Chapter Three of Twelve

O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.

Mark Andrew Ramsay awoke thankfully enough knowing who he was, but unappreciative of the one errant ray of sunshine, which had found a home directly in his eyes. When he tried to move, pain radiated from a spot on the top of his head.

Voices… subdued, angry voices had awakened him from a nightmare wherein he was starving in a dark place made of stone, dank, oppressive. He had been chasing rats with his dagger. Fortunately, he hadn't caught any of them. A distinctive relief since he knew that he was planning to eat one of them. The dream’s disturbing horror faded gradually, but as his vision cleared, he was dismayed to find that he was, once again tied in a very bad position. He could see that his wrists were rather sloppily bound with tasseled satin ropes. At least he could remember where he was and why his head was hurting, though he could not imagine when or how he might have allowed himself to be tied to Merry’s bedposts. The pains of hunger had returned rivaling those in his head. The persistent sunbeam precluded further forays in the direction of the voices, threatening to blind him if he insisted. He closed his eyes, lay still and concentrated on the word.

The Pixie’s voice he recognized. She was apparently near the windows speaking to a second woman somewhere else in the room, possibly near the door. His clothes were gone again, though he didn’t remember taking them off a second time. Only a feather light comforter of smooth satin covered him partially. He moved his leg and the smooth fabric slipped several inches to the right. Not a good idea. He relaxed again and listened.

“I did not!” Merry was saying.

“That’s not what Maxie told me,” the other said angrily.

“Maxie is a pervert!” Merry objected indignantly.”

“He’s in your bed, Merry, just like Maxie said he was.”

“He was hurt, Cecile,” Merry explained unconvincingly. “Maxie caused him to bang his head. Maybe even gave him a concussion or something. He’s a sadistic bastard. Maxie wanted to kill him and he was going to shoot him. Right there in the hall. Murder him. Did he tell you that?”

“You’re lying, Merry. You always lie. If I didn’t love you so much, I would send you packing. Maxie is not a murderer. He was just doing his job. I told him to watch him. He’s dangerous. I told you that. And you let him loose in the house. How could you be so irresponsible?”

“I am not lying. Maxie wanted to kill him and leave him in the ditch even before we brought him home,” the Pixie began to cry. “I slept on the couch. You can see that he takes up the whole bed! For Pete’s sake, how could I have slept with him like that? You’re being stupid.”

“Yeah, right. I’m always the stupid one, huh? Then why did you bolt the door?”

“I was afraid of Maxie. You know I’m afraid of him. I asked you not to leave me here at night with him! How many times have I asked you not to leave me with him? I always lock my door. Get rid of him, Cecile, puh-lease? I hate him. We can find another guard. One with better manners and one… who looks better, too.”

“Listen to you! A nice guard. A pretty guard. Meredith Nichole, I swear, what would a nice, pretty guard do for us?” There was a brief silence and the sound of someone walking around the room. “You gave him a bath,” he could hear the one called Cecile moving around the room. Her voice kept changing directions as she poked about, looking for something. What?

“He was… he needed a bath. You know how hot it was yesterday. Maxie tied him to a tree,” the Pixie’s tone changed and she sniffed loudly. “I couldn’t let him sleep in my bed like that. All sweaty and everything. I wanted him to be presentable for you. I did it for you. And where were you all night? Why didn’t you come home?”

“I had urgent business in town. Now, Merry, don’t cry,” the second voice softened a bit. “You know I can’t stand that. As long as you didn’t do anything you… or I… will regret. I’m just looking out for your welfare, Merry, that’s all. And we have the ceremony coming up. You know how important your role is.”

Muffled sobs and more sniffles followed.

“Go downstairs. Check on breakfast and bring me some chocolate. OK? I’ll watch over him for a while. You take a break, sweetie.”

The door opened and closed again. His only ally, if she could be called that, was gone.

Faint footsteps muffled by deep carpeting, drew near the bed. The owner of the other voice, which he presumed to be the infamous Valentino, picked up one corner the comforter and he tried not to hold his breath as she looked him over. The cover dropped back over him.

“Mr. Ramsay?” The voice was all business now. He waited, pretending to be asleep a bit longer, just to be convincing.

“Mr. Ramsay!” The voice was more insistent. “Wake up.” She bumped the bed with her knee.

He opened one eye. The sunlight had moved out of his eyes, but his mouth was so dry, he doubted he could make a sound.

“You cannot stay in this bed, sir,” she told him.

He raised his head slightly, opened his other eye and looked at the knotted cords on his wrists before focusing on her face. She was surprisingly enough, quite lovely in her own right, though completely opposite the Pixie.

“I have another room for you,” she continued.

Her black eyes glittered, calculating and cold. She had an olive complexion and short, very dark hair. She appeared to be dressed in some sort of ceremonial garb with a broad red ribbon embroidered with two turtle doves in a heart-shaped wreath draped over one shoulder and fastened at the waist. . A garland of baby yellow roses adorned her hair.

“I have waited a long time for you,” she told him with an appraising glance that made him feel very exposed. “You look better than I expected, but where is your beard? I though you guys prided yourselves on your beards?” She chuckled softly and the sound of it made him shudder inwardly.

He made no response to her remarks and questions. She seemed irreverent. But what did that make him? Some kind of priest? It seemed that he thought of everything in terms of sin and religion.

“I have been searching for your people for a long, long time. Of course I’ve found plenty of pretenders… here and there,” she sounded almost tired as she curled onto the far end of the bed and leaned against the bedpost. “I don’t intend to have my quest spoiled by misbehavior on your part or Merry's, for that matter. You will have to forgive her ignorance. She doesn’t really understand what you are and I want to thank you for not hurting her. I'm sorry that Maxie treated you… less than hospitable. He gets a bit over zealous at times.”

Mark Andrew still could not bring himself to speak with her. There was something very dangerous about her and silence seemed to be the best course of action.

She smiled when he raised his head to look at her. “But Merry is a very desirable specimen, isn’t she? You would do yourself a great favor to avoid any future contacts with her without my permission. If things go well… who knows? But for now, won’t you do us both a favor now and tell me where your Master is. I just want to talk to him.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. When he made no answer, she got up and leaned over him. He could smell her faint perfume mingled the lingering aroma of wine on her breath. She looked into his eyes as if trying to physically find the answers to her questions there. When he turned his face away from her, she pressed the fresh cut above his eye with two fingers and new pain shot through his head.

“I do not like to be ignored, Mr. Ramsay. Do you understand me?"

He nodded briefly, but did not look at her.

“Good.”

She ran her fingers down his face before straightening up again. He cast a wary glance at her and saw her contemplating the blood on her fingertips. She had re-opened the wound that Maxie had inflicted on him in the orchard. She held her fingers under her nose and sniffed the blood before wiping her fingers on his chest with a smile. “Maxie will take you up to your room. I will see you again at breakfast.”

