asked the question very quietly from across the
table.

“But there may be a chance for recovery?” The
Master voiced his question again, ignoring Louis’ question.

“Possibly,” d’Ornan answered gravely.
“Anything is possible through God.”

“He has broken his vows!” Beaujold stood
suddenly without being recognized. “He must be destroyed. He is the
Knight of Death. He alone of all of us could bring about our
destruction. He is Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, lest
you all forget.”

“He is not himself,” the voice of Konrad Hetz
startled them when he raised his head and then slid from the table
and back into his chair.

Most of the apprentices jumped at his sudden
reanimation and one of them coughed loudly. Of all the assemblages
they had attended, this animated behavior on behalf of the Knights
was unprecedented in the presence of the Master. They had to wonder
what would happen in the Council if something of enormous
proportions should occur.

“He has been evilly influenced by powers
beyond his control,” von Hetz concluded. It seemed he might smile
at the commotion he caused, but it was only an illusion.

“He must die!” Beaujold glared at the
Apocalyptic Knight and pounded one fist on the table to emphasize
each word. The nearby goblets jumped on the lacquered surface,
sending the nervous valet hurrying around the table, wiping at the
spilled wine that sloshed out.

“Enough!” The Grand Master stood up and the
men fell silent. The Chevalier d’Epee resumed his seat angrily and
the Healer sat down quickly as well, blinking rapidly, looking as
if he would be ill. “The man is our Brother until proven otherwise.
You will remember that, Chevalier Beaujold. If there is a chance of
recovery, I want the opportunity to be had. He will be afforded the
right to repent and be saved. Repent and be saved! Thus sayeth the
Lord God Almighty!”

Each of the men and all of the apprentices
crossed themselves and said ‘Amen’.

“Sir d’Ornan, Sir Beaujold and Sir Dambretti,
you three will go to Sir Ramsay and bring him back. Tomorrow you
will leave for America. You will bring back our Brother by whatever
means necessary. Sir Barry will see to the needs of your journey.
Chevalier d’Epee?”

Beaujold bowed his head. “Yes, Your
Eminence.”

“I trust you are up to the... mission?
Perhaps I should call it a crusade as, indeed, the very fiber of
our Order is in jeopardy at the hands of these… infidels… you will
find Chevalier Ramsay a challenge, if he is unwilling to return
with you.”

“I am prepared, Your Excellency.” Beaujold
raised his eyes to look into the face of the Master with just the
slightest a hint of defiance.

“You had better be,” the Master said
doubtfully. The man would need his courage and perhaps his
arrogance, as well, if he were to encounter the Knight of Death in
a foul mood. Beaujold was an expert swordsman and strategist though
something of a hot-head, but he’d never gone up against Ramsay.
They were, after all, usually on the same side.