The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (53 page)

“Seven,” Penelope corrected her. “There were
seven of them. Four French. One German. One Eye-talian and one
Alaskan.” Miss Penelope threw herself in the wicker chair in front
of the desk.

“Now, tell me about these two men,” Valentino
said and leaned back in her chair. She ran her fingers through her
damp hair, trying not to show her concern.

“One is a big, red-headed fellow named
Daybrooshaw or something like that and the other is a tall fellow,
Mr. Montagoo, an Englishman, from the accent with brown hair.”

Valentino sat up straight and leaned forward,
staring at the woman in surprise.

“Did you say d’Brouchart?” she asked. “Is he
here?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s his name,” the woman
assured her. “He’s the really scary one. He said ‘Tell Miss Cecile
Valentino that Monshoor Daybrooshaw is here to see her’. That’s
all. You do know him, don’t you?”

“He’s come for his Knights,” Valentino said
involuntarily.

“They’ve paid for another four nights,” the
woman corrected her incorrectly and fanned herself with her hand.
“I don’t think I can handle it.”

“Four Knights?” Valentino’s eyes grew wider.
Four more were coming? She had three; there were possibly two more
in the hills; d’Brouchart and his partner made seven and four more.
Eleven. She had to meet with d’Brouchart and get the thing settled
before it was too late!

“I just want them out of my house so I can
get everything cleaned up again. It’s not that I don’t appreciate
the business you send me, but these men are just too… too…”

“Masculine? I understand. I truly do,”
Valentino cut her off. “I believe I can help you clear this up.”
She opened a carved cedar box on the desk and took out a fifty
dollar bill for the woman. “If you will just take a letter back to
Mr. d’Brouchart for me, I think they will soon be out of your hair.
Now if you will just go on out to the kitchen and tell Jim to give
you a glass of tea while you wait, I’ll write a quick note for
them.”

Penelope nodded her head thankfully and took
her leave. She resented being treated like a servant, but then she
was not overly fond of Miss Valentino’s company either.

Cecile pulled out a box of elegant parchment
stationery and picked up a pen from the holder. She looked up at
the ceiling and then bent over the paper to begin her letter.

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

Mark Andrew Ramsay felt himself falling into
the darkness below the ledge. He grabbed for the boy, but only
managed to pull the skinny child screaming into the drink with him.
The fresh wound from the dagger in his side sent waves of searing
pain and nausea through him when he hit the water and came up again
gasping for breath, choking and thrashing in the waist deep water.
The boy climbed from the pit and then reached back to pull and tug
him onto a lower ledge. Mark wiggled his way into the narrow
passage beside the boy and laid his head on the cool stone floor,
closing his eyes. The pain in his side gradually subsided to a
burning ache. He felt weak and hungry, but the cold water revived
him after the heat and dust of the streets above. He raised his
head and looked at the ragamuffin in the dim gray light.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked when he
had regained his breath.

“My name is Lucius di Napoli, Sir.” The boy
smiled at him with a perfect set of white teeth and then put his
dirty hand to his face, wincing in pain. The white teeth were an
unusual sight since most of the children in this Godforsaken place
had rotted teeth from lack of proper nutrition and poor hygiene,
but the long bloody slash down the side of the boy’s face made him
grimace. It started under his left eye and ended at his jaw line,
ruining his otherwise dirty, but handsome appearance. He also
noticed that the dirt on the child was fresh, not accumulated
layers of grime like the other little street beggars. This child
had the look of nobility about him and he had meat on his bones.
What was he doing here and how could he bear to smile with such a
terrible wound on his face? Surely it had been put there by an
Infidel’s dagger. The boy held up a curved dagger still sporting
traces of blood. Mark recognized it as the knife that had been in
his side only a few moments before.

“Who cut you?” Mark demanded to know, though
he knew it did not matter.

“You did, Sir,” the boy said and winced
again. “It is no matter, Master. We are safe here.”

