The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (43 page)

Mark stood slowly, avoiding the point of the
blade and the Knight shoved him toward the door leading into the
lab. Von Hetz found the light switch and the room came alive, a
gleaming, bristling array of equipment arranged on stainless steel
tables and in orderly glass cabinets. The German shoved him against
a cabinet full of bottles, flasks and boxes of all sorts and
shapes. He held the sword against him as he smashed the glass with
one hand and reached in to take out a small glass bottle full of
grayish liquid. He held it up briefly and then thrust it at the
Knight of Death.

“What is that? You are the Alchemist. Tell me
what that is!”

Mark looked down at the label. A chemical
formula. His mind revolted when he tried to decipher it. Hg(CN)2.
Mercuric cyanide. Poison. He could not remember what it might be
used for, but the ingredients were clearly a problem and most
likely what Valentino had used to poison him at her dinner table,
if indeed she had poisoned him. It would certainly do the trick if
it was an acidic enough compound. The label did not give the
details of the composition.

“Poison,” he said simply and looked up at the
man and raised both eyebrows. “Mercuric cyanide.”

“And deadly when ingested, no?” Von Hetz eyed
him coldly.

“Most likely,” Mark admitted reluctantly.
This was not a good development. He had a terrible sinking feeling
in his stomach. His poor, mistreated stomach… His eyes widened as
he watched the man take the cap off the bottle. He set the open
bottle on the counter.

“Drink it,” the Knight said and stood back
from him, but kept the sword raised.

“You’re insane,” Mark objected and looked at
him in astonishment. “It would be suicide.”

“You have two options, Brother Ramsay,” von
Hetz told him in a low, menacing voice. “Either drink the poison
and remain whole or I will take your head. You are of no use to me
or the Order in your current condition. You must believe or all is
lost. Think of it this way. If I am telling the truth, you will
live and remain in one piece for at least a time. If I am lying you
will die by poisoning. If you fail to comply with my orders you
will die by my sword without question and without hope of
redemption. The choice is yours. You must come to your senses or
else I will have to kill you before you remember your mysteries and
divulge them to these people. It would be the end of our Order and
I cannot allow that to happen.”

Mark could think of no argument as he weighed
his options He didn’t like the odds or the options, but he wanted
his head to remain attached to his body whether he lived or died.
He had seen too many heads detached from bodies in his lifetime. He
had separated quite a few himself, but… Von Hetz gripped his sword
in both hands and raised it behind his right shoulder in
preparation of making the deadly stroke. Mark picked up the bottle,
clearly angry and terrified at the same time. His hands shook with
a mixture of fear and rage. He believed and he did not believe.

“All right, then,” he said hoarsely. “You’ll
see. When I’m dead and you’re a murderer, you’ll be sorry!” He
turned up the bottle and poured the contents into his mouth. It
tasted like it looked. Awful, bitter, but it burned its way down
his throat as if seeking the center of the earth without the need
for swallowing. The fumes rose in his nose, taking away his breath
and he recognized the smell.

The liquid concoction hit his empty stomach
like a sack of cannon balls and his stomach rebelled immediately to
the deadly assault. His stomach convulsed and tried to vomit it up.
Von Hetz dropped his sword and stepped forward quickly, placing one
hand over Mark Andrew’s mouth and the other behind his head. He
kicked and struggled futilely. He could actually feel the cold knot
in his stomach as he slid to the floor. The dark Knight knelt
beside him, avoiding his kicking feet, ducking as he swung blindly
at him with both fists. Within seconds he lost the will to resist
and lay on the floor clutching his stomach, shaking at first and
then convulsing, heaving violently while his antagonist gripped his
head in a vice-like hold. When the thrashing ceased, Von Hetz let
go of him, pushed him on his back and then leaned over him to look
in his eyes.

“Forgive me, Brother,” the man told him and
then stood up. It was the last thing Mark heard before his vision
faded in what he thought surely was the grip of death. At least he
was not to be mutilated. He had a distinct aversion to blades when
he did not have hold of the hilt.

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

Dambretti caught Beaujold’s elbow in a
vice-like grip and pulled him toward the fireplace in the dining
room where the guests were busily piling their plates with food
from the buffet. He popped an olive in his mouth and nodded to a
young man who spoke to him before addressing the Chevalier d’Epee
in low tones.

