The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death (2 page)

“Master!” the boy shouted to him and waved
frantically.

Mark stood waiting as his own apprentice, a
rather irreverent New Yorker of about eighteen, slid to a stop in
the pebbled drive in front of him.

“Master!” the boy gasped and leaned on the
trunk of the car. “I thought I had missed you. Sir Barry would not
let me out of class early. He’s such an ass at times.”

“Watch your tongue or Sir Barry will having
it roasting on a spit,” Mark Andrew suppressed another smile along
with his normally pronounced Scottish brogue.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but he knows I wanted to see
you off. Are you sure you can’t take me with you? It would only be
a few days. I could take my books and study while we travel. And I
promise I would stay at the hotel or whatever while you do your…
business.”

“I’m afraid it’s not possible, Christopher.”
Mark Andrew licked lips and looked up at the cloudless sky again.
Rain would help. Or a nice gale force wind. “You belong here in
school,” he said more sternly. “Brother Barry would have my head if
I took you away again.”

“But you’re going to America. Please? You
could talk to Sir d’Brouchart. It would only be…”

“I said no and that’s final,” Mark brushed
him aside and opened the driver’s door. “Now you’d best get
yourself back to the classroom before he misses you and you end up
in detention. I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll take a little
trip together before I go back to Scotland. The Alps or someplace
cool,” Mark looked up at the sun again.

Christopher nodded, but his disappointment
was evident. He knew the place would not be cool as in ‘cool’, but
cool as in cold.

“You have a break coming for St. John’s
Feast. We’ll go up to the monastery on the Aegean. You’ll like it
there. Cool breezes, salt air, mists and sea cliffs. Very peaceful.
A good place for contemplative thinking,” Mark continued as he
checked his pockets once more, searching for his credit cards this
time.

“I’m sure it sounds very nice, Master, but
this is the first real mission that you’ve gone on since I’ve been
your apprentice. How can I learn to be an Assassin, if you don’t
show me the trade?” The young man looked him square in the eyes and
made one last plea, risking much. His dark blue eyes sparkled with
a daring expression that had gotten him in trouble before.

Mark Andrew’s own blue eyes narrowed sharply
and Christopher’s expression changed to one of instant regret. He
had gone too far.

“Ye’ll nae be speakin’ loightly o’ such
things, Christopher Stewart!” Mark’s face darkened and his brogue
asserted itself. “Ye’ll larn t’ crawl before ye can walk and if ye
think thot me wark is something t’ be amused aboot, ye’d bettar
think again. If ye evar larn t’ be a gud alchemist, which I doubt,
then we’ll talk aboot th’ oother.”

“I’m sorry, Master.” Christopher lowered his
eyes and his face turned red under the admonishment. It was
actually the worst he had ever received from the Scot, but then he
had never mentioned ‘th’ oother’ before. Not directly. The
Chevalier du Morte suddenly grasped him by the shoulders and he
instinctively closed his eyes, expecting the worst, but when he
looked up, Mark Andrew kissed him lightly on the lips in the
Templar fashion and then ruffled his dark hair playfully.

“Stop being impatient, lad. It’ll be the
death of you yet and me, as well. Now go on back to class and
Christopher…” Mark’s tone changed as he shoved him toward the
buildings. “Go with God.”

Christopher nodded solemnly, turned on his
heel and ran back toward the Academy building where he would no
doubt catch hell for being late to his next class. He loved the boy
like a son and too much to tell him no without regret, but
Christopher was hot-headed and stubborn to boot. The apprentice
would have to learn patience and discipline or he would never make
an adept apprentice or even a good soldier and there were few other
alternatives for the boy if he didn’t shape up soon.

When the last sounds of Christopher’s
footsteps faded in the still air, he opened the car door
reluctantly. With one last sigh of regret, he slid into the
driver’s seat and picked up the folder lying in the seat next to
him. Inside the folder, the bright-eyed young man known as Anthony
Scalia smiled back at him from the 8 X 10 color photo. The tiny
marks around the edge of the picture spoke a thousand words. The
Grand Master had actually framed the photograph and hung it on the
wall behind his desk, between a gilt-framed print of da Vinci’s
Saint John and his own portrait painted by Sir Louis Champlain when
the multi-talented Chevalier l’Clef d'Or had been going through an
artistic phase just after the First World War. Anthony was not much
older than Christopher, only twenty-two next month. It would be a
real shame if he could not convince him to return to the fold
peacefully and take his punishment like a true Soldier of
Christ.