She took hold of his right hand, twisting it around painfully to look at the ring on his finger. He watched her carefully, trying to judge the depths of her particular brand of insanity. She nodded and let go of his hand.

“Do not try to speak to the servants. I have told them that you are here on a religious retreat,” she told him and laughed. “I told them that you might try to cast the evil eye on them. Illegal immigrants. You gotta love them. Maxie is in charge of security. He runs things from that end. Do not provoke him, Mr. Ramsay. These people belong to me. All of them, including Merry. I trust you will behave yourself like a good monk.”

With that last warning, she left him alone to wait on the inestimable security ‘expert’. He passed the time trying to wriggle his hands free, but the cords only tightened under his efforts. The man arrived promptly and with his usual gentle grace, yanked the cords loose from his wrists and then helped him from the bed onto the floor. It seemed to amuse him greatly to see the fresh blood on his head and no clothes on his body. He laughed and kicked Mark’s clothes across the floor to him and then waited and watched him with an annoying smirk on his ugly face while he dressed. Instead of the shotgun he waved a nickel-plated 9 mm pistol.

“After you, dipshit," he said as he opened the door for Mark and stepped back.

The servants’ quarters were on the third floor, Maxie told him as they ascended the service staircase. His 'room' was one of the dormer rooms on the fourth floor. Maxie occupied a room on the fourth floor as well. A comforting thought. The rather cramped bedroom had darkly finished furnishings and heavy bars on the window. It was not bad for a prison cell as cells went. He had seen worse… somewhere. When had he been in prison? Where?

A black leather bag lay on the bed. His? He did not recognize it. Maxie seized the opportunity to give him one last vicious shove that sent him sprawling across a chair in front of a small writing desk. He righted himself and turned, ready to attack the man in spite of the gun, but Maxie took no chances. The man backed out of the door and caught the doorknob in his free hand.

“I suggest you get cleaned up,” he said as he closed the door. “Miss Valentino is expecting you for lunch.”

He figured the strange words were perfect. She probably was expecting him for lunch… as the main course. He was about to look in the bag when the door opened again. Maxie stood looking at him. Now what?

“By the way, I just wanted you to know that she knows what happened between you and Miss Priss. You didn’t make a good first impression.”

“And is that supposed to mean something to me? Should I care to impress a psychotic kidnapper?” Mark asked. “I don’t really give a damn what you or anyone else here thinks of me.”

“Well, you should. But I guess you don’t have any sense,” Maxie shrugged. “You’re one lucky bastard and you’re too stupid to know it. What fool in his right mind wouldn’t fantasize about a piece of work like little Miss Merry?” The man laughed.

Mark frowned in confusion.

Mark looked at him in consternation. “I don’t think that luck had anything to do with it, but that should be proof positive that I am not who you think I am, but you, sir, are a criminal and it is you that a judge will find guilty of a variety of crimes. I, on the other hand, would be willing to walk out the door and leave here without filing charges for the sake of Miss Merry. Does kidnapping mean anything to you? Assault? Armed robbery? Grand theft auto?”

“I didn’t rob you and I didn’t steal your damned car. It’s a rental anyway,” Maxie laughed. “But you’re a good one to be calling me a criminal. You’re supposed to be the assassin. A cold-blooded murderer. Killed hundreds, thousands to here Miss Cecile tell it. You don’t look like much to me. Too pretty to be of much use in a practical sense. The world would call me a hero if I killed you right now. And just because my employer is a bit… weird, doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if you try to hurt her. I know which side my toast is buttered on so to speak. You just need to keep your ancient ass out of Miss Merry’s bed.”

‘Don’t provoke him!’ Mark heard Cecile's only words of wisdom. The man was trying to goad him.

Maxie raised the pistol. Assassin again. Who had he killed? When? Only a Hitler or a Caesar could claim such numbers.

“You’re not supposed to talk to me,” Mark told him and turned his attention to the bag. “Your Valentino told me that the servants were not supposed to talk to me. I’m a monk on retreat, you see.”

“I’m not a servant, dipshit,” Maxie snarled and backed out of the door again. “I will have my chance at you sooner or later so don’t get too comfy here. She’ll get tired of you just like she did the others and then your ass will belong to me and we’ll get to know each real good before you leave. I’m a patient man.”

“I’m very glad to hear that we’ll be close, Mr. ahhh, sir. I like to kiss my victims just before I cut off their heads,” Mark could not help but antagonize the man a bit, but wondered why he would say such a thing. Was he as deviant as this brute? Had he been gay before he lost his memory?

“So I hear,” Maxie laughed and then slammed the door, obviously unimpressed by the threat.

Barely had the lock turned in the door before Mark had checked the small, barred windows and the two other doors in his room. A closet and a tiny bath. A shower and a shave were in order and he needed to find his socks and shoes if possible. He definitely needed to make his getaway soon before things got any crazier.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

The black, leather bag provided a good assortment of clothes, two pairs of shoes and a pair of plain, rather worn, black boots, belt and a shaving kit. Almost everything in the bag was black, including the tee shirts. With a sigh of relief, he chose a pair of black cargo pants with numerous pockets and a black, safari-style shirt still in the wrappings from the cleaners. The bill attached to the wrapping provided no real clue to his identity, listing only the price he had paid for the cleaning service arranged by a Marriott hotel in Chicago. Chicago sounded as foreign to him as Zimbabwe. There was nothing in his shaving kit that could have been used as a weapon. Disposable razors, shaving cream, cologne, toothbrush… a rather mundane assortment that anyone might have carried. No clues whatsoever to his identity or mission… mission!

Why that word? Assassins would be sent on missions, wouldn’t they? Perhaps someone had sent him here to kill the idiot with the shotgun. But the man hardly seemed to have a brain worthy of attention by… by…. Who would have sent him? Interpol? Scotland Yard? The Surete? He might be able to get out of the room with a little work, but first things first. He knew that he would be going down to lunch. Perhaps a better opportunity would present itself then.

He took his shower, shaved and dressed in the clean clothes. While he waited, he inspected his rooms again for possible weapon equipment. The antique tub was porcelain, on gold clawed feet. The pedestal sink and mirror above it, offered nothing useful. He surveyed his situation critically. Perhaps the mirror frame might be broken and the mirror itself used as a blade… He would have to do a bit of dismantling if nothing better presented itself soon. Thinking was becoming a chore, especially when he had very little to think about outside the last few hours of his life. He wondered if anyone knew he was missing, if anyone was looking for him.

