Characters from "The Red Cross of Gold" series in a short story showing the beginning of an age old grudge between two of the Brothers.
“Well met then, my friend!” Hugh de Champagne, the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon, clasped his friend and Brother’s forearm, pulling him close enough to kiss him on the lips in the fashion practiced by the Templar Brothers as a sign of recognition.
“Oui! And good it is to see you, Brother,” James Argonne, Knight of the Throne, clasped the larger Knight by the shoulder as his racing heart began to slow its pace somewhat.
All around the two bloodied and dirty Knights lay dead bodies, glassy-eyed and pasty-faced scattered haphazardly in the cobbled street. All of them dressed in the King’s livery and all dead with the exception of one who was attempting to crawl away on his stomach, dragging his useless legs behind him in a bright red trail of blood. Argonne wrenched his blade free of the last man he had skewered and went after the survivor. A wooden shutter banged open on the second floor above them and a young woman stuck her head out. James bellowed up at her like an enraged bull and she screamed before withdrawing inside. The window slammed shut and silence returned to the narrow alley. Only the labored breathing of the French soldier broke the unnatural silence in the normally noisy residential area of Paris where a group of ragtag children had been playing only a few short minutes earlier.
Argonne bellowed again as he plunged his sword into the nape of the man’s neck. The soldier gurgled, attempted to reach the blade with one hand and then lay still as more blood spilled onto the stones.
Hugh rushed past James and caught his arm, dragging him along, keeping to the shadows under the overhanging upper floors of the houses lining the narrow street. There were bound to be other soldiers in the area. James had led these six into an alley where he knew Champagne had disappeared only a few moments prior to their arrival. There the two Templars had cut down King Philippe’s men like so many reeds on the river bank, pushing them back into the street. If they had any hope of surviving the day, they had to get to the Commanderie. Something was dreadfully wrong! Why would the King’s men be chasing them through the streets so early in the morning screaming obscene curses at them?
Both Knights removed their mantels and surcoats as they walked along, tucking the bloody white clothes into their helmets. Two more narrow alleys crisscrossed with clotheslines provided them with damp tunics and ragged mantels of brown and blue. At least they would not attract so much attention if no one looked too closely at them. Argonne led the way through the maze of narrow streets with Hugh close on his heels. They kept their heads low and pulled the mantels close about their shoulders, attempting to cover the chain mail they wore under the tattered tunics. Paris was Argonne’s home. He had roamed these streets since the time he first remembered. Hugh, on the other hand, was a country bumpkin, bigger and slower in both brain and body than his short, stocky companion.
They dodged and ducked in and out of alleys, streets and narrow spaces between buildings, some that could not even remotely be classified as a crawl space until they broke into the open near a towering fountain with clear running water. Hugh slowed to a less conspicuous pace in the more populous area around the fountain. Hawkers called to them as they passed; trying to sell them everything from loaves of crusty brown bread to bridles for their imaginary horses and feathers for their caps. They rounded the corner, passed in front of a leather shop and then stopped quickly, pretending to admire a number of copper pots stacked on a rough table as a small contingency of the king's soldiers trotted past them.
Moving on quickly, they came to an iron gate set in a stone wall, partially overgrown with trailing ivy and wild grape vines. James pushed the vines aside and shoved Hugh through a narrow hole between the gate and the wall where several of the stones had fallen away over time.
"Well, bless my soul!" Hugh exclaimed as he gazed up at the imposing facade of the Templar Commanderie. People were running to and fro in the rear courtyard, carrying all manner of household commodities, clearly in a state of panic. Hugh grabbed one of the lay brothers when he passed near them.
"What goes here, Brother?" He asked.
The man looked at him with wide, terrified eyes, opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Argonne grabbed the man, spun him around and asked him the same question. When the young man failed to answer, he shoved him to the ground viciously and then looked around for someone who might be more able to tell them something useful. He saw the Mystic Healer's apprentice running down the wide steps, carrying a heavy bag slung over one shoulder.
"Benoit!" Hugh called to the young fellow.
The apprentice looked up and saw Hugh standing near the wall. He dropped the bag, grabbed his robe in both hands, exposing his bare legs under the rough woolen sheath as he ran toward them.
