The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (74 page)

It had been a shock to the Italian Knight and
the Scot as well to hear the same false accusations on the lips of
Cecile Valentino almost seven hundred years later. Almost seven
hundred years of anonymity, clouded by legend, speculation and
exaggeration. The Templars had taken on a magickal, mystical
quality that time could only enhance to the point of absurdity. But
Truth in this particular case might have seemed much less
believable than fiction.

These unadorned yet hallowed halls served the
Order in more ways than one. Tonight’s purpose was not one that
gave cause for celebration, but never-the-less gave pause for
reflection and meditation and would, ultimately give those involved
reason to wonder if their work, their sacrifice and their Holy
Commission were nothing more than vain dreams of a time that would
never come to pass.

The Chevalier du Morte could see nothing from
beneath the heavy black hood covering his head. He could sense the
presence of the ten men in the room with him as he knelt before the
stone altar. Five Knights aligned on either side of him, standing
with their backs against the wall. Every man’s face deeply obscured
within the shadows of the hooded mantles they wore over their white
surcoats and chain mail. The sound of each movement was amplified
inside the hollow rock chamber. The jingle of chain mail and the
squeak of leather belts and scabbards seemed unnaturally loud as
the men gathered there in full dress uniform, swayed slightly to
and fro. Ramsay wore no surcoat, no mantle nor weapon, no boots nor
even socks on his bare feet which were crossed at the ankles behind
him as he knelt on the damp floor. His clothing was reduced to a
single pair of loose black trousers and the hood. His wrists, also
crossed behind his back, were tied with a length of new rope,
securely fastened and knotted to preclude any hope of escape.

The accused knew where he was, knew the
identity of every man in the room though he did not know where each
would be standing. The hood was provided rather for the comfort of
the punishing Brothers, rather than the confusion of the condemned.
He would not know which of them approached him when the punishment
began and would not be able to accurately associate mercy or
brutality with the rightful owner. Such anonymity would help to
prevent future retaliatory efforts on the part of the prisoner.

They had been arguing for more than two weeks
around the Council Table at the Villa in southern Italy. Sir Ramsay
had never witnessed anything like it in all the years that he had
been a member of the Council of Twelve. Never had the Master
allowed such a round table discussion to last for so long before
calling for a vote. The pros and cons had been hashed and re-hashed
after the funeral and the Initiation and Rites had been completed
for the installation of the new Knight of the Sword.

Sir Ramsay had, naturally been excluded from
these discussions. He had spent the time under house arrest in the
guest quarters. Only Christopher had been allowed to attend him and
the boy knew nothing of what was passing in the Council Chamber.
The inactivity and boredom had driven him to distraction and he was
almost glad to have the thing over and done.

Christopher would be allowed to take him home
after Simon pronounced him well enough to travel. Christopher
Stewart’s punishment for leaving the compound without authority
would be suspension from Sir Barry’s Academy for one year. The
young man had barely contained his joy when the sentence had been
announced. He felt like Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch. A whole
year’s respite from the stern schoolmaster. The only thing he
regretted was the separation from his friend Armand de Bleu and,
since Armand’s Master was one of the French Knights aligned with
Sir Beaujold’s manner of thinking, Armand would never receive
permission to visit Scotland. Of course, Sir Ramsay had been sorely
disappointed. He wanted the prescribed three year training to be
over and done so that Christopher could begin his real training in
Scotland. He had much to learn about alchemy and there was much to
teach about life and death and the Order and God. Mark Andrew was
worried about Christopher’s stubborn streak and even now in the
stuffy confines of this stone chamber of horrors, he was worried
that his apprentice would do something impetuous when he learned
what had transpired here.

A communal shudder seemed to pass through the
room as the Grand Master entered the stuffy chamber with an unnamed
attendant witness, who was not a Knight of the Council, near his
right shoulder. The two men made their way down the dual line of
fully armored Knights. As he passed, each pair turned to face the
altar. The unnamed man, also wearing a hooded mantle, would be one
of the lay brothers or older apprentices. He would actually stand
in for the Knight of Death and participate in the punishment in
order to bear witness to the fact that it was meted fairly.

The Grand Master, also dressed in the same
garb as his Knights, stood between Ramsay and the altar. The man
heaved an audible sigh and placed one gloved hand on the hilt of
his sword.

“Brother Ramsay, do you understand the
charges of which you have been found guilty?” His deep voice echoed
in the stone chamber.

Mark Andrew nodded his head and felt the
cool, comfort of the silver filigreed earrings braided into a lock
of his hair brush against his bare neck under the hood.

“Do you willingly accept the penance meted
out by this court?”

He nodded again. “I do,” came the muffled
reply from the bowed head of the Knight of Death.

“Have you any further words for thy Brothers’
sakes?” The Master asked him.

The convicted man nodded his head yet once
more.

“Speak,” the Master’s voice seemed to crack
just a bit under the strain.

“I looked for some to take pity, but there
was none; and for comforters, but I found none,” Mark Andrew
recited these most fitting words from the Holy Scriptures, Psalms,
Chapter 69, as he braced himself against what he was about to
receive. A barely audible groan escaped one of his Brothers, though
none of them moved or spoke out in his defense. That time had
passed.

“So be it,” the Grand Master stepped away and
resumed his post behind the altar, where the light from the
guttering candles cast his face in dark shadows.

He raised one hand and made a fist as a
signal to the Knight who had drawn the first tile to step forward.
The Knight moved forward and stopped beside the kneeling Chevalier
du Morte.

“Let the Twelve of Twelve begin,” the Grand
Master dropped his hand and turned his back to them. He would be
the last to administer his share of the punishment.

The first Knight raised his gloved hand much
the same as the Master had just done, made a fist and struck the
kneeling man a deafening blow on his head, sending him to the floor
in a heap.

“One!” The voices of the ten assembled
Knights in the chamber rose in unison in the room.

The lay brother reached down, picked up the
stricken man and stood him back on his knees. It would be his job
to pick him up after each blow and if necessary, it would be his
duty to literally hold him up until the sentence was carried
through completion. The first Knight raised his fist again and
struck him another, equally powerful blow on the opposite side of
his head, sending him sprawling on the cold stone floor a second
time. When the lay brother picked him up the second time, blood
dripped onto his hand from under the hood.

“Two!” The voices of the ten assembled
Knights in the chamber rose again in unison and the first Knight
raised his fist again.

Quotes taken from listed sources, the Holy Bible KJV and Primitive
Rule of Order, Poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple.