The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (62 page)

“Hey!” The Italian frowned at her. “I’m wet
enough already.”

“What do you think happened to Mark?” she
asked him when they had caught their breath. She shivered in the
chill air and could not remember ever having been more miserable in
her life. “And don’t say it’s the Will of God.”

Lucio smiled at her.

“I don’t know,” he told her honestly. “He
should have been back before we left.”

“It was raining awfully hard,” she said
offhandedly. “Maybe he lost his way. Maybe he couldn’t find the
chain.”

“Maybe he found something he was not looking
for,” Lucio voiced her fears for her. “He has been delayed, but not
from being lost. He would never get lost. What happened to Anthony
Scalia?” He added the question as if an afterthought.

“I… don’t know,” she said. “Cecile told me
that he left. I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I think
something really bad happened to him. I think she… I think Maxie
might have killed him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her. “He is a
traitor to the Order.”

“Just like that?” she looked at him in
amazement. “And do you think Mark Andrew is a traitor to the
order?”

“Ritter von Hetz said he is not,” Dambretti
shrugged slightly. “It is not for me to decide.”

“But he is your friend! How can you just sit
there and say it’s not for you to decide?”

“I can see that he is in love with you,
signorina, and I can see why.” He smiled and held his battered
hands out to the warmth of the lantern and she saw that he wore a
similar gold ring with a red and white inlaid cross patee. Married
to the order. “That, in and of itself, is a betrayal of his vows.
The company of women is a dangerous thing. And so it has always
been, but without women, none of us would be here. Some of us have
to forego the natural pursuits of life to ensure that life goes on
as it should. Some of us have to devote ourselves to doing God’s
work on earth. Such things are not undertaken lightly and there is
much persecution and suffering. A Knight cannot afford to create
hostages to fortune. He must be free of the burdens of hearth and
home.”

“Persecution and suffering. Like being
pursued halfway around the world by one’s so-called Brothers?” she
asked sarcastically. “Love is not a burden, Lucio. You should know
that.”

“It is a burden and worse,” he countered. “We
have been endowed with the Mysteries of the Temple. This is a
lifetime commitment and Sir Ramsay knew it when he took the vows
and took up his position among the Twelve that it was until death
do we part. A marriage of sorts. He is a married man.”

“But your rules and your regulations are so
out-dated. Don’t you ever change anything?” she asked him. “Don’t
you ever get lonely, Sir Dambretti?”

“It is like I told your Valentino that is
what confession is for. There are sins and there are sins. Some
sins are just sins that can be easily forgiven. Other sins carry
heavier penalties. To betray the Order is what you would call a
capitol crime. To have a companion to warm one’s bed at night is a
minor thing. To desert the Order for such a companion is a capitol
crime.”

“And what exactly is considered betraying the
order?” she asked.

“Divulging the Mysteries to the uninitiated.
Leaving the folds of the Order with the intent to desert.
Retreating on the field of battle without proper authority.
Murdering without cause. Killing an innocent Christian. These can
bring execution. There are other serious charges. Rape, mutilation
of the dead, killing women and children unnecessarily to name the
worst. These can bring ex-communication. A serious offense, a
serious penalty,” he told her. “That is about all. Very simple,
no?”

“Simple?” She shook her head slowly. “Then it
is all right to murder as long as there is a good cause and it is
all right to kill as long as it is not a Christian you kill? That
doesn’t sound so simple to me. Are you saying that it is OK to kill
innocent people who are not Christians?”

“All Infidels are enemies of Christ and
subject to death,” he explained. “If they want to go to hell, it is
none of my concern, but if they want to stand in my way, then I
will kill them. If they would prevent a Christian from worshipping
the true God, then I will kill them. A Knight of Christ kills
safely and dies more safely so says our patron Saint Bernard. We
are Christ’s legal executioners appointed by God. It is our duty to
keep the Holy Lands safe for the pilgrims. To protect the innocent.
To heal the sick. To teach the Gospel of John. To preserve the
Light and the Way. And to keep the secrets of the Holy Grail, the
Ark of the Covenant, the true relics of the Saints, etceteras,
etceteras. Do you not know that thousands of Christians still
travel to the Holy City of Jerusalem every year? Who do you think
protects them from the Infidels?”