"Masters! Masters!"
"What is going on here in the name of St. John?!" Hugh caught the boy in his arms and then held him out, looking closely at him.
"Master, they have arrested the Grand Master!"
"What?!" James asked, grabbing the boy from Hugh. "Where is your Master?"
"He is dead!" The boy cried and began to sob openly. "We are leaving. They are arresting everyone! We will all be killed!"
James and Hugh looked at each other in shock. They had only just returned to the city from a sojourn in the Langue d'Oc. They had both missed the last Council meeting.
"The king!" Benoit continued. "He has issued the order to arrest all the Brothers."
"What are the charges?" James asked him.
"Blasphemy. Heresy... I don't know. Something else." The boy turned his eyes nervously toward the open gates that led into the crowded Paris street in front of the Commanderie.
"How did death find your Master? Where is Ramsay?"
"He was with Sir Ramsay when they killed him, Master. I only just had word of it this minute from Sir Ramsay’s man. He told me to pack a bag and wait for him, but I must flee, Messrs. Please!" Benoit pulled away from James. “You must flee for your lives!!”
Argonne let go of him and watched in silence as the boy ran back to retrieve his bag and then disappeared into the street, blending instantly into the crowds.
They both headed for the gate as well, but stopped when someone called Hugh by name. They turned and saw Louis Champlain, the Knight of the Golden Key, limping toward them. His surcoat was missing and his undershirt was stained with fresh blood. The big Frankish Knight's blond hair was as wild as his eyes as he hurried toward them. He carried no weapon and wore no armor.
"Brothers!" He caught them both in a hug and pushed them toward the gates. "We must hurry. The Master has been taken and his second as well. They have only just raided the Temple and arrested Simon. Master deMolay has given orders not to resist, but I will not go without a fight. Brother Ramsay and the Healer tried to save Father Simon, but Girard was killed in the Temple! Sacrilege!" He told them as they hurried along. "Brother Edgard has sent instructions to meet at the wharves after nightfall."
"What of Girard? Is Ramsay dead?" James asked as they moved along rapidly keeping near the walls and open doors of the shops lining the streets. If more soldiers appeared, they would be less likely to present clear targets and could escape inside one of the taverns or retail establishments. His stomach knotted at the thought of Ramsay being taken or killed. If they lost their Knight of Death, what would become of them? The Chevalier du Morte was the only thing that stood between the Knights of the Council and eternal damnation. He was the only one who could release their souls from their bodies if anything should befall them.
"Ramsay and Girard killed seven of the soldiers," Louis hissed. "I was waiting outside for them. I saw twelve go in and then I saw five come out again with Simon of Grenoble. They left Ramsay for dead and Girard as well. I had to carry them both out."
James glanced at him with an unspoken question in his eyes.
"Girard's neck was cut to the bone, Brother," Louis lowered his voice. "I am sorry. I know he was your friend. Sir Ramsay released his soul and has gone in search of his apprentice."
"This way!" James took the lead again. He led them down an alley and stopped in front of door that had once been painted bright green. The wood was pitted and scarred. Very little paint remained. He rapped loudly on the door and it opened a few moments later just enough to allow one eye to be seen in the crack.
"Juliette," James actually smiled and Louis frowned, looking to Hugh for explanation, but the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon only shrugged. "Let us in, mon cher."
The door opened wider and a rather busty young girl allowed them inside the shabby, but cozy room where a fire burned in a small fireplace and the smell of onions was thick in the air.
"We can stay here until dark, my friends," James told them and wrapped one arm around the young woman's shoulders. "This is my wife, Juliette."
"Wife?!!" Both Champlain and Champagne said in unison. Wives, girlfriends and unnecessary contact with women in general were strictly forbidden by the Primitive Rule of Order as laid down by Saint Bernard.
"A man needs sustenance and comfort," James told them as he turned to kiss the girl on her nose.