“We must make our move before the ceremony. I
cannot bluff my way through it. And you are attracting attention to
yourself with your less than friendly attitude, Brother d’Antin,”
he smiled though it did not match his tone. “You cannot take on all
these people even if they are just a group of merchants and
seamstresses.”

“I am aware of that,” Beaujold retorted
angrily, but managed to smile at the same time. “As soon as this
crowd thins a bit we will make our way upstairs to his room. He is
obviously not coming down to join us. It is apparent that he is not
on the guest list.”

“All the more reason for caution,” Dambretti
warned him. He did not want Beaujold going off half-cocked and
beheading his friend at first sight. How on earth would they get
him out in two pieces if they couldn’t get him out in one? “They
are moving to the stairs now,” he nodded at Simon and Christopher
who were edging toward the dining room door with their plates full
of dainty appetizers.

The two Knights walked casually through the
crowd and took up positions near their companions. Dambretti helped
himself to one of Christopher’s little sandwiches and nudged the
apprentice playfully in the stomach with his elbow, trying to
reassure the nervous young man that everything would work out to
the good. He really liked the boy and thought that Ramsay had made
a good choice in spite of the apprentice’s impetuosity. He showed
spirit and determination as well as loyalty. Christopher was much
like his own apprentice had been when he’d first taken him on, but
Volpi was getting older and sadly, would soon have to be replaced
with a younger man.

Beaujold had always been too stiff-necked and
unyielding in his beliefs. Beaujold’s apprentice was already in his
thirties and displayed a temperament much like his Master. If
anything happened to Beaujold, they would never miss him if his
present apprentice took his place. Dambretti shuddered at the
thought of losing a Knight. Even Thomas Beaujold. It had been years
since one of them had passed into the halls of Amenti.

The members of the Order of the Rose filed
past them on their way to the patio. The guests smiled and nodded
to them, thanking them for the fine faire as if they had provided
it. The Knight of the Golden Eagle had to suppress the overpowering
urge to use his own secret as he watched them go by, but it was too
demanding and these people meant nothing to him. Ideally, they
would be here only a short time longer and then he would never see
any of them again. Dambretti felt the familiar flutter of
butterflies in his stomach or maybe more like moths as their
precarious position came back to the forefront of his mind when he
caught sight of a stout, scar-faced man standing near the patio
doors. He looked completely out of place and very nervous. He
allowed a quick survey with his inner sight and was immediately
repulsed by what he saw. The man was definitely not a member of
Valentino’s order. Lucio leaned close to Christopher and nodded
toward the man.

“I don’t like the looks of that one,” he said
in a low voice. “What do you think, my son?”

“He acts like he’s watching everyone. I’d say
he’s security. He has a pistol under his coat,” Christopher
answered him. “I saw it when he was filling his plate at the
table.”

“Ahhh. Very good, Christopher. Then we should
watch for more of them,” Lucio told him and then passed the news
along to his Brothers. “No sign of Brother Hetz?” he asked
Christopher after a moment. The apprentice shook his head. He had
been scanning the crowd constantly for signs of the Apocalyptic
Knight. He was quite sure he was here somewhere.

Something nagged at the back of his mind,
causing him to turn around in time to see a young blond woman
descending the stairs. She was dressed in a stunning lavender gown
of the same shade as the Healer’s uniform. The flowing, gossamer
material however, was much more appealing on her. The dress made
with extra long sleeves, puffed above the elbows and tight on the
forearms looked as if it had been designed for a mediaeval
princess. The bodice was low, square cut, revealing a sinful amount
of tan flesh. Laces of dark purple velvet ran down the sides and
front of the bodice. The crisscrossed lacing made him want to cut
it loose with his dagger. He shook off the irreverent thought and
concentrated on her angelic face. She wore a myrtle wreath in her
curly hair and a sad look on her face. Her eyes were electric blue
when she met his gaze. There was almost a shock of recognition
though he had never seen her before. She came down the stairs and
walked directly toward him. The sadness had been replaced with a
peculiar expression and his heart leapt into his throat as he
thought she would speak to him and call him by his correct name. It
was very hard to keep his composure when she held out her hand, but
instead of clasping it in the accepted greeting, he bent low over
it, kissing it lightly instead, as if she were some great lady from
a royal family. Beaujold turned in time to witness his behavior and
cleared his throat loudly.