“You?” She frowned. “There are only twelve of
you. How can you protect thousands of tourists?”

“There are eleven Knights of the Council and
one Grand Master. There are many Templars.” Lucio smiled at her.
“You know very little about us. There are sergeants and servants,
apprentices and teachers, soldiers and sailors, accountants and
lawyers, scribes and priests. We cannot go about wearing red
crosses and hauberks, signorina. We are, after all, a secret order.
We serve God. We do not need fame or recognition for what we do. I
am not saying that Christ or Our Father would condone murder or
killing for that matter, but if we do not protect ourselves and
others from the powers of darkness, then there will be no Light
left in the world. Already, the Light grows dimmer. What the
Infidels have not done to us, the Heretics have accomplished with
great enthusiasm.”

“Heretics. You mean like witches and
Satanists?” She narrowed her eyes. This was all news to her. She
had never paid much attention to Valentino’s lengthy discussions
with the others about the Templars.

“There are no such things as Satan and
witches with pointy, wart-covered noses, signorina.” Dambretti
laughed at her. “And witches have more in common with God than the
Church in Rome.” He leaned toward her over the lantern and his face
glowed from an inner light. “I have known some very, very beautiful
witches, la mia dolce. In fact, I might have thought you one when I
first saw you on the stairs.”

“Me?! I am not a witch. But all that sounds
heretical to me.” She looked at him in amazement.

“And so it would seem you agree with the
Church. Such is the lie. The Great Rome. The Great Babylon! Ha!” he
snorted derisively. “The Church is ruled by men, not God. They
would see us all dead and it is over our skulls that they would
place pointy hats. They are simply a necessary evil at this
point.”

“But you are immortal Knights of the Temple
of Solomon. Wasn’t he a Christian… I mean a Jew… I mean… I don’t
know what I mean.” Her eyes widened at this revelation.

“I am a poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple and
yes he was an Israelite, but he was also a great magi,” he
explained and fires danced in his dark eyes. “As are all the
Knights and the Grand Master. We hold the secrets of the Mysteries
and we would be called Magi. It is a dubious honor and rare, but it
has its pitfalls. Immortality is not all that you might imagine.
Life becomes tiresome. Especially for some of us. Your Sir Ramsay,
for example. It is no wonder that he has fallen so hard for you. He
has the greatest burden of all. Imagine going about killing your
family as the need arises. Do you think it is easy for him? He
kills a Brother here and a Brother there. Occasionally an
apprentice or some other fallen Templar and then goes back to his
dreary castle in Scotland to make gold for the Order. That is where
you can find him when he is not moping around the Villa in Italy at
the Master's behest. Year after year it is the same for him. You
have never heard him talk, signorina. You don’t know him.” He
stressed this last sentence and she shuddered.

“And what do you do for the Order?” she asked
angrily. His words hurt her somehow and made her mad.

“I read books.” He continued to smile. “I
read thousands of books. I read reports. I read transcripts,
records, documents, files, micro-film, journals, magazines,
encyclopedias, dictionaries, diaries and even nutritional labels. I
read scrolls and tablets and fragments of such. Not very exciting,
is it? Brother Ramsay taught me to speak English and Latin and
French. He taught me to read and write. I owe everything that I am
to him. And I have my Mystery, of course.”

“And yet you would stand by and allow that
other, horrible man to kill him? You would not help Mark?” She
could not understand the logic behind what he was saying. He spoke
of Mark Andrew with profound love and respect, almost veneration,
and yet….

“It is…” he began.

“I know! The Will of God,” she finished for
him in exasperation.

“Yes,” he nodded solemnly.

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

The three men inside the cavern were in
trouble. The cold water reached von Hetz’ chin and he was the
tallest of them by several inches. Simon was holding onto his arm
treading water, while Christopher Stewart sat perched atop his
shoulders with his feet dangling in the water. Simon struggled hard
in the heavy clothing as he floated precariously a few inches above
the solid rock floor. He had never been a very adept swimmer and
trying to swim in total darkness, fully dressed in a military
uniform replete with tall knee boots was proving very taxing and,
he felt, very soon, it would become quite impossible.