The three Templars lounged on hay and sacks of lamb’s wool by the hearth all night listening to the clattering armor of the king’s patrols coming and going in the streets outside. Julie sat at her spinning wheel, working silently in between supplying them with what little food and drink she could spare. She was afraid and the fear was evident in her large eyes. It was also evident that James treated her none too well and if the king’s men found them here, they would arrest her as well and a horrible fate would await her in the Inquisitor’s dungeons for harboring heretics. Their lives hung in the balance and the night before them promised to be long and bleak.
Across town in the cellar of an inn well known for its fine ale and hearty fare, four men sat staring at each other across the top of an upturned wine cask. A single candle stump flickered on the keg between them, casting the craggy lines of their faces into shadowy caricatures of fear and trepidation.
“I say we go now!” The German plopped one gloved fist on the cask. “If we tarry overlong, we’ll find our feet in the fire!”
“We cannot leave our Brother behind!” The oldest member of the group rasped and then finished off the ale in his tankard. He blinked his watery blue eyes in anger.
“He is NOT our Brother, Master,” the German said again. “He is but a foundling… a lay brother. He will be released as soon as his status is learned. He knows nothing.”
“What do you know of his status, Sir?!” The big, red-faced Frenchman rose up slightly and leaned toward the leaner fellow. “You would do well to mind your place!”
The darker Knight fell silent and leaned back in the ramshackle chair, stretching his long legs out in front of the in the soot-blackened hearth where a small fire flickered atop a burned out pile of coal.
“Please, Brothers,” the quieter personality of the four spoke up. Philip Cambrique, Knight of the Orient and Seneschal to the Grand Master did not like strife, especially amongst the Brothers of the Council. Calamity had befallen the Order of the poor Knights of the Temple and they were lucky to have escaped King Philipe’s soldiers. It was truly a miracle and a sign that assured him of God’s approval of them. “We must not fight among ourselves. We have much to consider.” He turned his large, liquid eyes on Konrad von Hetz, Knight of the Apocalypse who sees. “Brother Konrad, I ask you to restrain yourself. There is much you do not know… should not know for your own sake as well as the sakes of others. If Master d’Brouchart says we must bring Father Simon with us, then that is what we must do. I am sure that he has his reasons.”
The Master lowered himself onto the small stool on which he perched causing it to squeak ominously under his weight.
“I will make arrangements for his release,” the fourth man spoke up. He was dressed in black from head to toe as opposed to the white mantels and surcoats worn by his companions. “We must give them time to sort out the prisoners. I will make contact with my… associates and meet with the jailer. He has expensive tastes.” By his accent, he was clearly from the northern ranges of Britain, Scotland, no doubt. “The ships are safely away by now and they will think us escaped. I suggest you find more suitable rags. Beggars will not be suspect and Father Simon will most likely be beggarly when I bring him out.”
“Are you sure you can trust this… jailer, Brother Ramsay?” D’Brouchart turned his eyes on his only Scottish Knight.
Sir Ramsay, better known to them simply as du Morte, taken from his official title and office as the Chevalier du Morte or Knight of Death in the English, laughed and startled all three of them. He was not overly given to mirth and the situation hardly warranted laughter.
“He is as trustworthy as any corrupt official might be, Edgard,” Ramsay answered after a moment. The question was absurd. “The heavier the purse, the more trustworthy he becomes.” The Knight dropped a sizable leather purse into the light on the cask. The unmistakable sound of gold clinking together met their ears and the German smiled crookedly, nodding his head in approval. Ramsay was the alchemist as well. It was his God-given talent to provide the gold necessary to run their little Order within the Order.
“Let us hope you will not come too late,” the Master said quietly and held out his tankard to Philip for a refill.
~~~
In a cold, damp cell in the lower reaches of the King’s dungeons, Father Simon Peter d’Ornan lay upon a rough stone block, shivering with cold, terrified out of his wits and utterly alone. He wore nothing but the single cord signifying his vow of chastity around his waist after having been relieved of his robes by his captors. His hands and feet were secured tightly, preventing even the slightest hope of relief from the uncomfortable position on the gritty stone. He could hear rats skittering in the darkness around him and the occasional drip of water. Now and again, he heard distant screams and the closer sounds of moans or groans. His hopes of rescue were nonexistent. Two of the Master’s best Knights had come for him and they had been easily brushed aside by the king’s men. Brother Girard, the Healer, had fallen in the church and as far as he knew, Sir Ramsay was dead or imprisoned as well. He’d heard snatches of conversation during his tumultuous flight. The Grand Master was arrested. The charges was heresy and things more heinous and blasphemous than he could bear to remember. All false! All lies!!
