The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death

The Knight of Death is dedicated to everyone who has
ever had the desire to meet or be an immortal warrior.

The characters are fictional and any
resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and
coincidental.

Brendan Carroll can be reached at
http://redcrossofgold.blogspot.com/for comments or questions.

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No part of the contents of this publication
may be copied, printed or sold without permission of the
author.

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For days the forces of Saladin pounded the walls of the great City
of Jerusalem, seeking out the weak points in the fortifications,
searching endlessly, relentlessly for the one place where his
ballistae and catapults could do the most damage. A veritable rain
of arrows, rocks and Greek fire poured into the city over the walls
and into the streets, killing everything from dogs to rats caught
out in the open. News, what little there was, from the army was
hard to glean and disheartening at best. There would be no
returning forces coming to drive the Saracens from the gates of the
old city.

All was lost.

Lords Balian and Ranier had gone out to meet
with the tyrant, Saladin, seeking terms after a mounted foray
through the Jehosephat gate had been utterly destroyed. The two
emissaries had gained nothing more than the ill-received news that
the ransom prices would be paid in gold or else those who could not
pay would be put to the sword. Every male over the age of ten would
pay ten besants, females would pay five. Younger children would be
required to pay one besant. Very high prices indeed and impossible
for most of the city’s population… those that remained alive at any
rate… to pay. Saladin had graciously granted forty days for the
gold to be gathered.

The young Templar Knight, Androu, only just
arrived from the wild lowlands of Scotia, with his new Latin name
of Armenius, had only just learned that he and his twin brother,
Mathou, also newly named Larmenius, would be ransomed and allowed
to leave the city with those other citizens, soldiers, clergy,
royalty and Knights fortunate enough to have the ransom handy. This
was great news. The two Knights had lain side by side in the
darkness beneath the heavily fortified walls of the Commanderie,
listening to the bombardment at night, speaking of their misfortune
at having been amongst the few Templars left behind when the armies
of the King had ridden off into oblivion. If only they had been
allowed to accompany the army, they might have met more useful
deaths. Anything would have been preferable to starving in the
darkness like rats or being cut down by an errant arrow in the
street or burned alive in some subterranean dead end.

But this latest news was grand indeed and he
wanted only to share it with Mathou as soon as possible.

Mathou, however, was not in the Commanderie,
nor was he found in any of the usual places they come to haunt
since the siege began. Androu rushed through the halls, calling for
his brother in their native Scots tongue, drawing stares and
admonishments from the clergy, monks and attendants who were
desperately trying to minister to the masses of wounded and dying
and dead who had sought refuge inside the fortified structure.
Everywhere was the stench of blood and death, weeping, wailing
women, crying children, but nowhere was the sight of his brother.
He drew up short at the spectacle of bright sunlight spilling
through a tall set of open doors.

Androu blinked in the bright light as he
realized that the hail of arrows was no longer falling into the
street beyond the doors.

Several young men and boys were standing just
inside the doors, looking out at the incredible carnage in the
street. Blood filled the shallow drains alongside the street,
bodies of men, women and children were strewn about along with
dogs, cats, goats, sheep, chickens, donkeys and horses. All piled
on top of each other, looking very much like hedgehogs under the
weight of hundreds of arrows. There were also fallen blocks from
the buildings surrounding the square as well as the rounded
boulders flung there by catapults, overturned carts, broken
pottery, pieces of metal and glass and splintered weapons of every
imaginable sort. Food, much needed to feed the hungry, lay rotting
amidst the destruction. A sad sight indeed. The fountain, choked
with debris showed promise of nothing more than blood-tainted
water. Poison. The sight was beyond comprehension. The smell was
unbearable and the silence even worse than the constant explosions
had been.

“What has happened?” he asked the boys in
stilted Latin.

One of them turned large, frightened eyes on
him. His dark face was smeared with dirt and blood.

“My Lord, the infidels have entered the
city,” he said. “The wall has been breached. Can you not hear
them?”

Androu willed his heart to be still and
strained his ears. Faint shouts of “Allah Akbar!” Echoed through
the streets.

“My brother… have you seen Larmenius, the
elder?” He asked, taking the boy by the shoulders.

“Your brother? Mathou?” one of the other
children answered him with a question.

“Aye!”

“He left when the arrows ceased, Sir!” The
boy, a swarthy complected ragamuffin of about fourteen years
stepped forward. “That way.” He pointed one dirty finger toward one
of the clogged streets leading away from the square.

Androu sucked in a deep breath of relatively
cool air and then stepped out into the smoke and glaring midday
sun.

“Wait, Master,” the boy shouted and caught up
with him. “I can show you the way. You must be careful, sir. The
infidels are killing people in the streets down that way. Blood
flows like water through the sewers. One besant is my price.”

Androu hesitated, checked his weapons and his
purse, jammed the helmet he had been carrying, on his head and
jerked his head to the boy in acceptance of the offer. If the boy
was useful, he might see to it that his ten besants were paid in
full. He needed a good valet and this one spoke Latin better than
he did.

