The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (59 page)

Mark Andrew looked down at the bangles,
frowning, wondering how they had gotten there.

“You would do well not to look into my eyes
until you can see out of them,” Mark’s frown deepened to an angry
scowl when he looked up again. The tone of his voice carried the
old familiar ring that Lucio remembered so well. ‘One misplaced
word and the world will no longer know you.’

Merry returned with a bottle of peroxide and
a bundle of cotton balls.

“Pull up your shirt,” she told Dambretti.

He held up his hands. He would not be pulling
anything anywhere for a while.

“It’s not necessary,” Mark told her a bit too
gruffly. He was shivering from the cold, wet clothes and his own
recent injuries. “He will be fine.”

“Great!” she matched his tone and jerked her
head around to stare at him in the dimness, surprised by his
hostile tone. “Then this is it? You find one of your beloved
Brothers and that’s it? That’s all? You don’t need me anymore?”

“That would depend on what you mean by ‘it’,”
he said offhandedly and looked down at her bare feet, unwilling to
meet her gaze. “You had best go back to the house, lassie, and see
to your own needs. Brother Dambretti and I have work to do. We’ll
have to go to the basement. It would not be a good place for
you.”

“I see,” she said coldly. “And how will you
get into the basement, Sir Ramsay?”

“You can get us in, la mia dolce,” Dambretti
interjected quickly, trying to avoid the brewing confrontation
between the woman and his Brother. They were not out of the woods
yet and needed her help.

“I’m only a woman. How can I help you, brave
Knights?” she asked sarcastically and went back to replace the
peroxide in the medical kit.

Mark followed her and stopped behind her as
she jerked the box around angrily. He wrapped his arms around her
waist and kissed her ear. “I love you, Merry,” he told her simply.
“I don’t know how all this will end, but I want you to know that
much. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You simply don’t
understand what this is all about.”

She stiffened in his embrace, but said
nothing. Of all things, it was not what she expected to hear from
him at that moment. She had always thought it would have somehow
been much more romantic to hear those words from the man she loved.
But there was no romance here in the chilly, dark garage in the
presence of another man. His Brother. One of his freaking Brothers
that had come halfway round the world to kill him. It sounded more
like a simple declaration of fact, more like ‘I’m hungry’ or
‘Something stinks’. His words had a much more profound effect on
her than she had expected in a strangely inappropriate way. Instead
of melting her heart, assuaging her fears, comforting her pain,
they seemed to freeze her blood in her veins.

Mark went back to help Dambretti off the hood
of the car where he sat looking down at his hands. The effort hurt
both of them and Dambretti pulled his t-shirt out gingerly from the
cuts on his chest. The jerk had been cutting off his tattoos! He
would have to get them done all over again.

Merry snorted derisively. They were going
with or without her help. Now was not a good time for pouting and
silliness. He had done his best to protect her and she had, after
all, thrown herself on him. He had never asked for her attentions.
She had initiated every one of their romantic encounters. With the
exception of this very brief encounter in the garage which should
have been the most important of all.

“All right,” she came back to join them
again. “I’ll get you into the basement and then I’ll go upstairs,
take a bath, curl up in my bed and read a good book.”

Lucio smiled at her and then winced. He had
to stop doing that… if he could, but she was so beautiful…like an
angel. Her hair hung in tiny, dripping ringlets about her face like
a flower pixie and he felt himself falling in love with her. He was
always falling in love. It was nothing serious. It would pass.

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

“Anything yet, Christopher?” d’Ornan’s voice
echoed in the pitch black enclosure.

“Nothing, Master,” Christopher’s disembodied
voice answered from somewhere in front of him.

“Nothing here either,” von Hetz’s voice was
worst of all in the darkness. “There seems to be nothing in here
with us. At least there are no rats.”

“A small blessing perhaps.” D’Ornan could be
heard clumping about the smooth stone floor. “They will not chew on
us as we sleep, but neither will we chew on them as we starve.”

