The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (64 page)

“You’re going down there. I need your help!”
he told him as he kicked and struggled to get away. The Italian was
no match for the stronger Scot who had him by at least twenty
pounds, an inch or so in height and a ton of determination. He held
him down in the mud easily and wrapped the chain around his neck.
“You always were a coward, you sniveling whelp!” Mark told him
gruffly and dragged him to his feet wincing as the tumble and the
activity caused numerous pains. “I should have left you in
Jerusalem.”

“I am not a coward!” Lucio protested. “I just
don’t like going in the water with you, Brother,” he explained.
“Remember what happened last time?”

He pointed to the long scar on his face that
was just beginning to heal again after the sadistic techniques
employed by Valentino’s guard dog.

“That was an accident,” Ramsay told him and
braced himself against a bush to regain his footing without letting
go of the chain. Lucio had no choice but to rise with him or be
choked. “You don’t want to temp me to do something on purpose,
Brother. Now move it! You're going in first!”

He slipped and slid toward the cave, but
managed to hold the chain and draw the dagger from his belt at the
same time.

He held the knife against the Italian’s
back.

“Move!”

They waded into the water. Just before
Lucio’s head went under the water, he fought and struggled once
more, but Mark let the weight of the heavy chain take him under. He
waited until the man stopped wiggling and the bubbles subsided
before blowing the air from his own lungs . He then stepped
deliberately into the water with him and braced himself against the
pain the water caused as it filled his lungs.

An hour later, a huge gush of water spilled
from the cavern onto the hillside and presently five choking,
gasping figures crawled from the passage and lay in the mud,
coughing and struggling for air.

Dambretti was the first one up, leaning
against the rock face coughing up water from his lungs. He drew in
a deep breath and looked around, blinking back dirty water and
rubbing at his face with both fists. The sun was well up and the
sounds of birds and insects seemed to mock him. The stylized figure
of Horus glittered, half-buried in the mud. Ramsay had made the
dagger for him years earlier. He bent to retrieve the dagger that
Ramsay had dropped it in his rush to get out of the cavern before
Christopher drowned. The horror of what had just occurred
overwhelmed him. He did not like dying and living again. It was
horrible to him in every respect and each time it happened, he
hated it worse and worse. The drowning experience was one of the
worst deaths he had suffered so far even though it had hardly
qualified as a true death experience. He wiped the muddy blade on
his wet trousers and caught Ramsay up by the collar as he was
hacking and coughing on his knees in the mud, clutching at his
stomach and hip. Their efforts underneath the cold dark water had
affected him much worse than the Italian. He was on the verge of
collapse and he could feel every fiber in his body crying out for
rest and recuperation. The Italian slammed him against a boulder
and pressed the blade against his throat. Blood ran from the wounds
on Dambretti’s hands and water dripped from his hair into Ramsay’s
face.

“You called me a coward,” he said through
gritted teeth in the taller man’s face.

Ramsay looked as if he would be sick and then
coughed water into his face. While Lucio sputtered in surprise,
Mark Andrew laughed at him.

“And so you are angry with the wrong man,
little Brother. Let thy wrathful anger take hold of them,” he
quoted a scripture when he had regained his breath. “Even now you
are afraid to do what your rage tells you to do. You would do well
to direct your anger in a more beneficial direction. If you cannot
kill me, then do not threaten me, or else I might think you are
serious.”

Dambretti wiped the water from his face and
blinked rapidly at him, shivering violently with rage and
shock.

Simon was up now coughing and throwing up
volumes of water while von Hetz climbed onto his hands and knees
slowly in the mud. It seemed that the water simply poured out of
him without the violent retching suffered by his Brothers.

Lucio regained his composure somewhat and
then leaned back in, close to Ramsay's face.

“Your woman is very pleasant company,” Lucio
told him and set his jaw stubbornly as he stabbed the Scot
verbally. He twisted the blade slightly. “We had a good, long visit
last night and she told me her true feelings for you.”

Mark Andrew inhaled sharply and then suddenly
jabbed the Italian in the stomach, taking his newly found breath
away again.

Lucio backed away clutching his stomach.
Simon, somewhat recovered, took him by the arm, thinking him to be
suffering from the water. He had missed the altercation between
them completely. The Healer turned him around and looked down at
the wounds in Dambretti’s palms.

