The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (68 page)

Cecile Valentino laughed.

“I beg to differ, sir,” she said in perfect
French, startling and embarrassing all three of them. “I believe
the reverse may have been true had not the morons interfered. I saw
no sign that Sir Ramsay was ready to capitulate when he had his
sword under your chin, sir. Nor do I remember seeing him limp away
when he left you in my charge.”

D’Brouchart chuckled softly and sat back
down. He resumed the conversation in English. Beaujold’s face went
from ashen to deep red. Maxie shifted nervously behind him, as cold
sweat beaded on his forehead. It made his head hurt even worse as
another wave of nausea overtook him. Why did she insist on
provoking these maniacs? Didn’t she realize that he was the only
man in the house and Ramsay was still out there somewhere?

“And what of my other Knights?” he asked
Beaujold. “Have you seen them?”

“I have not,” Beaujold told him. “The last I
saw of Brother Dambretti, he was being led into this house by that
woman.” He nodded at Valentino. “And as far as the others, I
believe that they were taken prisoner and placed in the basement.
However, there is a great deal of blood upstairs in Ramsay’s
bedroom. I am afraid that something terrible has happened to the
Knight of the Golden Eagle.”

Valentino glanced at Maxie who snorted and
then eyed the blond man sourly. She had almost forgotten about the
Italian and the promise she had so carelessly given to the
perverted bodyguard. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was he still
upstairs? Surely Maxie had taken him out to the old shelter with
the others. So whose blood was in the bedroom upstairs? Her heart
skipped a beat as the possibilities flashed through her mind. If
the perverted idiot had done irreparable damage to Dambretti, she
would be in very serious trouble. She had had the same trouble with
the sadistic bastard when they had killed d’Brouchart’s apprentice.
Only her intervention had saved the young man from a much worse
fate than a simple shot to the back of his head.

Valentino frowned deeply at him. If Maxie had
ruined her plans, she would kill him herself.

“Enough!” she snapped. “You have seen your
Knight. Now let’s get on with the exchange.”

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

Lucio Dambretti sat on the huge slab of
limestone outside the defunct fall-out shelter, staring at his feet
dejectedly. Konrad von Hetz stood a few paces away with his hands
on his hips looking up the trail where Ramsay had disappeared. They
had waited for almost forty-five minutes for the Knight of Death to
return. The German’s wet hair had dried in the hot summer breeze
and he was beginning to perspire, wetting it again. But the heat
and the uncomfortably hot Texas weather was not nearly as
disturbing as what he had seen in the Golden Eagle’s mind. The
blond woman was up there somewhere and Ramsay had gone to her, even
after all they had been through. That Ramsay had not betrayed the
Order was a great relief, but the woman was another problem
altogether. Sir Ramsay was hopelessly enmeshed in an emotionally
devastating conundrum concerning the woman and what to do about
her. The problem was serious, but not without remedy.

Lucio’s conversation with the woman had been
highly disturbing and Lucio was wrong for having delved into his
Brother’s business in such a personal manner, but even so, Lucio
could not be punished for being inquisitive. He could be punished
for being infatuated with this woman, but it was hardly worth
mentioning. It was the old secret that the Italian harbored
concerning Sir Ramsay’s past. Never would he have thought it
possible that Mark Ramsay could be a criminal. That he could have
been a criminal for over 800 years and that Lucio Dambretti had
been aware of it all those centuries was nothing less than
miraculous. Von Hetz admired Dambretti’s devotion to his former
Master and mentor, but it did not excuse either one of them. A
Knight of the Council was required to report such things. In
keeping quiet, Lucio had made himself an accessory to the crime
even though Ramsay had threatened him. Another minor crime,
threatening to inflict harm, coercion, intimidation; it was nothing
less than extortion on Ramsay’s part. A crime any way it was
viewed. Ramsay was guilty of a heinous crime and he could not go
unpunished. There were no statutes of limitations in the Order. The
matter would have to be addressed and the sooner, the better.