While he was searching the interior of the little closet, a car horn sounded from somewhere below. He had to climb onto the cramped, velvet lined-bench in the dormer window sill in order to look down into the driveway. The white limousine in which he had arrived sat where they had left it. A Jeep was parked behind it and another car was parked diagonally behind the Jeep. Black. Gleaming darkly in the sun. A Cadillac el Dorado. His mind lurched. This was his car!

He recognized it and it was like finding a long, lost friend. A rental Maxie had said. Not really his, but perhaps there were papers there. Drivers license or other documents. Clues to his life. He pressed his forehead against the glass and watched the activities below with great interest. Two men were searching the car. Mark felt his temper rise as they ransacked his personal belongings. One of them took a black case full of CD’s from the passenger seat and flipped through them. Their shiny surfaces flashed and sparkled in the sun. Next, they removed a long, black box from the boot. Valentino came from the house to join them, carrying a mug in one hand.

Mark slapped the window in frustration. He could not see She stood by watching as one of them partially opened the box and allowed her a peek inside. Whatever it was he knew instinctively that it was the very thing he needed to jog his memory. She nodded her head vigorously and pointed back toward the house. The man took the box in the house and Valentino followed him. The other man continued his search through the car, turning up nothing more of importance. And what had been in the box? His machine gun? His sniper rifle? Surely, an assassin would carry some sort of weapon. Whatever it was, it angered him beyond measure to see it in their hands. Mark felt like crying in desperation as the man got into the car and drove it away, out of sight.

Presently, he heard a key in the lock of his door.

He climbed quickly out of the window seat and sat on the bed trying to calm down, trying to look bored and aggravated rather than enraged and desperate. His heart pouned, his head still hurt and his face burned with residual anger. He hardly expected to go down to lunch now. She had found something else that captured her attention. The door opened and the dark-haired woman entered, still carrying the mug. One of the men from the yard followed her inside, carrying another black, leather bag that matched the one on the bed.

“The rest of your clothes,” she announced as the man dropped the bag. He’d not closed the hasps, nor zippered it very well. It burst open and spilled his tumbled belongings on the floor.

Mark said nothing, but raised one eyebrow in disgust at the man.

“Sorry,” the man mumbled and looked at Valentino apprehensively. It was quite obvious that he wanted to get away.

“Very impressive,” Valentino mused as she kicked at the bag and dragged out a shirt with her toes. “I like Ralph Lauren myself, but each to his own. At least you have developed good taste in your old age. I expected Calvin Klein or maybe Armani for you. Or a kilt or two.”

Mark looked at her without comprehension at first and then noticed the little symbol on the over-sized tee-shirt she wore over a pair of striped shorts. She was talking about fashion while he was having a heart attack. He picked up a tan shooter’s shirt and held it up. The label said Tag Safari. Safari? He knew it was a shooter’s shirt. It had quilted pads on both shoulders. Was he a hunter of exotic game perhaps?

“I’m flattered. I must have missed a turn in Timbuktu, no doubt. I hope you found my car keys as well?”

"I found something much more interesting than that, Mr. Ramsay," she said and then held up one of his CD's. The Scottish singer Loreena McKinnitt’s The Book of Secrets lay on top. “How quaint. Scottish folk music? No acid rock. No raging punk?”

“My apologies, Chevalier Ramsay, for his clumsiness," she smiled down at his clothes. "They don't work for me. Mechanics from town. You know, your accent reminds of Sean Connery. I really liked him in the Name of the Rose. Have you seen it? It’s about Bernard Gui, the famous Inquisitor, and his investigation of some mysterious murders at a monastery somewhere in France or something. Anyway it should have been right up your alley. He’s the one who decided that the Cathars were heretics in the fourteen century. You must remember him. I understand that the Cathars were of special interest to the Templars?”

“Who decided they were heretics? Bernard Gui or Sean Connery?” he asked and her smile faded.

Mark felt insulted, incensed and infuriated by the woman. She was again insinuating that he was several hundred years old again. He remembered Gui alright, but not personally. He ignored her and began to pick up his clothes[, smoothing and folding them carefully as if he hadn’t another care in the world. There was a bit more color here. A brown jacket, another white shirt, some ties and dark brown slacks. He tried to ignore her and the idiot with the shotgun behind her in the hall.

“Fastidious, aren’t we?” She asked after a moment. “I see your eye is better.”

He nodded, but did not look at her. It seemed completely proper not to look at her. She was trouble in every sense of the word.

"You know why you are here,” she stated.

“I do not,” he contradicted her.

“You are Chevalier Mark Andrew Ramsay, Knight of Death,” she told him. “Master of the Key of Death. Order of the Red Cross. Templar. Poor Knight of Christ? Ring a bell?”

“You have me confused. I am not a bell-ringer,” he said simply, still avoiding her eyes.

“I am not ignorant of your identity and your humor leaves something to be desired.”

“I have no brothers,” he said again and a pang of sorrow struck him from out of the blue.

“I am particularly interested in your Grand Master, the Knight of the Temple, in charge of the Council of Twelve, Sir Edgard d’Brouchart.”

Mark froze momentarily at the mention of the name. The Grand Master. He saw him in his mind: a fierce, strong man, though somewhat short of stature, fair of countenance, with long, locks of curly red hair and deceptively mischievous blue eyes. He continued folding his clothes. The image put fear into his heart as nothing he could have imagined until that point. Even the dreaded Maxie seemed to pale in comparison to the man she had mentioned.

“You have me confused with someone else,” he reiterated almost rotely. “My name is… John. John Larmenius. Period. End of story,” he lied and waved one hand in dismissal. “These elegant titles and mysterious words mean nothing to me. I suggest that you release me and I will continue on with my business.” Perhaps he had killed Mark Ramsay and stolen his car and his belongings and then they had mistaken him for this fellow, Ramsay. “How do you know that I didn’t kill this Ramsay fellow and now you think that I am your man?”

She laughed at his suggestions and he was surprised to hear it. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She held the cup under her nose and smelled the contents again and again without tasting it.

“My name is Cecile Maria Valentino, Chevalier,” she announced after a moment. “I am the Grand Master of the Rose Cross.”

“Grand Master?” He finally turned to look at her directly. “Don’t you mean mistress or matron?”

“That, too,” she told him. “Whatever the title, I am in charge here.”

“Then Chevalier is not your family name?” He asked, attempting to aggravate her. “A title then?”

“Of course,” she looked at him as if he were stupid. “Chevaliers and Chevalieres. Don’t play with me, Mr. Ramsay. You know it is a title. You are a Chevalier yourself. A Knight of the Order. You are trying to mock me because you think women don’t belong in chivalric orders. You have worn that title for countless years and you think that women are nothing more than vessels for your seed.”

“Countless years,” he repeated the words and went back to his work. “Do I appear so old to you? Vessels for my seed? Do I look like a fucking farmer? Your language is a bit strange.”