Mark pushed himself up and turned around. He
was looking directly into the eyes of a Saracen woman standing in
front of a brightly colored, tiled wading pool. Her dark eyes were
wide with terror above the veil she wore over her the lower half of
her face. She began babbling hysterically in her native tongue as
soon as he turned. Something about murder and murderers and God’s
Knights. She held a jeweled dagger in her left hand. He watched as
one drop of blood dripped from the glittering tip of the curved
blade and fell to the tiles in front of her bare, brown feet. The
bright red drop hit the floor with a resounding crash that
reverberated through the courtyard like the sound of thunder. A red
stain welled up in front of him and colored the entire courtyard
scarlet. He leaped upon the woman, taking her wrist in his hand,
twisting her arm up behind her back and disarming her at the same
time. She shrieked in pain and he threw her away from him before
turning to stare into the wading pool through the ruddy glare.

The body of his brother floated face down in
the pink water. A swirl of darker red drifted near his head. He
blinked at the sight of the dead man in disbelief. His brother.
Luke Andrew. Not just a Brother of the Order. His twin brother.
Eldest of the two sons of Sir Timothy Ramsay, named after the four
apostles. A terrible calm had fallen over him as he turned to find
the woman still babbling incoherently about devils, demons and God,
calling him by his Brother’s name, cursing him as a demon and
trying to crawl away from him, away from the sight of his dead
brother, away from the crime that she had committed. He went after
her, grabbed her by the foot and dragged her back to him screaming
and kicking. A rage like nothing he had ever felt filled his mind.
He fell on her and covered her mouth with one hand while ripping
the long, loose robes from her body with the other. She fought him
desperately, but he proceeded with the action ruthlessly taking
what he should not have taken. There was no joy in it, no pleasure,
only pain. Pain for her. Pain for him. And when the deed was
accomplished and she lay whimpering pitifully beneath him, he drew
the same bejeweled dagger across her throat from ear to ear and
left her dying on the tiles while he went back to pull the body of
his brother from the water.

As he was climbing up the slippery steps,
another screaming Saracen raced toward him from the far end of the
courtyard. This one, a bearded, turbaned man with a sword drawn
back over his head shrieked more curses at him concerning the
violation of the Sultan’s daughter. Mark shoved the body of his
fallen brother away from him and prepared to meet this new threat.
The dark-eyed boy, still sporting the fresh wound on his cheek,
waded into the pool after the dead man. Mark drew his own heavy
broadsword and held it in front of him to greet the man who would
try to kill him. The attacker misjudged Ramsay’s speed and leaped
for him, very handily skewering himself on the upraised blade of
the sword. Mark Andrew fell backwards from the momentum of the dead
man’s body and got up again, blinking away the cold water,
expecting more of the screaming demons. He kicked the Infidel away
from him, before placing one foot on his chest, forcing him under
the surface, effectively drowning his screams. When the man stopped
thrashing, he wrenched his sword free and the man’s lifeless body
floated to the surface, eyes wide, mouth open, rotted teeth stained
red with blood. Mark screamed incoherently in the man’s face and
then separated his head from his body with one swift blow. He held
the head up by the hair and turned in a circle as if showing the
world what he had done. He dropped the head and sheathed his sword
after cleaning it on the man’s turban.

The frightened boy was moving away from him,
dragging his brother’s body with him. Mark Andrew clambered from
the pool and took up the body of his brother, laying him on the
floor carefully, crossing his feet and placing his pale, cold hands
on his chest. He made the sign of the cross on his brother’s
forehead and kissed his blue-tinged lips lightly. He had compounded
his own grief by committing a terrible crime in front of the boy.
Two crimes, in fact. Raping the woman and mutilating the dead. The
sight of his brother’s lifeless face made him cry out in renewed
anguish “Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my
dishonor: mine adversaries are all before thee.”

He knelt on the floor and repeated a prayer
for the dead, before turning on the boy, taking him up roughly by
the collar of his filthy brown tunic. He pulled him off the floor,
close to his face, looking into his eyes one long moment before
speaking.

“One misplaced word and the world will no
longer know you, boy!” he threatened him in a low voice and then
shoved him brutally to the tiles, unaffected by the terrified look
on his face.

