The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (23 page)

“Then you are saying that you are exactly who
I thought you were?” The wicked smile he had grown to hate
returned.

He had made a serious mistake.

“You are the one who follows these practices
that have been taken and perverted from the old orders of chivalry
and honor,” he spoke very slowly, gauging every word carefully.
“You call yourselves Knights and put on the trappings of Heraldry,
but I am not without some measure of knowledge concerning these
things. I am, after all, from Scotland and Scotland is an old
country. Not new like this place. We fought off the Romans at
Hadrian’s wall. Scottish history is full of honor and glory and
struggle and defeat. You do not know what it means to have your
country invaded time and again. To have everything taken from you
in an instant. I am not who you think I am, but then, neither are
you who you pretend to be. If these Templars you like to speak of
come riding over that hill, you and your precious brothers and
sisters would run and hide in the basements and do well enough by
it. You have no idea what it means to be free. You take freedom for
granted and abuse it ruthlessly. This precious commodity that was
bought with the blood of others. You have no appreciation for life,
or liberty, or the rights of others.”

Valentino narrowed her eyes and seemed to be
considering his words.

He had not actually said that he had
personally witnessed any of the acts of violence he had listed.
Perhaps there was still a chance he could recover from the terrible
faux pas. The thought occurred to him that he should not have
spoken harshly to her about blood and torture, but women were
different now as opposed to when? The Dark Age as it was called? It
seemed that most of his dealings with women dated from some time
long past. He watched TV, drove cars, knew everything he needed to
know to function properly in the world. He had knowledge of her
world, but… where had he been? Everywhere? Nowhere?

“So what shall we do then, Mr. Ramsay?” She
asked finally.

He had to appease her before he found himself
back in her lab with Maxie at his throat.

“I must apologize for my behavior. You can
understand that I am under a little stress here, can’t you? I would
like to consider your invitation to stay for a while as a guest. I
have been known to misjudge people before, especially women,” he
shrugged and forced his best smile for her. “I would like your
permission to spend a bit of time with Merry. I do enjoy her
company and I realize that the two of you have a… an understanding,
but I like to talk to her none-the-less. I believe we have gotten
off to a bad start.” The understatement of the century.

“Apparently so. Merry is like a child, in
many ways, Mr. Ramsay, as I am sure you have noticed. Please don’t
let her enthusiasm for your attentions lead you astray. She is my
responsibility and her welfare is my concern. Don’t forget that.
Merry knows what is best for her though she may not act like it.
She is spoiled and it’s my fault. She is used to getting what she
wants, but ultimately, she belongs with me and I am willing to die
for her.”

It was not an answer, but it was not exactly
a flat denial of his request. The implications of what she said
seemed to point to the fact that Cecile Valentino was allowing the
Pixie to indulge herself with him in order to keep her happy. The
situation at the mansion was very intriguing; he was actually
beginning to think he would like to stay for a while just to see
what would develop, if they stopped poisoning him. Part of his mind
still insisted that he had nothing to fear from them even though
his logical mind screamed at him to run.

They started back toward the house with Mark
glancing around, searching for surveillance cameras or signs of
Maxie in the shrubbery.

“So tell me, Mr. Ramsay, what is it exactly
that you do for a living?” She asked casually as they walked back
toward the house.

“If I tell you, I'll have to kill you.”

She froze and stared at him like a deer in a
headlight.

“That was a joke,” he smiled at her
carelessly. “Actually, I’m on holiday.”

“Really?” She started walking again. “Going
anywhere in particular?”

“Not really, just driving about the
countryside. America is best seen from ground level."

“How long before you have to be back to
work?”

“Is this Monday or Tuesday? I’ve lost track,”
he answered her question with a question.

“Friday.”