“Appearances are not what they seem,” she shrugged and smelled the cocoa again. “I am really surprised to see that you have been able to maintain your looks so well. As I said, I had expected less. But do not take my position lightly. I consider myself a worthy opponent in all things.”

“All things?” He asked wondering what the hell she was talking about. “How in the name of St. John are you my opponent?”

“There! You see? Who else but a Knight of Christ would say ‘in the name of St. John’? You don’t hold all the secrets, Sir Ramsay. Perhaps I’ll bargain for your Key as well. It could be very useful in the long run. I might find myself surrounded by people I would rather not be associated with… forever.”

“You would become an assassin then, if the need arose?” He needed to know more about this particular subject. He had to assume that she was insane, but she might know something useful. “You are doing quite well now assassinating me by way of starvation. You really need to let me go before something terrible happens to you and your household.”

“Finally a threat,” she smiled. “Perhaps you do have a temper after all.”

She headed for the door and he resisted the urge to attack her physically. He reached for his dagger, but remembered he had none. These sudden urges to kill and destroy bothered him immensely. There must be some truth in what they were saying. It was hard to accept, but the instinct to kill was hovering just below the surface.

“Wait!” He called to her before she closed the door. She turned back to him with renewed interest. “What is it you want? Are you planning to keep me locked here forever?”

“You know what I want,” she told him. “I want an audience with d’Brouchart and I want your Key.”

“Of course, I forgot,” he nodded. He could give neither, even if he wanted to.

“Of course,” she repeated

When she was gone, Mark Andrew finished folding his clothes and stored them away in the bags before stashing them under the bed, hoping to make a good getaway soon. If he was lucky, he could take his belongings with him, if not, he’d leave them. There was nothing of any real value in the bags. He stretched out on the bed and stared up at the trim on the wall paper around the room. It was covered with French fleur-de-lys designs in blue and white.

How many times had he seen that very same emblem adorning the shields of the Frankish Knights when he had served under William of Chartres during the fifth crusade? Fleur-de-lys. Named after flowers. Entirely wrong. The emblem represented water. The sea and the men from beyond the sea… He sat up suddenly, but any further memory fled before his distraught eyes. He lay back again, ignoring the rumblings in his stomach and relaxed, breathing deeply, forcefully calming his mind. Images crawled in black and white, reversed like film negatives across the backs of his eyelids.

Rats! Rats! And more rats! Hundreds of big, lazy rats crawling over heaps of dead bodies. Smoke and dust. Screams and blood. And the incredible smell of rotting flesh. He sat up again and looked around the comfortable room in terror. He had fallen asleep. Where did these images come from? He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and a wild-eyed man wearing a turban and wielding an ugly curved sword screamed at him and charged. He tumbled from the bed and stood up before he was entirely awake slapping his side for his sword and felt his head swim at the sudden movement. These images were not American and neither were they Scottish. They were old. Very foreign.

Scotland. The cool, crisp nights and bright, warm days of late spring in the borderlands. There was no place on earth like Scotland.

Home! Scotland was home. The woman was right. He was from Scotland. Of that, he had no doubt as dozens of landscapes flitted through his mind. His thoughts were interrupted as he realized someone was unlocking his door… again. Didn’t these people ever knock?

He waited apprehensively as the door swung open slowly and then a great sense of relief washed over him as his Pixie let herself inside the room and closed the door quickly. She smiled at him impishly.

“I had to see if you were all right,” she told him and quickly crossed the room to where he stood. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest. He instinctively put his arms around her and she turned her back to him, covering his arms with hers. The sweet scent of her curls tickled his nose. She looked down and tapped the ring on his pinkie finger

“I-A… A-T,” she read the letters aloud. “The four elements.”

“What?” he frowned down at the top of her head.

“The four elements,” she said softly and turned her face toward him, kissing his jaw. “Fire, water, air and earth. The symbols of the alchemist. Are you all right? Maxie told me you were bleeding again.”

“Shhh,” Mark hushed her and placed one hand lightly over her mouth. Did she never run out of words? “How is that you can trust me so completely when you hardly know me?” he asked. “Aren’t you afraid to be here with me?”

She nodded and pulled his hand away. “Of course, I’m afraid. I'm afraid of what you might think of me. A true and honorable Chevaliere would die before dishonoring a weaker fellow. And this attraction I feel for you is hard to ignore.”

“A weaker fellow?” His frown deepened. “Are you referring to me? I would never dishonor you. What we did… I mean, what I did… what you did… it was… it was…” He had no idea what to say to her. He didn’t even know her last name. “Forgive me if I took advantage of you somehow. I thought you…”

“I was talking about me… dishonoring you,” she giggled. “I know that I caused you to break your vows and I suppose I should ask your forgiveness, but I believe that you enjoyed it. Didn’t you?”

“Do you think you need to protect me? My honor?” he asked incredulously and turned her abruptly about face.

“If I can,” her smile faded. “But I do owe my allegiance to Sir Valentino first and the Order of the Rose. However, I still owe you some measure of security since you are my responsibility and to that end I will do my best to help you through this in whatever small way I can.”

Mark placed one hand over his eyes and shook his head. This was all very confusing.

“Who is Sir Valentino?” he asked after a moment. “Help me through what?”

“Sir Valentino, I meant Chevaliere Valentino. You know her. You were just talking with her,” Merry sighed as if she were talking to a stubborn child. “Cecile?”

“She is not a sir!” he told her. “And you are very confusing.”

“She is whatever she wants to be. Besides, the title that corresponds to Sir is Dame and I find that a rather demeaning address,” Merry shrugged slightly and snuggled closer to him. “Sometimes she is a sir and sometimes not. It depends on the occasion. Today she is in the sir mood. But tell me, is there anything you need?” She looked at him with an expression that did not seem as innocent as before.

“I need to get away from here,” he said in earnest. “Will you help me?”

“I can’t do that.” She looked disappointed. “And, besides, it would break my heart.”

“Oh, please!” he said, pushign her away in disbelief. This had gone far enough. “You can’t be serious. You don’t even know me. You call me an assassin. An assassin is a murderer. A criminal.”

“I know you well enough,” she sniffed and he thought she was going to cry again. “I’ve already decided.”

“Decided what?!”

He felt his anger rising suddenly as he took her by the shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with renewed amusement and the tears, if there had been any in the offing, evaporated.

“That when she is finished with you. When she gets what she wants, I will keep you for myself.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mark repressed the urge to shout at her as well as the terrible desire to strike her to the floor. To fall on her and take her by force then and there. To show her who needed to be protected from whom. He raised one hand, but instead of striking her, he held it out between them as if warding off the devil, himself, and backed away from her.