Christopher shuddered and turned about slowly
in the direction of Simon’s voice. His head ached miserably from
where that insufferable man had whacked him with his pistol. Now
these two were calmly discussing the possibility of spending some
time locked in this place. He was the one that would starve. Not
them. They might get hungry, but they wouldn’t starve. Sir Ramsay
had expounded upon it often enough. Every time he had complained
about the food at the Villa, his Master had offered to go hunting
in the cellars for something more palatable for his apprentice to
eat. Christopher had always been afraid that his Master would
someday pull a horrible joke on him and serve him a rat burger as
he’d so often promised to do.

They could hear nothing but the rustlings of
their own clothing, the clump of their own boots and the occasional
rumble of thunder from somewhere far overhead. Nothing… except for
the constant sound of dripping water, disconcerting sound in the
utter blackness of the cave. The walls curved down sharply to meet
the floors, which felt polished to the touch, though a bit uneven,
suggesting that they had been imprisoned in some sort of natural
formation in the rock. An enclosure carved out by eons of running
water. The only break in the continuity of the walls was the faint
outline of the heavy slab that served as the door. The only way in
or out. They had almost been deafened by the crash when the big
rock had come down. It had sounded ominously permanent. The floor
was marred by a depression in the center which was about three
yards across, full of cold water and seemed like a bottomless well
or spring. Von Hetz had reached his arm into it as far as he could
feel and they had paced about it to determine its size. At least
they had water.

“We may as well rest, Brother,” von Hetz said
into the darkness and they heard him sit on the floor somewhere.
“They will come for us. Already, the Grand Master has crossed the
sea.”

The sound of a splash and a muttered “Uh,
oh!” caused him to stand again.

“Christopher Stewart?” d’Ornan called in
alarm as he thought the boy had fallen into the hole.

“They had better come in a hurry, Masters,”
Christopher’s voice was full of alarm. “The pool is growing.”

They circumnavigated the water again,
counting the steps. It was twice as large as before.

“We will not drown. It is impossible,” von
Hetz told them reassuringly. “Be patient. Brother Dambretti and
Brother Beaujold will find us eventually.”

“Speak for yourself, Master,” Christopher
replied from the inky nothingness. “I'm not immortal. I cannot
afford to be patient.”

The thunder crashed from above and the
dripping noise increased in the ensuing silence after Christopher’s
words. The drip was no longer a drip, but a steady stream,
splashing into the pool from above. The air filled with a fine
mist.

D’Ornan began to whisper a prayer in
French.

“They will come for us,” von Hetz said again.
“Perhaps you should confess your sins, my son.”

Christopher sighed and made his way through
the darkness to where Simon sat on the damp stone. He sank to his
knees, crossing himself in the darkness. Just before each clap of
thunder, a dull, grayish-green light flickered in the upper reaches
of the cavern, showing nothing except that there was a sizable
crack up there somewhere through which the water was now
pouring.

“Shrive me, Master,” he said and closed his
eyes needlessly. The cold water inched its way inexorably up his
kneecaps, chilling him to the bone in more ways than one. At least
he wouldn’t starve to death or be forced to live on beetles and
grubs.

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

The basement was empty. The Knights were
gone. Ramsay searched the office and came up with five more swords
and four daggers.

“Perhaps they escaped?” Dambretti offered
hopefully. He located an old golf bag in a closet and used it to
carry the weapons.

Mark dragged the heavy bag into the
corridor.

“And left their weapons?” Ramsay stood
shaking his head. “Not likely. Von Hetz could have easily found
them.” He remembered the dark Knight’s strange method for finding
the Flaming Sword just before he had made him drink the
mercury.

“What now?” Dambretti glanced down the hall
toward Merry, who stood near the stairs watching them dejectedly
while keeping an eye out for anyone else who might come their
way.

“We have to find them,” Mark said
matter-of-factly and shrugged.

“What about the woman?” Lucio asked him in a
low voice.

“She is nothing without her guard dog,” Mark
hefted the bag to his shoulder. “I left him dead on the floor.”

“I meant her.” Lucio nodded toward Merry. The
Italian narrowed his eyes to look closely at Mark Andrew. “Do you
intend to return with us willingly, Brother?”

Mark ignored his question at first and then
seemed to think better of it.

“I do.” Mark shuddered at the memories of the
misfortunes he had suffered since landing in this sorry place.
Surely the Order could do no worse to him. The pain in his side
throbbed dully under the weight of the bag. Mark sighed and walked
toward the Pixie.