“Ow!” Merry cried as her head bounced off the
ground where Mark had suddenly shoved her without warning, waking
her from a sound sleep. She sat up, rubbing the side of her head;
looking at him in astonishment. He was sitting straight up, holding
the golden sword out in front of him in both hands. His eyes were
glazed as if he were not truly awake. The dangerous blade sparkled
in the filtered light.

“Mark?” she asked hesitantly and crabbed
backwards out of reach of the sword.

He turned his head to look at her, blinking
in confusion. The terrified boy was gone. The tiled courtyard and
the dead bodies were gone. Only green trees and soft, dappled
sunlight were in front of him. He was no longer in the courtyard.
He shuddered visibly and lowered the sword to his lap. He was
shaking all over even though the air was warm.

Merry crawled back to him and reached out
cautiously to brush back his hair from his eyes. He looked at her
as if he didn’t recognize her at first and then he let go a long
breath. Sweat trickled down both sides of his pale face.

“Are you all right?” She looked into his
haunted eyes and he shook his head slowly, staring at her as if he
did not believe she was truly there. “It’s me, Merry. Don’t you
remember me?”

“I thought you were a faery,” he said,
managing a half-hearted smile. He looked down at his ruined clothes
in confusion.

“We have to get out of here,” she told him.
“That horrible man might be back any minute. Can you ride?”

He tried to get up on his own, but had to
wait until helped him.

“We’ll get you back to the house and get your
car,” she told him as they hobbled toward the horses with him using
his sword as a crutch. “I’ll go with you, Mark. Anywhere you want
to go, but we have to be careful. I'll get you to a doctor if you
like or a hospital. Is there anyone we can call for help?”

All he could do was shake his head. The only
one he could trust was Christopher and he didn’t know where
Christopher was at the moment. The stallion pranced and snorted as
he dragged himself painfully onto the short, black blood-encrusted
saddle, again with her help.

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

“Monsieur le Knight,” Sir Montague read to
the Grand Master from the parchment paper in his hand. He looked
up, his eyes snapping with indignation. “Monsieur le Chevalier.
Surely this is a joke!”

“Go on, read it, William,” d’Brouchart said
irritably from his position in the rocker.

“Monsieur le Chevalier and Master
Extraordinaire of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. This is
preposterous, Sir!” Montague could not contain his
consternation.

“Read, man!” d’Brouchart raised his voice
sharply.

“Please allow me to welcome you to America
and especially to Texas and the heart of pecan country…” the man’s
voice trailed off to silence.

“Montague!” The Grand Master warned him.

“I have so longed to meet with you, most
Excellent sir. It has been a life-long goal and now I am beside
myself with excitement that you have come here, all this way, just
to meet with me. I would be honored to have you as a guest in my
house. I will greet you as a Brother with open arms. Odds bodkins!
The bloody bitch thinks you are a joke!” Montague made a rude
noise.

“Brother Montague, please, calm yourself,”
d’Brouchart said and actually smiled at the Englishman. “Continue,
I implore you.”

“But Your Grace, this sounds like something
Elmer Fudd would write to Bugs Bunny!”

“Who to whom?” D’Brouchart frowned.

“Never mind, Sir.” Montague cleared his
throat and looked at the letter again. “You may be received at my
residence. Sir, she condescends to receive you. What luck!”

D’Brouchart chuckled at Montague’s
discomfiture.

“She is very well accomplished at touching
the nerve, is she not?” he asked the Knight of the Holy City.

Montague drew up short of another outburst at
this underhanded insult. He had lost his objectivity. He read the
rest of the letter without comment. Cecile informed him of the
number and condition of her ‘guests’ and hinted at making an
‘equitable exchange’.

“So! We will be received at nine tomorrow
morning.” Sir Montague looked at the Master in disbelief. “And we
are going?”

“Of course,” the Grand Master answered
shortly and stood up. “That is what we came here for. She has three
of my Knights and one apprentice. We still don’t know who she has
and who is still free. Let us move into their chambers and wait
there on the chance that some one of them may return here.”