Was he a rapist as well as a murderer? It couldn’t be true. ‘The company of women is a dangerous thing.’ The words from somewhere long ago rang in his head. He turned his back on her, crossed himself in the Catholic manner and went back to the bed. Falling to his knees, he buried his head under his hands and began to pray into the mattress. Another scripture came unbidden to his mind. “I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing: I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.”

When he had finished his prayer, he peeked back at her from under his hands, hoping not to see her. But she was still leaning against the dresser with her arms folded across her stomach watching him. He closed his eyes quickly, crossed himself again, folded his hands on the bed in front of him and began to repeat the Rosary. The only prayer he could think of at the moment.

“In the name of the Unknown Father, in Truth, Mother of all, in union and redemption and sharing of the powers, peace to all on whom this name reposes,” he spoke very rapidly. “I acknowledge one great invisible God, unrevealable, unmarked, ageless and…”

“Don’t worry. There is no need to panic,” she interrupted the Creed. “I will do all I can to protect you. I won’t let her give you to Maxie like she threatened. This time we’ll do it my way or not at all. I do have some influence, you know. I have the right. I am named the Holder. What is that you are reciting anyway? Is it a prayer? I’ve never heard it before.”

Mark Andrew got up and sat on the bed. It was no use. He could not pray her away, nor could he pray himself out the situation in which he presently found himself. If Lucio Dambretti was right, then everything was the Will of God. Lucio! His friend. His… brother. He did have a brother. An Italian brother? How could a Scot have an Italian brother? He dropped his head in his hands and she came to sit beside him.

“The Rosary,” he snapped a belated answer to her question and got up quickly, leaving her sitting on the bed.

“That’s not the Rosary. I know the Rosary,” she objected.

“You see?” He slapped one hand against his forehead. “You think you know everything and you don’t know anything about me.” He put his other hand on his hip and turned around in the center of the room in frustration. “Hell! I don’t even know anything about me. Of course it’s the Rosary. You’re just trying to make me think I’m crazy.”

“Well, whatever. You don’t have anything to worry about. I brought you here,” she continued in her soothing voice, misinterpreting his stress as concern for his safety rather than his problem with her proximity. Did she not know how close she had come to being very badly used and violated? “Ultimately, only I can send you away or give you up for the ceremonial sacrifice. When the time comes, I will choose neither. It is not unheard of.”

“It is to me,” he sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “You’ve been brain-washed. I need to take you away from here. It is the least I can do for you after taking your virginity. Just don’t expect anything more than that.”

“My virginity? How did you know?” Her crystal eyes widened. “I read before that men could tell. I mean, men with experience with such things could tell if the lady was a virgin. Well, I guess you would have lot of experience, but I’m embarrassing you.” She stopped and he stared at her in disbelief.

“But don’t be silly,” she said and got up and wrapped her arms around his waist, snuggling close to him again. He suddenly felt very tired. “I know what’s wrong with you. You haven’t had breakfast or lunch. You’ll feel better after you eat. And you must tell me how you knew that I was a virgin. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Thank you for noticing my starvation,” he sighed. “I guess they forgot about me. I was supposed to have breakfast with your… Sir Valentino.”

The thought of food cheered him in spite of everything else. He hugged her briefly and then pushed her away as guilt washed over him. She wore another of the lightweight sundresses and he could almost see completely through the delicately flowered material. Another thought threatened to overshadow his hunger. She had the key to the door in her pocket. A tiny, pleated pocket just under her left breast. He could see both the key and her naked breast through the thin fabric. He could have taken it from her. He could have taken a great deal more from her than the key, but she was the only friendly face in the place even if she were totally insane. It was information he needed, much more than food and certainly not intimate relations with a woman at the moment.

“It’s almost noon,” he said suddenly. “Could we skip breakfast and go straight to lunch?”

“Sure,” she agreed and squeezed his hand before turning toward the door. “I’ll make sure they send up something… lots of something.”

“This Order of the Rose… how many members do you have?” he asked as an afterthought.

“Locally or worldwide?” She stopped at the door, pulling the key from her pocket.

He stared at the key and wondered if there could be millions of maniacs all over the world like Valentino and Maxie.

“Locally,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Let’s see,” she tapped the key against her perfect teeth. The perfect teeth framed by soft, pink lips. He could have kissed the key away from her.

He blinked away the disturbing thought as another thought occurred to him. A rule of some sort. ‘And for this none of you must presume to kiss… “Wife, widow, maid, mother, sister, aunt or any other woman…” he finished the line aloud, causing her to frown at him as he walked slowly toward her.

“What?” She blinked at him.

“Nothing. You were saying?” he asked and took her hand in his. Where had that come from? ‘None of you’. None of whom? Who couldn’t kiss wives, sisters, etceteras?

“Well, the roll is not my responsibility, of course, but I’d guess about a hundred and sixty-five or seventy. Give or take a few. Generally about forty per cent turn out for the ceremonies. Unless they are really big like this one.”

“That many?” He raised her hand and kissed it in spite of the strange warning ringing in his head. “Do any of them live here? In the house with you and Valen…?” His voice trailed off as he kissed her shoulder.

“No, of course not,” she laughed. “They come and go. Sometimes we have guests in from out of town for a few days. Texas is a big place.”

“A few days?” He kissed her hand again and looked into her eyes. Again, he felt that he should be able to read her mind through her eyes instead of melting into them.

“My dear, sweet, Mark Andrew,” she stepped back from him. “I am not totally without brains.” She raised his hand in hers and ran her tongue between his fingers, causing him to jump in response to the strange sensation. “You are trying to seduce me into telling you all our secrets. I will not be had so easily.” She smiled and let go of his hand. “You will have to do better.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but it was no use. He nodded instead.

“Though I can hardly resist your charms,” she continued to smile at him and raised both delicate eyebrows. “I had promised myself not to take advantage of you again. I don’t know if I can stand by that promise, if you continue to make advances. And if Valentino finds out that I’ve already given up my virginity without the proper ceremony, well, I can’t imagine what she will say or do.”

His temper flared suddenly and without warning, he lost control of everything he was trying desperately to hold sacred. He took her by the arm and flung her down on the floor before she had time to utter a sound. He fell on her and put one hand over her mouth. His prayer was forgotten.

His precarious position was forgotten. There was nothing between his ears but a desire to have her with or without her permission. A desire to make her pay for her ridiculous statements and her abominable adoration of Cecile Valentino. He reached down with his free hand, pulled her dress up above her waist and unzipped his pants in one swift motion. She kicked and struggled, but there was nothing she could do. It was too easy. He had done it too many times. He pinned her against the carpet with one hand over her mouth and slammed himself between her legs. To hell with ceremonies! What ceremonies could possibly consecrate such a brutal act? It was not love or affection or even lust, but rather a terrible rage and a need for revenge that drove him on. When he removed his hand from her mouth, he kissed her in the same brutish manner, while looking directly into her eyes as if daring her to like him, daring her to have any sort of normal feelings for him. There was no excuse for what he was doing and even though one part of his mind screamed at him to stop, he ignored it.