“Merry,” he said as he set the bag on the
floor. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“Merry. Where would they have taken them?”

“I don’t know.” She refused to meet his
eyes.

He pulled her close to him and held her
tightly.

“Merry. You must think,” he said softly in
her ear. “I can’t just leave them here.”

“You can’t be serious!” She pushed him away
and looked up at him incredulously. Why could he not have whispered
those three little words to her in the same manner? “After what
they did to you?”

“They didn’t do anything to me,” he objected.
“They came to do what they had to do. I would have done the same
for any one of them.”

“What? For them? Would you leave them in the
desert pierced through and through to die?” she raised her voice
and glanced at Dambretti who was holding back in the hallway. He
looked away from her quickly. “Is that what brothers do for each
other? I’m glad I don’t have any!”

“Merry!” Mark took her by the shoulders
again. “It’s not what it appears. He didn’t leave me to die. He
would have come back for me.” He was not exactly telling her the
full truth.

She looked at the floor.

“I won’t help you find them,” she said with
finality. “They will only try to kill you again or whatever it is
they were trying to do. I offered to take you away. I have money. I
could…” he placed one finger against her lips, silencing her.

Mark looked back at Lucio and the Italian
shrugged. Her words embarrassed him in front of Lucio and then his
embarrassment embarrassed him in front of Merry. He was caught in a
cross-fire.

“What she says may be true, Brother,” the
Italian said somewhat reluctantly. “Beaujold is not with them. He
is most likely looking for you even as we stand here. I am afraid
he has let his old feelings override his better sense. He will not
listen to me and I believe he is bent on killing you.”

“See?” She looked up at him.

“No. I don’t see,” he told her flatly. “I
will have to face him… and them, sooner or later. It’s just the way
things are.”

“It is the Will of God,” Lucio added from
where he stood. “It cannot be changed.” A vacation in Texas next
year might be in order. There was nothing particularly sinful about
being friendly. A vacation. Si`.

Merry let go a short sigh.

“If I take you where I think they are, will
you help him?” She directed her question to the other Knight. “Will
you stand with him… against them?”

“I cannot help him,” Lucio told her and held
up his hands again. “He does not need my help. I can only say that
I will not hinder him in what it is that he must do.”

Mark looked at her hopefully, as if this
unsatisfactory answer was some sort of consolation.

“I just don’t understand this at all.” Merry
shook her head.

“You don’t have to understand,” he told her.
“Now please, we must hurry.”

“I have to change first.” She looked down at
her bedraggled lavender gown and bare feet. “It’s up in the hills
and I can’t go up there like this. There’s an old fallout shelter.
I heard Maxie telling Cecile that it would make a good tomb. It’s
the only place they could have taken them.”

“Can we find it without you?” Mark asked her
before she started up the stairs.

“I doubt it,” she murmured as yet another
peal of thunder crashed against the house. The rain began to pour
in earnest through the open doors of the basement. Water ran in
torrents down the stairs flooding the floor around her feet.

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

Sir Thomas Beaujold could not go to sleep and
he could not rest as the Grand Master had instructed him to do. He
lay on the bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it
turned lazily above him. His mind was full of jumbled thoughts. He
had made a mistake by not beheading Ramsay in the desert. The man
wouldn’t have gotten up and rode away without his head and by
leaving him there for the elements, he garnered sympathy for the
man from the Knight of the Holy City and possibly the Grand Master
as well. To make his humiliation complete, he had disgraced himself
shamelessly in front of his old friend’s replacement, the prissy
Englishman from London. An accountant, no less. Beaujold had never
accepted his late friend and Brother’s death over sixty years ago
and every time he saw Sir Montague, his hatred for Ramsay grew.
Never once had he stopped to think what Montague's former Master,
the previous Knight of the Holy City’s life would have been like
had Ramsay allowed him to live with most of his lower body
destroyed. Beaujold's ability to reason rationally had been
permanently affected from that moment onward. In sixty plus years
his mind had forged many conspiracy theories, including the idea
that Ramsay, the Scot, had been in league with Montague, the Brit,
with the goal of replacing all the Frankish Knights with men like
themselves from the British Empire. The rivalry between France and
England was too inbred in Beaujold's blood for him to ever rid
himself of such thoughts.