The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (65 page)

They stopped together in front of the double
doors. The Master ran one finger over the beveled glass panes that
formed a green and white fleur-de-lis pattern in the oval window.
Montague paused with his own index finger hovering over the door
bell and glanced at the Master as if waiting for last minute
instructions. The big man nodded at the design on the door and
mouthed the word ‘French’ to his companion. Montague was
unimpressed. He pushed the button and closed his eyes briefly as he
heard the bells chime faintly within the house.

They were ushered through the house to the
back patio by a serving maid dressed in a pink and white uniform.
She glanced at them nervously as she served them coffee and told
them that Miss Valentino would be out to join them shortly.

The two men sat impatiently waiting, sipping
the gourmet coffee absently, glancing about the garden and grounds
for signs of the six missing Templars. It was inconceivable to
think that they could have simply been absorbed in this lovely
setting without leaving a trace of their passing. In the past,
their presence in a hostile environment would have left a wake of
destruction strewn with dead bodies, burned out buildings and
weeping survivors. The peaceful serenity of this pastoral setting
was unnerving. Birds chirped and sang in the trees, butterflies
flitted over the flowering shrubs and a number of hummingbirds vied
with each other for the best feeding stations on three glass and
copper feeders hanging from the nearest trees. Even if the enemy
had not been defeated, there should have been signs of a struggle,
at least, or the bodies of a few Knights strewn about.

Miss Valentino arrived with an escort at
precisely nine as promised. She was dressed in black slacks, red
vest, white jacket and no blouse. A black lace camisole peeked from
beneath the vest belying her feminine side, but she also wore the
first signs of his Knights’ presence: a purplish bruise with an
accompanying abrasion on her cheek that showed quite clearly the
impact of the flat side of a broadsword on the side of her head. A
large, brutish man with an old scar on his cheek accompanied her
wearing a wide, white bandage on his nose. He sported two black
eyes, a purple bruise on his jaw and walked with a noticeable limp
that suggested more, unseen injuries. Montague raised one eyebrow
and nodded to d’Brouchart as they rose to greet her. At least
someone had put up a fight and the Seneschal smiled slightly as the
knowledge comforted him in a morbid way.

“Chevalier d’Brouchart,” she smiled at him
and extended her hand like a man, intending to shake hands with
him. Instead, he took her hand and leaned over it, kissing the back
of it lightly. His kiss seemed to convey the idea that she was
perhaps unworthy of a handshake and her demeanor changed as she
perceived the slight. She forced a smile before continuing her
well-rehearsed lines.

“I am honored to receive you in my home at
last.”

The coldness of her tone belied the sincerity
of the greeting.

Montague gave her an appraising glance. She
was not what he expected. Too delicate and fragile to have taken so
many of his Brothers from him and he could see spidery blue veins
beneath the skin of her face. How had she managed it? Where was her
army? He noticed with some satisfaction the look in her eyes at his
Master’s kiss. She obviously did not want to be treated like a
lady, but like an equal… no! Like a man, he thought and had to
blink in confusion. She was a lovely woman and her clothing
flattered her feminine attributes quite well, but her behavior was
an enigmatic puzzle. He forced his attention back to the problem at
hand. Montague had somehow expected to see someone much… larger?
More formidable… a warrior queen, perhaps, riding in on a chariot
like the Celtic queens of old.

“Mademoiselle Valentino,” d’Brouchart said
her name as if trying it out for sound. He did not exchange a
formal greeting with her. He extended one hand in the direction of
his second. “Sir William Montague, Knight of the Holy City. London
Branch.”

“Sir Montague.” She nodded to the man and
crinkled her brow at the introduction. The man made it sound as if
they represented an accounting firm or a group of attorneys.
Valentino instantly picked up on the disdain in the British
Knight’s face and smiled at him anyhow. He was not a bad looking
fellow and she loved the suit, but there was little comparison
between his obviously refined nature and the people he called
‘Brother’. He was much too arrogant for her tastes. When he opened
his mouth to speak to her, her first impression was more than
affirmed by the few words he spoke.