It was rape and nothing more or less. And yet, even while he committed the heinous crime, he observed it from a vantage point somewhere near the ceiling. He could see himself and the thing that he did, but he had no control over it. It was as if she had pressed a button, some unseen trigger and he had exploded into two people. One a vile criminal and the other an innocent bystander.

And if that weren’t strange enough, the victim of this heinous crime was not reacting properly. She did not scream or kick or fight. Instead, she looked at him in astonishment. Her blue eyes were very wide with shock and surprise when he rose up and looked down at her, frowning. Her lack of disgust and terror infuriated him.

“Is this how you would take advantage of me?” he asked her and wondered whose voice he was hearing.

“It is, or was,” she told him and then smiled.

Her simple statement brought him back from wherever he had been and the innocent bystander collapsed into the devil he had become, causing him to collapse against her, breathing raggedly. The desire to take what was not his by right or choice was gone. What in the name of God was he doing? She pushed him over on his back with very little effort and then climbed on top him. Positioning herself in the proper position to finish what he had started.

“It is exactly how I would do it, if I were a man and a beautiful young woman offered me something I couldn’t refuse,” she told him as she took complete charge of the situation.

She had mistaken his brutality for passion and the act of rape for some sort of kinky love-making. Something was dreadfully amiss with the Pixie. It was quite obvious that she had either been reading too much or was totally inexperienced in what love should be. But who was he to know what love should be? Had he ever been in love with a woman? Really in love? Or was he simply a monster that she failed to recognize and he failed to reconcile in his own conscience?

These questions and thoughts buzzed through his head while she quickly brought him back from total disinterest to similar state of mind as before. But this time, there was no rage in him only resignation at first and then true lust. She was very good at what she did, experience or no. She looked down at him defiantly when it was over before leaning close to his ear. “You cannot win, Sir Knight. The act of love comes in many forms and I have studied them all. Even if I have had little practical experience, I have a grand imagination and my fantasies are endless. I do believe you could fulfill them all.”

He didn’t even bother to move when she got up and straightened her dress. She left him lying on the floor a few seconds later… in shock.

“I’ll send up lunch,” she told him and he heard her close and lock the door.

He got up slowly, brushed himself off, made a quick trip to tiny bathroom and then crawled under the quilt on the bed. He was still there when the door opened again a short while later. An unfathomable depression had settled over him and he felt certain he was losing his mind. Even his appetite had failed him. He had actually raped her and she hadn’t noticed. What kind of people were these lunatics? He fit right in with them. Psychopathic murderers, kidnappers, rapists. That was it! He was a psychopath. He was a dead psychopath and this was his hell.

“Sir?” Valentino’s voice startled him. He had expected worse.

He made no move to answer. The rattle of dishes and the smell of food indicated that the good Sir Valentino had brought him his lunch.

“Is this all you do? Lie in bed all day?” She asked him sarcastically. “Are you ill?”

“Just leave it,” he told her brusquely as if she were room service.

“Now, come on.” He felt her sit on the side of the bed behind him.

“Sit up and eat. We need to talk. I know what is wrong with you. You need someone to talk to. I know its strange being here with us, but I assure you, it won’t be long and you’ll be free to go. Besides, if you cooperate, there could be a very pleasant surprise in it for you. Merry has taken a great interest in you, but I’m sure you’ve noticed. She’s the blond girl with the pretty blue eyes.”

He turned over and looked at her incredulously. But she was joking of course.

He had read something once. A faerytale about a girl who had gone into a mirror or a rabbit hole where she had met a crew of very odd characters. He thought he knew how the girl must have felt. He expected a huge rabbit to come through the door at any moment carrying a pocket watch, babbling about being late for tea.

He sat up and leaned against the headboard.

“Tell me what’s bothering you besides being here with us,” she said as she piled the pillows up for him to lean against. “I brought you some of my favorite. Roast beef.” She picked up the plate and set it in his lap.

He looked at her blankly.

“Go on. Try it,” she said and handed him a fork. He wanted to stab her with the fork. Instead he picked up the roast beef with his fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘Meals should be taken in silence’. The same voice rang in his head.

“Things could be worse,” she continued in spite of his barbaric actions. He stared at her as he tore the bread in half with his hands and stuffed it in his mouth as well. He wanted to tear her in half.

“I cooked the pilaf myself.”

He scooped up some of the rice on his fingers and pushed it in his mouth with the bread and beef. He wanted to stuff his fist down her throat.

“I wish you would cooperate.”

He picked up the rest of the roast and chewed it viciously. He wanted to chew off her head and put it on a pike pole.

“I only want the Key.”

She had a key in her pocket. He could take it from her. He ate the remainder of the bread in one bite.

“You could make all this very simple,” she smiled at him. He finished the rice. Yes, it would be very simple. Take the key. Break her neck.

“You eat like a horse.”

Horses eat grain. He could have eaten her for breakfast. Surely she would have tasted better than a rat.

“This is my favorite dessert.” She picked up a bowl of yellow pudding with bananas and whipped cream.

Whipped cream. He could have made whipped cream of her in short order. Minced meat. Chopped suey. Smothered chicken. Cooked goose.

“You like banana pudding, don’t you?”

He liked a lot of things. He would have liked to make a pudding of her blood.

He took the bowl from her and frowned at the stuff. She stuck a spoon in it.

“I like it with lots of cookies,” she said.

He didn’t doubt it. Strange cookies. The spoon was not very big. It took three spoonfuls to finish off the pudding.

“Now, we feel better don’t we?” She asked in her most patronizing tone, infuriating him even further.

He really wished Maxie would come back so he could fist fight the man. It would have been preferable to this, even if the man beat him to a pulp and shot him three or four times with his cheap pistol.

“You really are nothing like I expected,” she told him when he put the spoon in the empty bowl. “I have half a mind to find out what my little darlin’ finds so irresistible about you.”

He leaned forward suddenly and choked as the meaning of her words sank into his brain. What did she think he was? A whore?

She grabbed up the glass of tea from the tray and handed it to him.

He took the glass and drank down the tea without tasting it.

“I don’t understand any of this,” he said when he had regained his voice. “Don’t you realize that keeping me here is a crime? You can’t just hold me here against my will indefinitely. Do you intend to murder me?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she laughed. “All you have to do is give me what I want and you can be on your way. The sooner, the better. I don’t like what you stand for, but like I said, I had expected some grizzled old bastard with a stinky beard and a bald head.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” he shrugged.