Von Hetz had long suspected something
dreadful was buried in Ramsay’s brain, but considering the Knight’s
vocation, he had never delved too deeply when making his mental
connections with the Knight of Death. He confined his probing to
very basic, very simple levels such as where the Knight might be or
what he might be feeling at any particular moment, strictly on the
superficial level. These ‘sightings’ were usually done at the
express request of the Grand Master or whenever unusual
circumstances or events transpired such as those that had
precipitated this trip to America.

The Ritter did not hold Dambretti’s
reluctance to enter the water-filled tomb against him. He knew
quite well that the Italian had an unnatural fear of water and dark
places. His fear must have increased tremendously upon the thought
of entering a dark place completely flooded with water, but human
nature was such a pitiful melee of treachery and deceit, especially
when women and honor were involved. Ramsay would forgive the
Italian for his hasty words even though his anger was simmering and
his suspicions were piqued at the moment. Lucio had put up an
admirable fight against the intrusion into his thoughts, but his
efforts had only brought the secret more quickly to the surface.
The Ritter suppressed the urge to reach out to Ramsay’s mind even
though he thought he already knew what might be occurring on top of
the hill. If Ramsay raped the girl or murdered her in a jealous
rage, he would be in deeper trouble than ever and he had definitely
been in the blackest of moods when he had left them. The punishment
for rape was severe enough, but to kill an innocent Christian,
especially a woman, without even the somewhat mitigating excuse of
war to justify the crime, the only punishment would be death. The
tall man chewed his lip thoughtfully. What would be done, would be
done. But the question remained: Go up or go back?

“What shall we do now, Brother?” Simon asked.
The Healer stood at his elbow echoing his thoughts aloud. The
Healer had been strangely quiet since emerging from the cavern,
concentrating his attention on the young apprentice. Christopher
had very nearly drowned in the last moments of their captivity. He
was still coughing up foul, black water from his lungs.

“We are obligated to return him to the
Master,” von Hetz said without looking at him. “It will be for Sir
d’Brouchart to decide.”

Dambretti stood up. His humiliation was
complete. He had almost failed his Brothers in their need; he had
angered his friend and Brother to the point of committing a serious
crime and then betrayed him to the Apocalyptic Knight after eight
centuries! Now they were all in danger again from above and below.
He looked up the hill and then down the path toward the mansion. He
was certain that Brother Ramsay would not have gone back up the
hill if he had not made that foolish remark about ‘his woman’. The
Scot would have simply left her sleeping there and been done with
it, but he had been stupid and opened his mouth… again. His words
had been totally out of order and uncalled for. Now he had most
likely made the Scot an enemy for life of and in the case of the
immortal Knights of the Council that meant a long, long time. He
owed him everything! And now he owed him an apology if could get
close enough to deliver it. He doubted he would get the chance to
ask his Brother for forgiveness before he was either one or both of
them were dead. If Ramsay hurt the woman and found out afterwards
that his words had been empty braggadocio… the Italian shuddered at
the ramifications.

“I will go for him,” Dambretti told them. “I
drove him away. I will go for him. I know where he is,
Brother.”

Von Hetz turned his gaze on the Italian,
surveying him slowly, as if searching his thoughts… again. Simon
frowned and shook his head.

“I’ll go with you, Sir,” Christopher spoke up
from his perch on a smaller boulder where he had been cleaning the
mud from his daggers. The young man stood up, waiting for
Dambretti’s answer.

“Go and take the boy,” von Hetz nodded to
him. “There is the matter of Sir Beaujold. Watch for him, Brother.
An extra pair of eyes may be needed,” the German warned and turned
to Simon. “We will go down to the house and see what has become of
Miss Valentino, and her servant.”