“I have longed to meet you, Miss,” Montague
told her with conviction and then glanced at her companion, who
hung back near the doors to the patio with one hand in his coat
pocket. The contempt in the Knight’s voice was insurmountable.

“Ah, the sting of the double-edged British
tongue. Nice accent? Oxford, is it?” she asked, but expected and
received no answer. “Please do sit down, gentlemen.”

“Whatever pleases you, My Lady.” D’Brouchart
remained standing until she had taken a chair at the table.

Valentino poured herself a cup of coffee,
determined to ignore his archaic mannerisms that had already begun
to get on her frazzled nerves. The night before had been extremely
bad and excruciatingly long, but she had managed to capture another
of his Knights. Only an extremely large bonus and what he called ‘a
cut of the action’ had kept Maxie from walking out on her. Only
Ramsay remained at large.

“I would have preferred to speak with you,
Sir d’Brouchart, under the rose.” She eyed the big man
critically.

“By that you mean you would speak to me
alone, I presume.”

The Grand Master turned his blue eyes on the
man who stood near the doors watching them resolutely. D’Brouchart
nodded and jerked his head ever so slightly to Montague. The
Englishman started to protest, but was silenced by the expression
on the Master’s face.

“Maxie will show you to the library, Sir
Montague,” she said as she smiled at the Englishman smugly. “You
may find some of our collections interesting.”

Montague stood stiffly, tugged disgustedly on
his coat sleeves and glared at the man who returned his look with
as much venom as possible above the bandage on his nose. Maxie
waited by the double doors for Montague, but gave him wide berth as
he passed. He had no intention of having any more of his bones
broken by Valentino’s ‘friends’. The Englishman glanced back once
at the Master and paused, but d’Brouchart waved him on with one
hand. He did not like leaving the Master alone with this woman and
the Master had refused to allow him to carry anything other than
his small pocket knife for defense. He felt entirely naked without
his pistol under his jacket.

“I’ll get right to the point, sir,” Valentino
leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table as soon as they
were alone. “I have your people. So far, all are in excellent shape
physically, other than a few injuries which they inflicted on each
other. It seems they have some sort of internal conflict.”

She laughed and d’Brouchart raised one
eyebrow. His Knights were fighting each other? Without Beaujold.
Most likely they were in disagreement concerning what to do about
Sir Ramsay.

“Other than that,” she continued, “I’d say
not much is hurt other than their pride. At any rate, they have
been a most interesting experience all in all. I never expected
them to be so… human.”

“I’m sure,” he nodded. “They are quite
capable of being very civil. I trust you have talked with them?
They are fine conversationalists.” He smiled slightly, not quite
sure what to say.

“Years of practice, no doubt.” She smiled
knowingly at him.

“Let’s talk about what you want in exchange
for my Knights,” he suggested and raised his chin.

“First of all, let me tell you that Anthony
Scalia is not with them. He is dead,” she said flatly.

D’Brouchart did not flinch at this news. He
had already assumed as much.

“You have saved me an irksome task, my lady,”
he answered tonelessly.

“You assume that I killed him?” She seemed
somewhat surprised.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he
has come to his fitting reward, as God wills,” d’Brouchart allowed
a slight smile to play across his ruddy face. “Now what of my
Knights?”

“Your former apprentice showed me a most
interesting formula before he… left us. It is very remarkable, but
it is short one ingredient. He did not know the full formula,” she
continued. “He told me that you were the only one who knew the rest
of the ingredients and how to put it together.”

“I see.” D’Brouchart nodded slightly, his
weight rocking the patio chair when it should not have rocked. He
toyed with the cup in front of him absently. “He told you true,
Mademoiselle.”

“Then it’s that simple,” she snapped her
fingers in front of her face. “You give me the rest of the secret
and I will give you your Knights.”

“I would see them first,” he countered and
looked at her doubtfully. “My sources tell me that you do not have
all of them.”