“I’m not disappointed at all. I just expected you to look older," she said. "But you're not really my type if I was interested. I prefer men who are more intellectual, stylish, a bit smaller and blond. I like blonds. Men and women. What does d’Brouchart look like? I haven’t been able to get much information about him personally.”

“If you didn’t even know what I looked like, how do you know you got the right man?” He ignored her question. The image of a large, middle-aged, balding, red-haired man sitting in a high-backed chair loomed in his mind. Not the same man he had visualized earlier when she had mentioned the title Grand Master.

“We’ve been through this,” she sighed. “I knew you were coming. Anthony told me. He said you would come from the east in a black car. That you wear the red cross and the symbol of the alchemist just like he said. And he said you would have his head on a platter just like John the Baptist.”

Mark Andrew chuckled at these descriptions which sounded like something one would hear from a Gypsy fortune teller, but the mention of St. John caused him to cringe. Blasphemy.

“You think it is funny? The poor boy was scared to death of you. He called you the Knight of Death. Chevalier du Morte. The Prince of the Grave. He said you would bring the flaming sword and cut off his head.”

“Who the hell is Anthony?!” He continued to laugh. Her descriptions were laughable, yet he wondered.

“I have your sword, Sir Ramsay,” she said quietly and her face took on another, more sinister expression. “It was in that your black car that you drove here from DFW. You came here from the east.”

“I don’t believe you. My name is John,” he said simply. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but you’ve got the wrong man.”

“I don’t think so,” she smiled knowingly. “You were in a black car, you came from the east, you wear the rings, you had the sword. You venerate the name of St. John. Your denials are useless. There is only one point yet to prove out.” She narrowed her eyes. “Poor Anthony. I thought he was immortal.” Cecile toyed with the spoon in the empty pudding dish.

“What happened to poor Anthony?” Mark asked with some reticence.

“Why? Do you still want his head? I’m afraid you missed him. He’s gone.”

“Just like that? Gone?” He snapped his fingers. “And I was so close.”

“Yes, you were,” she nodded slightly. “I thought he was crazy at first and then he gave your name in a trance.”

“He gave my name? In a trance?” Mark rolled his eyes. “He said ‘Mark Andrew Ramsay, Prince of the Grave, is coming to behead me’. Is that what he said?”

“Not exactly.”

She was becoming irritated with his flippant attitude. He wanted to make her as angry as she made him. He wanted to make her choke on her anger. He wanted to choke her himself. How dare she keep him there?

“But that was the way it happened, basically. You underestimate me, Sir Ramsay. Your holy order of the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon are not the only possessors of the Mystic Secrets. I have my resources and I am well versed in the Ancient Mysteries or at least most of them. I’ve studied the Corpus Hermeticum and the works of all the great alchemical masters. It was very dark, very hard work, but I excelled without a penis.”

“What?” He was taken aback by her obscene remark. “What has that got to do with anything?”

She got up from the bed and began to pace the floor beside the bed. “Everything!” She raised her voice. “It was probably easy for you.” She put her hands on her hips and swaggered about the room. “Look, my brothers. I, too, possess the Mystical Staff and the Magickal Jewels.” She grabbed herself in a most profane manner. “Look what I can do. I can piss against the wall, my brothers. Here, here, my brothers, would you like to measure it? I can fuck a cow and make her beg for mercy.”

“Stop it!” Mark climbed out of bed and stood looking at her aghast. “Above all things, whoever is a Knight of Christ chooses only Holy conversation! I will not listen to this. It is unholy. It is obscene and impure. It is a sin against God!”

“A sin against God? Listen to you! A Knight of Christ. You admit it yourself,” she stopped her antics and raised both dark eyebrows at him in surprise. “And is it not as great a sin to use your Mystical Staff at random on whomever you please? Or is that some privilege a Knight of Christ retains from some higher power? You are a murderer, an assassin and a rapist. I have read about the heresies committed by your holy order, Sir Ramsay. I don’t know how you escaped the Inquisition, but you can rest assured that I know all about your secret rule and your obscene rites of passage and your sacred sex. How many times did you participate in the rituals of initiation with all those young boys? How many of them did you personally ‘raise’ to a higher degree?”

He crossed the space between them and slapped her before he realized what he was doing. She spun around and grabbed the edge of the dresser to keep from falling. He grabbed her arm and swung her around, slamming her against the bathroom door. She looked up at him in shock as he advanced on her and wrapped his hands around her neck. He would have snapped her neck in one instance, but for the sudden sensation of pain where none should have been. He looked down to see a rather sizable dagger between them. She held it in a very delicate position and that was the source of the pain. She pushed it a bit more and he hesitated. He could probably kill her before she did irreversible damage.

“Back off,” she told him in a low voice. “Back off or I will cut you in some very small pieces and feed you to the crows. And I’ll start with your Mystical Staff!”

He raised his hands in the air and backed away from her as she stood rubbing her face where his hand print was showing up quite well already.

“I deserved that, I suppose,” she said unexpectedly. “You shouldn’t have pissed me off with your holier-than-thou attitude, but I am glad to see that there is some fire in you after all. I do have a reputation to uphold just as you do. I will try to hold my peace, if you will hold yours.”

She closed the space between them and took his face in both of her hands. The hilt of the dagger was cold against his skin. He frowned down at her as she kissed him almost as brutally as he had kissed the Pixie only a short while before. The action was not one of affection and he thought it fitting that he was being treated so, in light of his own thoughts and actions. But this was not right and this was not proper and his mind rebelled from her instantly. If she was the cobra, he would have to be the mongoose. He grabbed her hair and returned the kiss in the same manner. It was going to happen again and he didn’t even care, he would leave her with her throat cut on the floor. But as she had warned him, he had underestimated her abilities. She was not as fragile, nor nearly as easy to subdue as other women had been. She eluded his attempt to take the knife from her hand and brought it up between them in the same manner as before. What other women? The press of the dagger against the same part of him as before brought him up short… literally. He wondered briefly where she had learned to defend herself so capably. If he were going to disarm her, he was going to have to think of her as a real adversary. She was as cocky as any fighter he’d ever faced and though he couldn’t remember the particulars of those mysterious fighters, he knew that she would make a mistake… eventually and he would not underestimate her again.

“I’ll be back, as Arnold would say,” she told him when he moved away. She looked him straight in the eyes and he wondered how she managed the feat since she was at least a foot shorter than him. “We still have to have our little talk,” she continued and lowered her eyes to the appropriate region of his anatomy, “Don’t ever presume to think you can use that on me unless I want it or you’ll find yourself on the short end of the stick. You understand what I mean, Sir Ramsay?”

He nodded to her and bowed slightly as she unlocked the door. She turned to look at him once more before leaving.