“You must be Herr Schroeder,” she said,
ignoring the rude Frenchman.

Her voice made Lucio’s heart leap though she
sounded slightly hoarse as if she had been crying. She was, indeed,
something from a fairytale and her eyes held him captive for the
briefest moment. He closed his eyes for a second and thought she
would disappear. What was she doing here? Surely she did not fit in
with these people.

“Yes, he is,” Beaujold butted in, jarring him
from his trance. “And you are?”

“Sister Discretion,” she cast a cool look
directly into the stern blue eyes of the Knight of the Sword and
frowned.

“I am Chevalier d’Antin and this is my
brother, Chevalier DeVilliers,” Beaujold brushed Dambretti away
from the girl and took her hand in the more traditional greeting,
placing his begrudging kisses on her cheeks while she smiled shyly
at Dambretti over his shoulder.

“Welcome to the Coryelle Chapter of the Order
of the Rose,” she answered Beaujold lightly, almost distractedly,
before meeting Dambretti’s eyes again. He was such a fine looking
fellow. From Cecile's descriptions of the German Hierophant, she
had expected Frankenstein's monster. The Frenchman’s jealousy of
her attentions to him was quite understandable. She frowned
apologetically at him.

Lucio’s smile faded abruptly. It seemed that
she looked completely through him into his soul, yet without
knowing, and then… she smiled at him and her face glowed with
unnatural light.

“You are to be replacing Gavin?” she asked
Lucio when Beaujold released her.

“I would-a replace anyone necessary at-ta
your request, signorina,” Dambretti said inanely and bowed his head
slightly. Beaujold cleared his throat loudly. He had forgotten his
accent. “Ahhh, ja! Und-a vat-ta ist your part-a in zis, meine-a
fraulein-a?” he added quickly and Christopher actually moaned at
his terrible Italian accented faux-German English. Simon slapped
his forehead and then smiled broadly at the young woman when she
frowned at him.

“I am supposed to represent the Mother.” She
made a wry face and wrinkled her nose before lowering her voice
conspiratorially. “Actually, I am the Virgin,” she told him and
rolled her eyes before glancing around the room, looking for
Cecile.

“You are a virgin?” Dambretti’s eyes widened
in surprise and Beaujold nudged his ribs painfully.

“Yes, you know. The ceremony. Mid-summer’s
Eve. The Ritual? The Great Rite? The Virgin and the Stag?” She
smiled slightly and glanced nervously at Beaujold, biting her
bottom lip. She had gotten him in trouble. She was always getting
people in trouble.

“Ahhh. Mid-summer, of-a course,” Lucio nodded
and Beaujold cleared his throat again. “Und-a who has-a ze honor
of-a being ze schtag?” He received another vicious jab in the
ribs.

“I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for the
festivities tonight,” she told him, ignoring his question.
“Personal problems, you see? I hope you enjoy yourself, Sir
Schroeder. Brothers,” she nodded to Beaujold and d’Ornan before
turning away and moving on toward the patio as if in some strange
dream. She had not bothered to kiss any of them.

Dambretti watched her go and had to be nudged
by Simon again.

“Put your tongue back in your head, Brother.
You forgot your accent,” Beaujold growled in his ear. “You are very
close to making me angry. You kissed her hand!”

Dambretti looked at the man in surprise. “Did
I? It seems I am always close to something. I believe you are
jealous, Brother Tommy. Do you know anything about this mother
thing? Sounds delightfully pagan.”

The Knight of the Golden Eagle leaned around
the shorter Knight of the Serpent to watch the young woman in
lavender walk toward the patio then make a sharp left turn,
entering a door further along under the grand staircase. He
wondered who she was and where she was going. Her presence and
persona seemed completely out of place with the rest of the members
of this strange group of people. There was something very unusual
about her. The majority of the guests had drifted out onto the
patio where music was playing and bits and pieces of conversations
drifted inside from the open doors at the end of the hall.