The young fellow nimbly picked his way over
the carnage and Androu followed more slowly in the more cumbersome
chain mail, boots and surcoat. He heard someone shouting his name
from the door, but did not look back. Once they were clear of the
square, they kept to the more protected alleys and narrow streets
where less debris had accumulated. Eventually, they came upon a
less damaged part of the city where the streets were relatively
free of bodies and clutter. They stopped in front of a formidable
residential home. The doors stood open. Amazingly, this house was
undamaged. Its gleaming white facade stood untouched by Saladin’s
rampage.

“He went in there?” Androu asked and frowned
at the boy suspiciously.

The boy nodded solemnly and then smiled.

Androu started up the broad steps. He knew
the place. The house belonged to a wealthy merchant who was
purportedly a Muslim, himself. Some minor official who attended the
King’s court regularly, wearing outlandish garb from Persia, which
he claimed to be his home. He was about to change his mind about
going inside when he heard a woman’s screams emanating from the
open doors.

The Knight rushed up the steps, drawing his
sword as he went, calling his brother’s name.

“Mathou!” he shouted.

He found no one inside the first three rooms
and then burst into the sunlight again as he stepped into an
enclosed courtyard. His eyes fell immediately on the sight of a
Templar floating face down in a sizable pool. A bright swath of
crimson was spreading out around his head.

A woman, her face concealed behind a veil,
stood near the pool, holding an ornately bejeweled knife in one
hand. A brilliant flash of red blinded his reasoning and he jerked
his head back.

When he locked eyes with her, she screamed.
He screamed and the boy screamed with him.

She screamed again and the boy screamed with
her.

He screamed and the boy shouted in his
face.

“Sir! Sir! Wake up!” The boy, no longer a
ragamuffin, was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

“Christopher?” he asked and blinked into the
worried face of his young American apprentice, Christopher
Stewart.

“Yes, Master. It’s me, Christopher, for
Pete’s sake. The Grand Master wants to talk to you before you leave
for America, Sir.”

Mark Andrew Ramsay sat up stiffly and found
himself sitting behind his rather barren desk where he had
apparently fallen asleep after consuming a half bottle of Scotch
the night before.

“You scared the bejesus out of me,”
Christopher ventured. “Can I get you some water, Sir?”

“Get back to class, boy,” Mark grumped,
managed a slight smile and then stood up. The dream about his
brother’s death rarely plagued him these days, but when it did, it
brought back the proper perspective he needed for his life as the
Chevalier du Morte, the Knight of Death, Alchemist and Assassin for
the Order of the Red Cross of Gold, poor Knight of the Temple of
Solomon.

Save me, O God; for the waters are come
inunto my soul.

Mark carefully placed the flat black case in the rear seat of the
Mercedes and closed the door. The sun glinted off the rear
windshield, almost blinding him when he walked around the rear of
the car, checking the tires. Old habits died hard. The tires were
fine.

He hated this hot weather. He was used to
friendlier climes and whenever the temperature soared into the
nineties, the heat and dust reminded him of another, much less
pleasant place than the restored Roman Villa surrounded by ancient
olive trees and carefully sculpted lawns. Scotland was always first
in his mind: Long summer days, misty mornings and green meadows
stretching to infinity. The less time he spent in Italy, the better
and this trip… the purpose of this visit… made the weather even
harder to bear though the temperature only registered a sunny
eighty-two degrees. People paid good money to visit the place and
he would have paid anything to skip this part of his duties. Surely
there must have been some way to conduct business in this day and
age without traveling thousands of miles for face-to-face
meetings.

The Chevalier Ramsay had grown complacent
since the end of the last Great War. It had been years since the
Grand Master had summoned him from Scotland for such a mission. He
had almost forgotten his primary duty and responsibility as the
Knight of Death. First and foremost, he was the Assassin. His
secondary job as Alchemist for the Order took up most of his time
and he had begun to think of himself as a simple chemist.

Simple! That was how he liked things. The
simpler, the better. But reality rarely allowed him to lead the
life that he preferred, rather it made many demands on him that
probably would have driven anyone else completely insane. All the
same, he was thankful for the respite that God had given them,
however short it had been. Fifty-five years had been an
unprecedented time of relative peace for the world. All of them had
grown complacent and that was probably the precise reason that this
mission was necessary at all. They had failed to impress the
serious nature of the Rule of Order, the Oath of Loyalty and the
vows associated with an apprenticeship to one of the Knights of the
Council on the Grand Master's latest apprentice. The inevitable
consequences of breaking those vows were about to be brutally and
perhaps ultimately impressed upon the young man after whom he was
being sent.

He would bring the renegade apprentice home
alive or, if need be, dead. If the apprentice wanted to resign his
apprenticeship, there was a wrong way and a right way. Right.
Wrong. Light. Dark. Simple.

He patted the deep pocket on the leg of his
black cargo pants to make sure that his plane ticket and
credentials were there and then squinted at the figure of a young
man dressed in a white shirt and brown trousers, running toward him
across the grass. Mark Andrew smiled slightly and pushed his long,
black hair over his shoulder as he recognized his own apprentice,
Christopher Stewart, hurrying toward him.