Keys jangled in the corridor outside the cell and then he heard the door grate open. Several men entered the room carrying torches that cast a ruddy glow in the sad little cell. Simon felt his cheeks burn as the hooded men gazed upon his nakedness with open contempt.
“You have something to confess, my son?” One of them asked. “Surely, one as young as yourself would wish to live a long and prosperous life in God’s service.”
Simon said nothing. It was a loaded question. He was Cistercian; these men were Benedictines working for the Holy Inquisition. He had seen them before in the market and once just outside the Commanderie talking to some of the lay brothers.
“Come, come, now. Surely you wish to tell us how you came to be in the company of known heretics and blasphemers. If you would be so kind, Father Simon, a written testimony, duly signed by one as respected as yourself would go a long way in procuring your immediate release.” The man slipped one finger under the cord at his waist and twisted it, causing it to cut into his skin. “You were one of their confessors. Surely God wants you to cleanse your conscience…”
Again, Simon had no answer for the man.
“Perhaps a little persuasion is in order,” the man said and then untied the cord deftly, pulling it from under him roughly. “This sign of your chastity would be best placed in more… how shall we say… more suitable place? No?”
Simon cringed as the man wrapped the cord around what he considered a more suitable piece of his anatomy and tied it viciously tight.
“We will leave you to meditate for a space and then we will see what your decision is,” the man crossed himself and led the others out of the cell, leaving the priest known as Simon of Grenoble to some, alone with his thoughts and his suffering.
~~~
“This way,” the jailer mumbled and Ramsay cringed as the numerous odors assaulted his nose again. Onions, rotted meat, wine, urine, sweat, blood. The various stains on the man’s tunic and overlay were indescribably foul and portended worse yet to come. The twists and turns in the dark recesses of the jail soon made the Knight’s head spin. He clutched the hilt of his sword in a death grip, wary at every turn for some unknown assailant to leap on him. The purse had been heavy, but treachery was not out of the question and he would not rest easy until he was far from this foul pit.
They came at last to a cell with a solid door which served to separate the more dangerous criminals from the unwashed bodies of the wretched prisoners crammed into the larger accommodations for those ‘convicted’ of less serious charges. These pitiful souls would eventually be released… if they survived. The portion of the jail where Simon of Grenoble and the other Templar prisoners were confined did not give up their occupants so easily. Eerie wails and occasional snatches of murmured prayers reached his ears from deeper in the maze of dark, damp passages and each set his teeth on edge and made his stomach knot.
The iron keys clinked together as the man found the correct one for the door and opened the door. The iron-bound wooden planks swung inward on rusty hinges, creaks echoing loudly in the corridors. Ramsay looked around nervously and then stepped into the room.
“I’ll wait, but be quick about it!” The jailer snapped.
Mark Andrew walked forward to the raised stone slab where the cell’s sole occupant lay shivering in chains. He stopped suddenly and pressed his hand over his mouth when he saw what they had done to the young priest. He was too late. The jailer had assured him that the Inquisitor in charge had received his share of the booty and made arrangements to have Simon’s name erased from the roster, but there had been no mention of torture or injuries. A red flare erupted in Ramsay’s brain and he turned on the jailer, drawing his broadsword. Blood glistened darkly on the stone from a hideous wound, the nature of which was quite loosely concealed beneath a bloody bandage.
“Wot th’ fock?!” He shouted, pushing back his nausea with anger. “I paid thee fur a livin’ soul, not a dead mon!”
“He’s not dead!” The jailer objected and his eyes widened at the sight of the blade gleaming in the torchlight. “The physician assured me that he would live. Now take him and go before I sound the alarm!”
Ramsay took a step forward, hesitated and then ripped his mantel from his shoulders. He turned quickly and covered the naked priest, tucking the cloth tightly about his body. The priest knew nothing of his surroundings; he shivered and shook violently from cold and shock, thankfully unconscious. The Knight could not help but think the poor fellow would be dead before he could get him back to the rendezvous point.