“Don’t toy with me, Brother,” Ramsay told him
over the Healer’s head and spit out another mouthful of water. He
picked up his sword and walked back into the cave. He passed close
by Christopher and slapped him lightly on the head with the back of
his hand. Christopher would have some explaining to do when, and
if, they ever got home.

Von Hetz clambered to his feet and helped the
half-conscious apprentice to his feet before beating him on the
back solidly in order to dislodge the water he had inhaled during
their last few moments in the blackness. They had spent a dreadful
night stacked up like circus acrobats, immersed in the cold rain
water. Christopher had only been spared when the water had started
to recede after reaching within two feet of the domed ceiling. Von
Hetz had fared worst of all, having been completely submerged
longer than Simon. After the door had finally come free, the trio
had been swept out of the chamber and out of the passage like so
much garbage. The boy coughed and gagged and hung onto the taller
Knight to keep from falling over again. His relief at having
survived and then seeing his Master safe and sound brought him to
tears. Fortunately, their sorry state prevented the others from
noticing.

“Let me see your hands,” Simon told Dambretti
as the man stumbled back to sit down hard on a low boulder. “You
and Brother Ramsay have made amends?” The Healer asked innocently
enough as he examined the wounds on the Knight’s hands.

“Yes,” Dambretti lied and nodded. “He never
did have a sense of humor.”

He held out his bloody hands for the Knight
of the Serpent to examine. Simon turned them over and then back
again.

“How did this happen?” Simon glanced back at
the dark opening where Mark had disappeared.

Dambretti shook his head sadly. He didn’t
care to tell the story and he didn’t care to admit that he had been
wrong in what he had just done. Ramsay had saved his life again,
most likely, and then had been forced to make him help save the
others. Dambretti was ashamed of himself. Perhaps the man was
right. Perhaps he was a coward after all.

Von Hetz joined them and looked on as d’Ornan
felt of the bones in the Italian’s mutilated hands. “I feel no
broken bones,” he announced after a bit. “I assume that some
instrument made these? A knife? You have not become a victim of the
stigmata?” Simon smiled at Lucio and winked at von Hetz.

Von Hetz chuckled and wiped at his face,
smearing the mud even worse. The thought of someone as irreverent
as Dambretti becoming enough of a religious zealot to bear the
wounds of the stigmata was indeed humorous. Lucio could only frown
at both of them. His hands were no laughing matter.

“You should try crucifixion, Brother,” he
said darkly. “It is a most enlightening experience.”

“I think I will pass on that,” Simon
declined. He finished his examination and nodded to the Ritter. The
wounds would heal without intervention.

Ramsay emerged from the passage carrying the
soaked golf bag, glanced darkly at Lucio and then handed out the
weapons. When they were all armed, he stood in front of them. He
looked at each one of them in turn with a defiant expression in his
eyes.

“If any one o’ ye ’ave a disagreement with
me, now is th’ toime t’ voice it,” he said and stood waiting for an
answer.

They looked at each other and shook their
heads in unison.

“Good,” he said shortly and turned away up
the hill.

“Don’t go, my Brother. Give him a moment,”
Dambretti told the Apocalyptic Knight as the man started to follow
him. Lucio sat down on a rock and raked at the mud caked on his
boots with a stick.

The German stopped, and stood frowning after
the retreating figure. He slammed his right fist against his left
palm in anger, narrowing his eyes sharply. He muttered something
under his breath and turned his attention on the Italian. Dambretti
stopped digging at the mud on his boots and jerked his head around
in alarm. The German stepped closer and laid one hand on Lucio’s
shoulder, startling him from his misery.

“I would know what has happened between you
and Brother Ramsay,” he said in a low voice that should have left
no room for argument, but Dambretti shook his head vigorously in
denial. Von Hetz took him by the shoulders and pulled him to his
feet, kissing him lightly on the lips. Lucio froze. He could not
tear his eyes away from the deep gaze of the German. He knew what
the man was doing, but could feel nothing, do nothing other than
allow it to happen.