Lucio retrieved his sword from the boulder
and sat down, wiping it clean on his shirt. The silver blade,
ornately engraved with Egyptian hieroglyphs, sparkled in the sun
and thinking with some regret that he did not have his own
apprentice with him. Most likely he would need to pass along his
Mysteries before the day was over, before Ramsay administered the
Final Rites to him and cut off his head. Even worse, he might have
his head cut off before he passed along his Mysteries and Ramsay
administered the Final Rites. Either way, he felt sure that he was
about to die and all for nothing. Nothing except his incredible
ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. He regretted that
he would not be able to say goodbye to Amelia. She was a good,
Sicilian girl. He jerked his head toward the Apocalyptic Knight and
was relieved to see that the man was no longer looking at him. It
wouldn’t do for the man to learn about his latest in a long line of
good, Sicilian girls.

He looked up at Christopher and smiled
crookedly.

“Are you ready then, il mio dolce?”

The young man returned his smile and nodded
before coughing up another mouthful of nasty water. Lucio could see
that the apprentice wanted nothing more than to wreak a bit of
revenge on the Knight of the Sword and the ugly man with the big
gun. Behind both their smiles was a look of fatalistic doom wherein
they assumed that this small act might be their last official
assignment as members of the Order. They both had some explaining
to do.

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

Mark pulled on his sticky, damp boots and
stood up, grimacing slightly at the feel of the cold, blood and
water soaked leather against his bare feet. He retrieved his shirt
and pulled it on over his head. His hair was still damp as he
brushed it back out of his face. His fears had returned with a
vengeance. He should not have allowed her to keep him here with her
for so long. Even the few minutes they had spent together in the
observatory might have meant the difference between life and death
for either or both of them.

“Hurry!” he urged her as she laced up her own
boots and then stood up in order to fasten the buttons on her
jeans.

“Where are we going?” She looked up at him
with just a hint of fear in her voice. She regretted having kept
him here for so long. She might have taken the only advantage he
had, the only chance he had left to escape the man bent on killing
him. The curly-haired one with the dancing eyes had surely told the
others where she was… where he might be found.

“Back to the house,” he told her and took her
arm. “We have to get away from here before it’s too late. We have
to get my car. You say the keys are in your room? Can I find
them?”

“Probably not and besides, I’m not letting
you out of my sight,” she told him as he started down the
ladder.

Once they were out in the open, they broke
into a run, dashing for the relative safety of the stunted trees
and bushes growing further down the side of the hill. Instead of
following the path past the old shelter, they cut across the rough
ground, slipping and sliding on the steep incline, keeping
themselves concealed as much as possible behind the limited
vegetation. At one point, they were forced to lie flat on their
stomachs under a gnarled cedar as they waited for Sir Dambretti and
Christopher Stewart to pass on the trail above them. Mark watched
these two with a mixture of pain and regret. The mud was drying and
sticking to them and very soon they would be the same color as the
earth.

Merry tried in vain to scrape some of the goo
off of her as they ran through the twisting garden paths to the
patio. Mark motioned for her to be quiet as they edged down the
wall to the first set of double doors. He leaned cautiously around
the door facing and then jumped back, slumping low and shaking his
head. He leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, listening as
if he could hear them. Merry could hear nothing. Valentino and
several others were in the library. Mark crawled past her without
the slightest hint of noise, though he still carried the sword and
the dagger, one weapon in each hand. Merry crawled after him,
trying to emulate his movements.

They left the patio, went down and around the
house to the door leading into the kitchen. The Knight made a foray
inside the service door, crouching low against the wall until he
could see into the kitchen. There were two servants at work, the
cook was preparing dinner and a maid was putting away dishes in the
cupboard. Mark straightened up and looked back at Merry. He smiled
at her from his mud-smeared face and flicked some cedar needles
from her shoulder, causing her to smile in return. They were a
mess.

“Sometimes the direct approach is best,” he
told her quietly, repeating von Hetz’ words. “Act natural,” he
added and then had to smile at her appearance. Her muddy face
reminded him of the Celtic lads who had covered themselves with mud
and blue paint just to scare their enemies to cowardice. He shook
his head at the unexpected memory. Was he that old? Surely not. The
sword was a problem. He tucked the Flaming Sword inside his
bedraggled trousers alongside his right leg away from the two
servants and put Merry on his left side to cover the cut in his
pants.