The streets were fairly empty and the ride out of town uneventful. Simon moaned and groaned only occasionally, but never regained his senses.
Three days later, he was still unconscious. His head rolled slightly with the motion of the ship as the Master wiped the cold sweat from his pale face. The blood loss had been stemmed and their own physician had done all that could be done for him, but the fever raged intermittently and his condition was worsening with every hour that passed. He would soon be gone from them and there would be no ransoming him again.
Mark drew a deep breath and looked out the square porthole at the gray expanse of sea. A strong northwesterly wind blew the tops off the whitecaps and sent sprays of seawater into the air to join the pouring rain and shivering chills up his spine. The porthole remained open at the behest of the doctor who insisted that Simon needed fresh air to heal. The priest lay under a number of woolen blankets and yet, when the fever took him, he threw them off and shouted obscenities that made them all blush.
“I’m sorry, Edgard,” Mark said after a moment more. “I wish things could have been different.”
“They can and they will be different, du Morte,” d’Brouchart said and turned his weeping blue eyes on the Scot. The big man tucked his fur collar under his chin and then swiveled on the small stool, causing it to squeak ominously.
“What you say is true . Things will always be different. Nothing is sure, but change,” Ramsay agreed.
“No, I mean to use the Tree of Life on him,” Edgard whispered.
“Wot?!” Mark pushed himself off the barrel on which he had been leaning. “Ye canna do thot, Edgard! Twas not in th’ covenant and ye know it!”
“I am the Master!” The larger man growled. “I can do whatever the hell I wish to do. Besides we need a new Healer now that Girard is no longer with us.”
“Wot aboot ’is apprentice? Bernardo ’as trained with him fur years!” Ramsay objected, his distinctive brogue overriding his normally calm exterior as he reverted the language of his childhood.
“I’ll not argue with you, du Morte,” Edgard said and eyed him coldly. “I have decided.”
“I canna let ye do thot, Edgard,” Mark lowered his voice and drew his sword, pointing the wickedly sharp tip at the Master’s neck. “Give me th’ box!”
Edgard’s mouth fell open slightly and then he reached inside his mantel, beneath his tunic where a leather bag hung from his belt. He pulled off the bag and then held it out to the Scot.
“You would let him die?” The Master asked him in disbelief.
“He is not a member of the Council, nor is he an apprentice!” Ramsay said with more control.
“He is my son!”
Mark blinked at him in astonishment. This could not be possible. Sons were not permitted. Women were not permitted. Families were not permitted to Knights of the Council. The Master was in error. The Master was lying! Mark allowed the tip of the blade to touch the floor. A mistake. The Chevalier du Morte suddenly straightened in shock and disbelief as the tip of a bloody blade appeared just below his sternum, staining his light gray tunic a deep red as his blood poured from a grievous wound. Someone had run him through from behind. He grabbed the blade in his left hand as his own sword fell to the deck. Slowly, he turned to face his cowardly attacker, but he never saw the man’s face before death overtook him and he slumped forward into his murderer’s arms.
James Argonne caught the Chevalier du Morte and lowered him onto an empty bunk, face down, before removing his sword from him none too gently.
“You didn’t have to kill him, Brother,” Edgard said harshly.
“What difference will it make, Master?” Argonne’s emotionally devoid eyes stared at him blankly. “He will be up and about soon enough.”
“Help me with this!” Edgard barked at the French Knight as he threw the blankets off the priest and dragged him from the bed.
“What do you mean to do, my Prince?” Argonne asked in surprise as the priest was shoved into his arms.
“Hold him up!”
Argonne held the semi-conscious priest in a kneeling position in front of the Grand Master while he received the rank of Knight in service of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold and the Gift of immortality from a cup of tepid wine. James had to clamp his hand over the priest’s mouth and noise to make him swallow the miraculous drink. The priest sputtered weakly as they laid him back under his covers.
Bernardo would never be Knight of the Council, this hapless young priest would usurp Bernardo’s right to the title of Knight of the Serpent and take the late Healer’s place at the Council table. When Mark Ramsay awoke from his healing coma in three days time, he would have no choice but to transfer the Mystery of the Mystic Healer to Simon of Grenoble.