He decided to go along with the deception she
thought she was perpetrating. He had to keep reminding himself that
she knew about his memory loss, but that she did not think that he
knew that she knew about it. Very confusing. No matter how
ludicrous it seemed to him, some of her information could be true.
Right now, she was treating him much better and he intended to take
advantage of it. In the long run, he knew she would be trying to
pry those presumed secrets from him again and he still didn’t know
if he actually possessed them or if the whole thing was simply her
imagination. They returned to the patio and sat down at the glass
table under the shade of the umbrella. One of her maids brought
them a pitcher of lemonade and glasses filled with ice. Cecile
nodded to the maid and then poured lemonade in both glasses. She
handed one to Mark and then took a long swallow from hers with the
usual sniffing ceremony.

“Man, it’s hot!" she commented and squinted
up at the crystal blue sky. "Nothing like lemonade on a hot day,”
she smiled and refilled her glass. “Do you have lemonade in
Scotland?”

Mark nodded absently as he examined the
sparkling yellow liquid suspiciously.

“I promise you, there is nothing in the
lemonade,” she sipped her second glass and laughed softly. “You
really have to forgive me for all that, you know. The Bible says
you must forgive me.”

“This is very good,” he lied to her after
taking a drink from the glass. It was much too sweet and… bitter at
the same time.

“Yes it is, isn’t it? Sort of like sex,” she
said.

Sort of like sex. He frowned at the
irreverent thought. Had he said that or had she said that? It was
his last confused thought before his forehead smacked onto the
wrought iron table and the glass crashed onto the patio.

“It was in the ice, Mr. Ramsay.” Valentino
made a wry face and stood up. She ran her fingers through his silky
hair as she called for the maid to clean up the mess.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

He recognized the dancing patterns of
candlelight through his eyelids before he was fully awake. A cool
breeze touched his face and whispered through his hair. The
intoxicating smell of roses tickled his nose and made him think of
the Virgin's shrine in the courtyard. The courtyard in Italy came
into view sharply and then faded just as quickly. The sound of the
glass and pewter wind chimes came softly to his ears and made him
smile at the memory of some long, lost place in another time and
another life. And another Mary Magdalene. Mary Catharine. Mary…
Merry… Merry. Her silk gown rustled as she hurried along the back
stairs. She was too late. Too late. He drifted deeper into
sleep.

“Mark Andrew?” The voice was soothing,
comforting and familiar calling him back.

He opened his eyes and saw the octagonal
pattern played out by rafters in ceiling above him and heard the
silk banners rustling in the evening air. Crickets chirped in the
garden and frogs croaked in the goldfish pond nearby. Night so
soon? He turned his head slightly and saw the Pixie's face above
him. She wore a white gown with hundreds of sparkling white sequins
embedded in tiny gathers at the neckline. Her curly blond hair
softly framed her face and the candlelight sparkled in her clear
eyes. Intricately wrought silver earrings of Celtic design dangled
from her earlobes. A matching silver necklace hung from her neck,
but the pendant was obscured behind the dress. He needed to see it.
She was truly a vision of divinity and she needed the protective
medallion. Isis of Egypt. Semiramis of Babylon. Aphrodite of
Greece. None of these could compare to her. He smiled at her
languidly. She was his goddess and he was her god. He had come home
and he felt better than he had in years, it seemed. He tried to
reach for the necklace, but his hand fell back before it was
halfway there.

“Mark Andrew,” she returned his smile and
leaned down, kissing him lightly on the lips. “Can you hear
me?”

“O’ carse, I can ’ear ye, lassie,” he frowned
slightly, licked his dry lips and tried to move his arm again, but
the effort was too much. He didn’t want to move and his arm didn’t
want to move either. He didn’t need his arms anyway. She had two
and that was all they needed.

“The time has come for you to remember,” she
whispered and ran her fingers down his cheek. “Your brothers are
looking for you.”

“I know,” he told her unconcernedly. “I dunna
think they will foind me too soon. Me brother’s been lookin’ fur me
fur years.” He raised his chin and she kissed him again. He thought
he might need his arms after all. He needed some way to pull her
down next to him, but he could not figure it out.

“The Master is worried about you,” she told
him. “He wants you to come home.”