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

Merry’s voice cut through the woman’s
concentration and she looked up over the newspaper at the blond who
sat across from her at the patio table. “Cecile! You are not
listening to me.”

“Yes, I am, little girl.” Cecile reached
around the paper, picked up her glass of milk and took a small sip
after sniffing the stuff suspiciously. She laid the paper on the
table beside her breakfast and picked up a half-eaten piece of
toast, nibbling at it absently. Her dark eyes scanned the blond
woman’s face as she tried to remember the topic of conversation.
“Why are you so upset?”

“Where is Anthony?” Merry asked again.

“He’s gone.” Cecile sighed and her shoulders
slumped. They had been through this a dozen times. “And good
riddance."

“I liked Anthony!” Merry whined plaintively.
“And I think he like me, too. Or at least, he was beginning to.
This is not going to work if you keep finding fault with everyone I
find! I’ll be a withered a woman in a few years and…”

“Well, he’s gone,” Cecile retorted, cutting
her off and allowing irritation to creep into her voice. “Merry,
look, Anthony was just a gold-digger. We would have never been rid
of him... well, that's not exactly true," Cecile laughed slightly.
"Trust me, sweetie. You will have what you want and then we’ll live
happily forever after.”

“What are you talking about? You know I have
a totally different taste in men than you do and... What do you
mean that's not exactly true?"

Cecile smiled and leaned forward. "Actually,
there was more to Anthony than I knew. It seems he was more my type
than you know. He was a fugitive.”

"Whaat?" Merry's eyes widened.

"Not a criminal. He was a Templar. An
apprentice to one of the Knights. It seems he didn't care for their
lifestyle after he joined up. Anyhow, he was on the run."

"Why?"

"Because this particular Order is the real
thing, Merry. Blood in/blood out. Just like the gangs in LA.
Someone was chasing him. Someone would have eventually caught him
and killed him."

“How…what are you talking about, Cecile?!”
Merry cut her off and picked up her orange juice. Cecile loved
drama and Merry was determined not to fall into the trap…
again.

“If you had been paying attention to the boy
instead of just trying to get him in your bed…,” Cecile grumbled
and took up her paper again. “He told me that he was not only an
apprentice, but he was the Grand Master's apprentice. Don't you
remember what I told you about?”

“What? That there is an Order with a bunch of
immortal members and they know the secret of immortality? What are
they? Vampires?” Merry continued to irritate her with more
questions.

“No! Would you stop?” Cecile asked coldly.
“They are not vampires. Good grief, you really take the cake,
Meredith Nichole! Don't you see? If one of the immortals was after
Anthony, he'll come here looking for him. And we'll be ready for
him. I want to know about this Philosopher's Stone. According to
Anthony, the one coming after him is called the Knight of Death.
Strangely enough, he seems to also know all about the Philosopher's
Stone. Can you imagine what that means, Merry?"

"Sounds dangerous to me." Merry sniffed and
allowed one perfect tear to escape the corner of her eye. "I liked
Anthony and you ran him off. You run all of my prospects off. It's
just because you're jealous, but you promised, Cecile. My clock is
ticking and I want a baby before it's too late."

Cecile put down her paper again, this time
slapping it on the table hard enough to cause the dishes to
jump.

“Look!” she said angrily. “This Knight of
Death will be here soon and maybe he will be suitable. I'll have to
talk him into thinking that Anthony will be back somehow… I don't
know. I'll figure it out. Anyhow, I'll get him to stay for a few
days. If he looks promising, then maybe you can hook up with him.
Think of it, Merry! Immortality! If we can get to the Grand Master
through this guy and…"

Merry sobbed in earnest and pressed her hands
against her eyes.

Cecile got up and went around the table in
defeat. She patted Merry’s shoulder in an awkward attempt to
comfort her, as she continued to cry into her napkin. The younger
woman blew her nose loudly and Cecile cringed.

“All right,” she relented. “I’ll tell you
what. If he’s ugly or… or… OK, look. Let me check him out first and
we'll see. Stop crying. You know I hate it when you cry. It’s so…
messy.”

"I want to make the choice, Cecile," Merry
said. "You just don't understand!"