“I am sinking, Brother,” he told the German
Knight.

“It will be a shock to your system at first,”
von Hetz answered him very near his ear.

“Have you drowned before?” Simon asked
him.

“Twice,” the Knight of the Apocalypse told
him matter-of-factly. “It is very disconcerting at first, but all
you have to do is breath the water.”

“Breathe the water?” Simon sounded doubtful.
He had never faced such a terrible ordeal. Not since he had faced
the fear of the Inquisition, he had not felt such dread and fear.
He was shaking all over as the water inched its way up his
neck.

“Calm yourself, Brother Simon,” von Hetz
tried to sound comforting. “Once you have properly drowned and the
water has risen sufficiently, you may climb onto my shoulders and
boost up the boy. I will hold you both. The water will help me
support your weight. It is a very handy trick to learn. Drowning,
that is."

"Brother Ramsay and I once eluded an entire
platoon of Nazi’s by riding our horses into the Danube.
Regrettably, the horses did not survive. The leap from the bluff
was too great for them. I also had the rare honor of teaching the
trick to Brother Philip in Austria when we were riding with King
Richard. Of course, King Richard could not come with us and he was
captured, poor devil. I have always felt rather badly about
that.”

“That’s just great,” Christopher muttered and
adjusted his hold on the Knight’s head. If anyone had tried to tell
him a week ago that he would have been sitting on the Apocalyptic
Knight’s shoulders, clinging to his ears for dear life, listening
to stories about the ‘old days’, he would have laughed himself into
a stupor. At the moment, he did not feel it was such a funny
thought. Armand would never believe it! “Perhaps Maid Marion would
have never met Robin Hood if you had not left the King in the
lurch,” he added sarcastically.

“I beg your pardon? Loosen your hold a bit,
my son, I cannot hear you,” von Hetz told him. “You will displace
my ears.”

“Sorry, Master,” Christopher relaxed his grip
a bit. He could not believe they were talking so calmly about
drowning. Of course he had more at stake than they did. Breathe the
water. What a concept. How high could the water rise? How long
could the storm last? They could still hear the thunder from above.
How high was the roof? What would happen when the water reached the
ceiling? He knew the answer to that one. He would die. What had
happened to Master Dambretti? Had he abandoned them? Where was
Master Ramsay? Where was Master Beaujold? Were they out there
killing each other at that moment?

The trip had not turned out at all like he
had anticipated. He should have listened to his friend Armand
d’Bleu. He should have listened to Master Barry. But then, he had a
problem with listening to authority figures. His major problem, as
Master Ramsay had told him so often, was that he thought he was
just so damned smart. Sir Ramsay had told him that one day he would
learn a great lesson the hard way about following orders. So the
day had come and he would not live to reap the benefits of the
lesson. He crossed himself and began to say a silent prayer asking
that he would live and that he would see his Master again in one
piece.

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

Mark Andrew scuttled down the hill like an
oversized fiddler crab, alternately speeding and slowing his
descent by using the dagger and the sword like ski poles. One wrong
move and he could find himself tumbling all the way to the bottom
of the steep slope, buried in rubble. His movements put him well
away from the path he had taken up to the old shelter. When he
stopped, the rocks slid away from him into the darkness below for
several seconds and then the movement subsided. Stiff bristly
plants and cactus plucked at his clothes and skin. If the rain
continued, the whole hillside could collapse and he would go with
it. The rain continued to be a visibility problem as well. He could
see very little when the blinding flashes came. His first instinct
had been to go up, so therefore he had decided to go down. It
seemed that the venerable Knight of the Sword, being the grand
military tactician that he was, could easily anticipate his every
move. He did not believe that either of the injuries he had
inflicted on the Knight would be enough to stop him. The infernal
rain continued to pound his head, slicking his hair into his face
and causing his clothes to cling in chill wraps against his skin.
At one point, he had to sit down and empty the water from his
boots, a very nerve-wracking few moments when had been forced to
lay aside his weapons.