“Will you make a formal charge against the Assassin, Your Grace?” Argonne ventured the question once they had the priest back in bed and resting comfortably. Already the mystical tree of life powder was working its magick. Simon’s pale features had regained a bit of color, he had ceased his shivering and his breathing had taken on a more regular pace. Edgard leaned over him and whispered something in his ear before standing up again. He straightened his mantel and looked over at his Knight of Death where he still lay face down on the cot. The storm had lessoned and the ship’s rocking had leveled off somewhat. In the light of the lantern, he could see that the Scot was breathing again. Three days, he would lie in the healing trance and then he would awaken mad as a March hare. No harm done. No charges would be pressed. Ramsay had every right to challenge him, but they had other problems to worry with at the moment and petty grievances could not stand in their way now.
The Scots were at war with England and their only hope of surviving intact as an Order lay in joining forces with Robert the Bruce in Scotland. In return for their help, Robert would allow them to live free of oppression if he were to win the throne. They could not fail in this mission.
“Call the physician for Ramsay,” he told Argonne before starting up the ladder to the deck. “Have him cleaned up and bandaged and I warn you, James, let no one know of your part in this lest you find your head resting at your feet.”
“Understood, Your Grace,” Argonne said quietly and bowed his head. Argonne snorted when the hatch closed above him and he turned on Ramsay, leaning over his ear. “You are lucky, my friend, that I do not behead you as you lay. Someday, when the time is right, I shall have that sword and that mystery and you will feed the worms.”
~~~
Four days later, eight Knights of the Council of Twelve sat around a rough wooden table in the Captain’s cabin. An impromptu meeting of the Council minus the four members that had sailed on ahead of them to Scotland had been convened at the Master’s request. Ramsay sat at the foot of the table, brooding over a tankard of ale, a dark look on his face. At his left hand was a much healthier, if somewhat confused, Simon of Grenoble. The youngest member of the Council was very pale, his large blue eyes were a bit sunken and his blond hair hung limply around his face. The tree of life gift had saved his life and granted him immortality, but had simply suspended him in a state of permanent illness. He would never improve, but neither would he succumb to his hideous wounds.
“We will be arriving in Scotland within three days,” the Master told them. “His Lordship, Robert the Bruce has graciously accepted our offer and agreed to our terms. He will send an envoy to meet with us near Bannockburn in order to make arrangements for the disposal of the fleet. In the meantime, I suggest that you all pray diligently for our success and victory for Robert the Bruce.”
The Grand Master nodded to his Seneschal and then sat down, having covered the main items of interest.
“Will we be fighting alongside the Scots then, Master d’Brouchart?” Simon ventured the question in a weak voice.
“That is the long the short of it, Brother Simon,” the Master answered. “I know that you have no training in the art of warfare and the bearing of arms, but you will need to familiarize yourself with the proper use of weaponry and armor. Once we are reunited with our Brothers, Sir Barry will see to it that you have your training and Sir Ramsay here will be able to make your weapons for you as soon as he might avail himself of a smithy.”
Ramsay looked up at the Master briefly and then returned his attention to the cup in front of him.
“Does any one of you have anything you might wish to say before we close the meeting and proceed with the bestowing of the mystery?” Sir Cambrique asked in general.
“Aye!” Ramsay spoke up for the first time.
“Speak, Brother Ramsay.”
Ramsay swayed to his feet and leaned both hands on the table, locking his deep blue eyes with the Master’s.
“I am at home with my kinsmen, Your Grace, and I do not oppose fighting at Robert’s side. I am not averse to offering my life in defense of the Order and in defense of my homeland. I am averse, however to bestowing Knighthood on an untrained boy and I am averse to using the mysteries for purposes other than that which they were designed. These things have been done and cannot be undone and I register my formal objection at this time. But foremost above and beyond all this, I am averse to the use of cowardly practices by my own Brothers.” The Knight turned his head slowly, making eye contact briefly with Hugh de Champagne, James Argonne, Louis Champlain, Konrad von Hetz and Philip Cambrique. “There is one among you with whom I have a bone to pick and pick it I shall until naught remains but dust. I swear here and now, I shall know who killed me and I will have my day with him when we shall meet face to face.” Shock flickered momentarily across six of the seven faces in the room excluding the Master’s. The Master had not murdered him, nor had Simon of Grenoble, but the rest were suspect. Some moreso than others. Only James Argonne’s face remained emotionless at the threat. Ramsay raised his chin slightly and smiled almost imperceptibly.