"I understand that you are a spoiled rotten
child and I waste my time trying to do anything for you!"

When her words brought more tears and more
nose-blowing, she rolled her eyes and bent over the blond curls,
planting a kiss in the midst of the fluff. She suppressed the urge
to say something she would regret and forced a softer tone.

“Won’t you go on upstairs and take a bubble
bath? Maxie has it all worked out. He'll be coming in from DFW this
afternoon. Maybe you and Maxie can drive out and follow him back
here. Make sure he doesn't get lost?"

"Really? Maxie can't be that good," Merry
frowned up at her. "He's stupid."

"Maxie knows people at DFW. And I have my own
connections. You don't think I've searched for these people for so
long without results, do you? It was no accident that we ran into
Anthony on that cruise, sweetie."

“Oh. What does he look like?” Merry looked up
at her, wiping at her eyes. “How will we know it’s him?”

“OK,” Cecile’s features changed to one of
relief and she sat down next to the blond, taking her hands in her
own. “Here’s what I’ve been told. He’s six foot two, dark blue
eyes, black hair. Supposed to be long according to Anthony and he’s
an outdoorsy type, you know? He’s supposed to be Scottish, but I
doubt he’ll be wearing a kilt.” Cecile attempted to make a joke,
but Merry nodded again, missing it. “He reserved a black El Dorado
at the airport in Dallas. Anthony says he likes black. Wears it all
the time, apparently. You can’t miss him. Oh, and he’ll be wearing
the rings I told you about, but I doubt you’ll get close enough to
see them.”

“But won't he be dangerous? You say he is an
assassin.” Merry was still not satisfied. She was never
satisfied.

“He is,” Cecile told her matter-of-factly.
Her ever-changing face quickly showed signs of reverting to anger.
“Maxie can handle it. Now go on upstairs and I’ll be up
shortly.”

Merry allowed the woman to pull her from the
chair and push her toward the patio doors.

Merry stopped on the stairs and looked back
toward the patio. If she was going to have her way, she would have
to act fast. If this so-called immortal had prospects, she would
just have to take matters in her own hands. Cecile just fucked
things up every time she found someone suitable for a father for
her child. Maybe not this time. She hurried to her room and
rummaged through the desk drawers for Cecile's personal journal. It
was where Cecile kept all her notes about the elusive Templars.

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

Blood trickled down the side of Mark Andrew
Ramsay’s face, mingling with the perspiration staining the collar
of his once neatly pressed white shirt. He could feel the sweat
running from beneath his hair onto his forehead and into the cut
above his eye, adding a stinging sensation to the pain that was
already there, but that was minor in comparison to the multitude of
other pains he felt in various parts of his body. He raised his
head slowly and blinked rapidly, trying again to clear his blurred
vision as the leering face of his tormentor came into view again.
The heavy features of the man would have been unpleasant under any
circumstances, but the scowl there now and the decidedly twisted
gleam in his murky blue eyes portended a very bad afternoon to
come.

He closed his eyes against the sight of the
smile that crinkled the ugly scar on the man’s left cheek and
prepared himself to receive another round of kicks, blows or
punches.

“Yeah, better close them baby blues,
dipshit!” The man laughed in his face, close enough for him to
smell his breath. “You don’t want to see what’s comin’ next.”

Mark waited. He could hear the man crunching
around in the dried leaves, rocks and crisp grass of the pecan
orchard. Once again, he tried to remember how he had gotten here,
but he could remember nothing at all. He didn't really remember his
name. He only assumed that Mark Andrew Ramsay was his name because
the man told him it was so.

When nothing else was forthcoming, he opened
his eyes again to see the hulking figure walking away from him
under the trees. Perhaps he was going to get something more
interesting to beat him with like a mace or a morning star. He hung
his head and tried to concentrate on what might be holding him in
place. Long, dark hair cascaded from his shoulders, hanging loosely
on either side of his face, startling him into the realization that
he had no idea what he looked like. For all he knew, he could be as
ugly as his captor or worse. His hands were behind him; he could
feel the bite of rope or cords cutting into his wrists when he
tried to move them and the pain in his shoulders indicated that his
arms were stretched back and around the sides of the tree behind
him. He sat on the ground at the base of the tree with his feet in
front of him. Black socks, no boots or shoes.