“Home? I am home and let ’im wonder. Why wud
’e care now?” his frown deepened. It was very difficult to speak.
He wanted her next to him. He tried to raise his head, but like his
arm, it refused to cooperate, but he didn’t care too much since she
continued to fill in the spaces between her words with kisses and
tender caresses. It didn’t matter. She slid her arm under his neck
and placed a pillow behind his head. He could see her better now.
She sat next to him and took his hand in hers, stroking it
lovingly, though he could not feel it. He wondered if she would
stick her tongue between his fingers again. That had been very
pleasant though a bit shocking. He wondered if he would be able to
feel it this time.

“Yes, home.” She smiled and nodded. “I’m
going to take you home.”

“Wud ye, now? I thought we were ’ome oll
ready. Oh, you mean my home,” he asked almost idiotically. What a
nice surprise! And he thought he was going to have to leave with
the silly little bald man that liked to kiss him. “Gud. Thot’s
verra gud. I ’ave a place I’d loike t’ show ye. Ye’d loike it,
Meredith. Th’ faeries visit there in th’ spring and ye can ’ear
them singin’ their songs.” He closed his eyes and she brushed her
fingertips over his eyelids.

“That sounds wonderful, but I need your help,
Mark,” she told him. “I need you to tell me where to take you. How
do I get you home to the Master?”

“Home? To the Master?” he asked again. “I
’ave no Master, lassie. I answer to God, ’imself.”

The silhouette of a castle against a dark sky
atop a stony cliff, overlooking a stormy sea filled his mind.
Clouds of mist rose from the breakwaters and drifted up toward the
flat green land surrounding the imposing structure. The spire of
what appeared to be a chapel built on the roof of the castle
speared the full moon floating above the keep. Red torch light
flickered along the parapets and he could almost smell the ocean
and hear the waves breaking on the rocks. Gulls circled the cliffs
in the moonlight, crying out in their unusual night flight. The
moonlight reflected off the dark waves and the tops of the drifting
clouds of mist. The grass in front of the castle stretched away to
the forest.

He shuddered. Not home. Not anymore. That
image faded and was replaced by the crackle of a cheery fire in a
huge stone hearth. A lanky Scottish deerhound lay on the stones in
front of the fire, snoring peacefully on a woolen rug. Above the
mantle was the portrait of a beautiful woman with long, dark hair,
wearing a gold tiara on her head. Her eyes were deep blue and her
smile was full of kindness. Mother? No. Not anymore.

The portrait vanished and he was looking
across a bleak landscape of white rock and sand. The sun shimmered
on the horizon, causing the distant desert to take on the
appearance of an inviting lake. In the foreground was a stark black
and white striped tent with a red and white banner flying above it
in the hot, desert wind. A pair of horses stood near the tent
stomping and snorting. They were thirsty. He needed to find water
for them. He needed to find water for all of them. A dust devil
obscured his vision and he heard the undulating warble of Bedouin
women, bidding farewell to their sons and husbands as they rode off
to war. He opened his eyes and looked into the cool blue eyes of
the Pixie.

“I canna say where ’ome is,” he told her in
confusion. “It’s not there anymore.”

“Of course it is,” she assured him and held
his head up to give him a drink of something very sweet. “It’s the
fever, Mark Andrew. The fever has made you forget. Now you must
remember for me. Think. Concentrate. What can you see?”

“I can’t see anything, but you, Meredith,” he
said and closed his eyes again. She was so beautiful. So delicate,
so innocent. He wanted to kiss her, but couldn’t reach her. He
wanted to touch her face, her arms, her breasts. He wanted…

“You must think, Mark,” she urged him. “We
must get away now before they come for us.”

“Come away with me,” he pleaded with her in
the language of the Church. She didn’t understand. He had to make
her understand. “Leave this land to the adders and come away with
me, Meredith,” he tried the language of the Frankish Knights. She
blinked in confusion. “Let me save you from this pit of perdition,”
he tried Greek and she smiled, but there was no understanding in
her beautiful eyes. “Am I so lost that I should die with you?” he
asked in English.

“Yes, of course, Mark, whatever you say,” her
smile widened and she answered in English.

“Why?” he asked in English. Something was not
right.