Christopher stood up suddenly and started
toward them. He did not like the dark Knight and he did not like
the tales he had heard about his Mystery. The tremendous hardship
that the Knight had suffered on his account did nothing to instill
trust in the apprentice. Christopher trusted none of them, but
Dambretti had always been his Master’s friend. The young man’s
intentions to interrupt the process was thwarted when d’Ornan
grabbed him roughly and threw him against the rock where Dambretti
had been sitting.

“You would do well not to interfere, my son,”
the short, blond man told him. “It is the Will of God. We must know
the truth. Too much has gone awry since we came here. We must know
the truth!”

Christopher’s heart sank. His Master had just
risked everything to save them and yet they were still questioning
his loyalty. This did not bode well for Sir Ramsay. He laid his
newly recovered sword across his knees and looked down at the
beautiful handiwork that had gone into making the superb weapon.
His Master had made this sword especially for him with the Stewart
family crest worked into the pommel. Ramsay had dragged him up out
of Perdition and given him hope, given him purpose and given him a
sense of family and tradition. Mark Andrew had told him that the
Stewart name had a long, long history behind it in England, fraught
with famous and infamous characters even moreso than the honored
named of Ramsay in Scotland. Another unwelcome tear ran down his
cheek and he looked away down the hill, unwilling to witness what
was occurring only a few feet away.

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

That the Chevalier d’Epee was missing did not
surprise the Grand Master or the unflappable Englishman, but the
fact that he had taken the iron-bound chest with him, made
d’Brouchart extremely angry. Beaujold had missed the entire point
of the previous day’s lesson. Why? He asked Montague a dozen times,
why had Beaujold not understood that he did not want Ramsay dead?
After the Grand Master had spent his anger, stewing and steaming in
the shower for almost thirty minutes, they dressed in silence and
went down to breakfast at Miss Martin’s long table. Montague eyed
the numerous bits of tissue paper stuck to the Grand Master’s
clean-shaven face, the only remaining evidence of the red beard
d'Brouchart had sported for years. Why he had decided to shave the
beard when he was in such a foul mood, the Knight of the Holy City
had no idea, but Miss Penelope seemed to appreciate his new look
much better. They were the only guests in attendance for the meal.
Their genial landlady brought them huge platters of eggs and bacon,
biscuits, hash browns and all the trimmings interspersed with light
chatter and unanswered questions. They ate in silence, but she
didn’t seem to notice.

D’Brouchart had traded the lumberjack outfit
for a light, summer-weight suit with a dark red tie. Sir William
Montague wore a very smooth, bluish-gray business suit with a
high-collared white shirt and no tie, the latest style, he had
assured the Grand Master when the man asked him why he had closed
his shirt with a tie-tack and forgot the tie. It irked the
accountant immensely to be going out to meet with the author of the
insipid letter. He felt as if they were dressing for her
entertainment. Such impudence did not deserve the Master’s
attention. Let alone the show of respect such a personal visit
intimated. He could not remember the last time he had seen the
Master in a suit or, for that matter, without his beard, but he was
quite sure that ties had been much wider then and ladies much
classier.

Seen against the bright green landscaping,
the red brick mansion was pristine, a picturesque postcard,
sparkling clean in the rain-washed sunshine of the midsummer
morning. There was no evidence of anything amiss as they pulled up
in front of the house. Montague parked the white Land Rover front
of the wide steps leading up to the white-columned portico and then
looked up at the house through the windshield before getting out.
He could see no one at the numerous windows overlooking the drive,
but the Seneschal felt absolutely exposed in the wide open Texas
countryside. He harrumped loudly and pointed up at the third floor
windows, which were the only windows sporting ornate white burglar
bars. The Grand Master leaned forward and craned his neck to see
the anomaly and then nodded slightly. Seemed that someone had
planned to keep someone in rather than out. Odd, indeed for a
supposedly private residence. The Knight of the Holy City got out
and walked stiffly around the car to open the door for Edgard and
then led the way up the walk, his right hand flitting nervously in
and out of his coat near the butt of the pistol concealed there.
His mind screamed flee as cold sweat popped out on his forehead.
His eyes darted back and forth as he calculated the odds against
his success should someone attempt an assault on the Grand Master.
It had happened before, but never had he been placed in such an
indefensible position.