She practically had all of them. Ramsay was
the only one unaccounted for and they were the ones who wanted him.
Let them find Ramsay and get rid of him. She couldn’t care less
about the arrogant Scot. It would make her day to see him get his
just rewards and she hated to think that he might be lurking out
there somewhere waiting to exact revenge on her for all that she
had done to him. For all she knew, he could have been in the
garden, watching them at that very moment.

“I’ll be honest with you Sir d’Brouchart,”
she said and brushed back her hair. “Ramsay is not in my custody,”
she told him truthfully. At least this man could perhaps help her
keep an eye out for the Knight of Death. She did not believe he
would allow Ramsay to kill her outright. “I understand that you
want him dead anyway. And oh, by the way, you are being monitored.
Anything you might do or say could be used against you in
court.”

“That remains to be seen, young missy," the
Grand Master chuckled. "Are you reading me my rights? I didn’t know
that you were a police officer.” He gave a slight shrug and eyed
her with amusement. He could read the fear in her face. It was just
as unlikely that she would want to implicate herself by recording
this exchange. “Did you manage to… kill him?”

She laughed. “I gave him poison that would
have killed ten men and I believe, if I’m not mistaken, that one of
your Knights, your Knight of the Apocalypse, I believe also
poisoned him with mercury before we captured him. At least that is
what it looked like he did from the evidence in the lab. And one of
them apparently stabbed him pretty badly, but no. He isn’t dead.
You know he isn’t dead. That would be impossible. If you will just
give me that little bit of information I requested, we can get on
with the agreement and you can all get out of here and go find your
man.”

“I might remind you that kidnapping is
illegal. What makes you think we won’t file the proper charges?
Perhaps I might even use your tape as evidence against you, no?” he
asked her and folded his arms over his chest. “I assure you,
mademoiselle, that we have not existed so long in anonymity. We
have always maintained legal residencies and identities just for
such occasions as this. The secular authorities have their
uses.”

“Yes, kidnapping is illegal, Sir, but so is
breaking and entering, criminal trespassing, horse thievery,
assault and battery, attempted murder and rape.”

D’Brouchart leaned forward in surprise. So
his Knight’s had been very busy. Only the last allegation bothered
him.

“Mon dieu!” he said and leaned back again.
“Did you say rape?”

“Yes, Sir. I did,” she raised her chin
defiantly. “And convicted horse thieves can still be executed in
Texas. Imagine what penalty a rape conviction might carry. You can
understand the rest, but that one is unexpected, no?”

“Perhaps,” he eyed her coldly. This was not
the first time he had heard this word associated with members of
the Order, but it had been a long, long time… “These are only
allegations, mademoiselle. You would have to provide proof. My
Knights have done many things in their lives. Nothing is impossible
or implausible. It would depend on the circumstances.”

“How so?” She frowned at him. “How does one
justify committing such crimes?”

“Murder is not murder when it is done in
self-defense or in times of war. Breaking and entering, assault and
battery, attempted murder, trespassing, even stealing horses may be
necessary to accomplish the Will of God. So it is and always has
been. It will always be so. Even rape is sometimes a matter of
perspective. During the crusades it was often used to demoralize
the vanquished. It was not encouraged, but it happened,
none-the-less and it was always… always effective. The nature of
war is very cruel beyond imagining. It is very hard to understand
how anyone could commit such atrocities when one is sitting at home
in front of a comfortable fire, but when one is in the heat of
battle and the blood lust is in the veins, it takes on a new
meaning altogether and it is not one understood by women!”

“You’re saying I would have to be there,
right? Not only that I would have to be there, but I would have to
be a man?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes, I suppose that is one way of putting
it,” he agreed. “Women might display some other form of barbarism
such as castration, but they simply do not have the weapon
necessary to commit the crime of rape.” D’Brouchart closed his eyes
and wiped his brow with one hand while holding up the other against
her protests. “Yes, yes, I know that there are cases in the court
right now wherein women have been accused of rape, but women simply
cannot… I repeat cannot force a man to engage in sexual intercourse
if he is unwilling. There may be other things that one can do,
but…. Well, simply put, yes, you would have to be there.”