“Of what do you speak, Brother?” Louis Champlain asked.
“He speaks of nothing! Sit down, du Morte!” The Grand Master was on his feet again, his face red with anger.
Ramsay stood three seconds too long and then sat down heavily, spilling his cup on the table.
“I have not pressed charges or brought complaint against you because I need you,” the Master continued. “I will hear no more of this sort of talk from the members of this Council. If I do hear of such again, Brother Ramsay, I will clap you in irons and stow you below decks. When we reach landfall, I will convene a hearing and charge you with treason. Is that understood?”
“Aye, sair!” Ramsay muttered and drew a deep breath. He knew that his point had been taken. Someday he would have his revenge, and it would not go well for the man who had attacked him in Simon’s sick room.
“Now!” The Master said and flung his mantel over his shoulder. “We will get on with the transfer of the mystery. That is, if my Assassin is not too drunk to perform his own Mystery?”
Again, Ramsay’s temper flared, but he fought it down with a curt nod. The Chevalier du Morte stood up again and tossed his own mantel over his right shoulder, exposing the hilt of the Golden Sword of the Cherubim. The twisted and flattened blade gleamed in the lamplight with an unnatural brilliance sending chills up more than one spine. The legendary sword of the Cherubim crafted by angels and handed down through the ages until its golden hilt rested in the hand of this unruly Scot put the fear of God, hellfire and damnation into all of them every time they had the unfortunate occasion to gaze upon its perfection. The blade never needed honing, nor did it bend, break or chip and the Assassin did not hesitate to wield it deftly whenever the need arose.
Everyone at the table stood up with him. When Simon attempted to rise from his seat, the Knight pushed him back into his seat and used the tip of the sword to raise the priest’s face until they looked into each others' eyes.
“Be still!” Mark Andrew told him. “This will take but a moment. Prepare yourself.”
Simon’s sad eyes widened with fear as he looked up into the Scot’s face and then he drew a deep breath and held it. Ramsay leaned forward quickly and placed his right hand upon the priest’s forehead before kissing him on the mouth in the Templar fashion.
Simon stiffened as the Divine Mystery of the Mystic Healer entered his head in a blinding flash. He heard angelic choirs singing; he saw doves winging through brilliant blue skies, he heard the prayers of a million voices; and he saw men falling in battle. He felt fire searing his flesh and arrows tearing at his body, he felt the edge of a blade on his throat and the crushing weight of a boulder on his chest. He felt himself torn apart by wild animals and battered upon rocky shores. He wanted to cry out and scream in pain but he could utter not a sound. The pain turned into brilliants spheres of color floating in the darkness of space entwined with suns, moons, stars, and planets. He saw blood and more blood; hideous burned faces; and mutilated corpses. The pain he had felt was insufferable, the ecstasy he experienced was intolerable, and the light that enveloped him was incredible. Blackness came as a welcomed respite just as he thought his head would explode and he slumped onto the table into oblivion.
Sir Ramsay let go of him, turned abruptly on his heel and left them without another word.
James Argonne’s upper lip curled and a snarl escaped with the breath he had been holding. Ramsay had to be destroyed and he would see it done if it was the last thing he ever did.
Dublin 1941. A brutal murder. Mistaken identity. And barman Eamon Foley is running for his life.
Nine months later Foley is in a crowded pub, and his brother-in-law is shot dead.
Fleeing from a scorned past,Catherine Merit struggles with her failing medical practice and a rich man's obsession of her.Book Four in the Indignities Series
“Well met then, my friend!” Hugh de Champagne, the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon, clasped his friend and Brother’s forearm, pulling him close enough to kiss him on the lips in the fashion practiced by the Templar Brothers as a sign of recognition.