“I suggest you get some rest. You look tired,” she smiled crookedly at him. “And get ready for dinner at five. You will be joining us downstairs. I have some people interested in meeting you.”

She left him alone and the silence rang in his ears louder than her words had before.

“Spes mea in Deo est,” he said aloud though he had no idea what the words meant. The mongoose had learned something very useful about the cobra. He would have to do much better if he wanted to take the key from her. He sat down on the bed and looked forlornly at the devastated tray. Lunch had been very disappointing. His stomach growled again. Perhaps supper would be better or at least more voluminous. He collapsed onto the springy mattress. And who the Hell was Arnold?

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

His escort to dinner was a solemn-faced young man in an expensively cut gray suit. He eyed Mark appraisingly and frowned slightly. Mark tossed his hair over his shoulder and smiled at the man sardonically, wondering what it was about him that met with the man’s disapproval. He thought it was the same young man he had seen rifling his belongings in the trunk of the El Dorado, but couldn’t be sure. He wondered who these people were and what they thought of Valentino keeping a prisoner on the third floor of her country mansion. It didn’t make sense. The man allowed him to walk ahead of him and kept one hand in the pocket of his jacket as if he carried something there. Mark Andrew assumed that there was some weapon hidden there. He could have easily taken the man, he thought, but there was a nagging half-memory in his mind that told him that he was right where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing. Furthermore, his encounter with Valentino earlier on had left him doubting his abilities. He went down the stairs and past the Pixie’s bedroom, where he paused momentarily to look at the closed door. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked casually down the stairs with the silent young man on his heels. At the foot of the stairs, he paused, unsure of which way to go. The man passed him and took the lead.

“This way,” he intoned the only two words he had said the entire time and Mark was sure that this was the man who had rifled through his car. Another mechanic? American mechanics must have been paid very well. He looked more like a doctor or a barrister.

They passed through a dimly lit sitting room decorated in Country French. Very cold and uninviting to the Scot. He had the distinct feeling that he disliked French. The double doors opened into a brightly lit dining room with a long, cherry wood table under an immense crystal chandelier. More of the strange banners hung on the high walls above the sideboards and cabinets full of China and crystal dishes. They reminded him of the Standards that ancient familial lines had carved over their hearths, their doorposts and painted on the shields of their knights. It seemed that he had seen many of them somewhere before. The guests were already in place and the first course was well underway when he arrived and he understood immediately why the young man had frowned at him. His clothes. Everyone at the table was dressed in Sunday finery and he had worn the tan shooter’s shirt and dark brown trousers.

Chevaliere Valentino rose from her chair at the head of the table and smiled broadly at him. The number of diners at the table surprised him and Mark drew up short as they all stood as one, following her cue. He blinked at them in the bright light of the chandelier and cringed inwardly as his eyes fell on the Pixie. He looked around at the men and women who stood staring at him silently as if waiting for him to perform for them like a trained monkey. He actually felt his face flush with embarrassment.

The young man took up a place near the middle of the table and Valentino held out her left hand to an empty chair next to the head of the table. As he drew nearer to the proffered seat, he saw the distinct outline of part of his hand in dark red and purple on her left cheek. He wondered what she had told her guests about it. More importantly, he wondered what she had told Merry about it. The Pixie stood beside the chair across from him at Valentino’s right hand. He noticed Maxie, decked out in a very nice suit, standing near the swinging doors apparently leading to the butler's pantry. The suit, most likely ‘assigned’ to him by Valentino, did nothing to soften his harsh profile and lumbering physique. At last he and the idiot had something in common: they were both out of place here. As soon as he caught Mark’s eye, he nodded and then disappeared through the door as if he had been waiting just to make sure he knew that he was being watched.

Their hostess, or host, Mark couldn’t tell which role she was affecting at the moment, wore a closely tailored, three-piece black suit and a red tie without a shirt visible under the vest. She sat down and the rest of them followed suit. Mark sat down as well to keep from standing alone.

Apparently, she had no intention of introducing him to any of them. Merry shot him one fleeting glance and picked up her fork. He glanced down the table and saw that most of them were eating salads. There was a salad in front of him and beside it was a small glass goblet full of red sauce with six peeled shrimp hanging over the rim. Shrimp cocktail. Stewart loved them. Stewart? Who the hell was Stewart? He gingerly pushed the shrimps into the sauce with one finger and picked up the glass. Raising the goblet, he saluted Valentino and then poured the entire cocktail in his mouth, shaking the very last drop of cocktail sauce from it. Her dark eyes widened slightly as he tossed his head slightly and swallowed the whole thing without chewing. A trick that Louis had taught him. Very useful when trying to un-impress. Who the hell was Louis?

His hostess remained very cool outwardly, but the strange action had the desired effect on the stuffed-shirts sitting around her table. Some stared in surprise, others tried not to look at him. Someone cleared his throat and the guests resumed their light conversations and their salads. He was quite pleased with himself. The old trick that he and Louis used to use to shock the bishop’s regal guests still worked. The bishop? Which bishop? And why would he be sharing a table with his Eminence? His expression changed and he closed his eyes briefly. Another fleeting memory gone. He looked at Merry and winked at her as he sipped his wine. He would ignore the no drinking with meals tonight. It was permissible in the field. Another odd thing to remember.

Merry giggled and Valentino shot a meaningful look at her. The Pixie returned her attention to her salad, but looked as if she would burst out laughing any moment.

Mark resumed his aloof composure and contemplated the dishes in front of his hostess. Her goblet still contained three shrimp. He nodded to her, smiled and finished off her cocktail in the same manner. He then folded his elegant little salad that was more a work of art than sustenance, in its one lettuce leaf and popped it in his mouth, again, swallowing it whole without ceremony, without chewing it at all. Three golden crackers lay on the side of the plate. They were gone in an instant in the same fashion with the exception of one very loud crunch for each. He sat looking at the empty plate and goblet in front of him, wondering if that was it for the meal. An older gentleman sitting on his left eyed him suspiciously.

The guests had stopped trying to be polite and were openly staring at him now, waiting to see what he would do next. Mark nodded to the man with the same sarcastic smile he had given his escort and then looked at the half-eaten salad in front of the man. The man cleared his throat and managed to move his plate down the table an inch or so without being overly rude. His perusal of the man’s plate was interrupted by two waiters who appeared bearing bowls of clear soup with a single piece of toasted French bread floating on top. The waiters took the salad plates away and set out the third course. A murmur of conversation issued from the far end of the table. Everyone resumed the pattern of trying to watch him and not watch him at the same time. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. He picked up the bowl with both hands, leaned over the table to keep the soup from dripping on his clothes and drank it down in one long, slurping swallow, bread and all, spilling only a spoonful or so on the linen tablecloth. It tasted of onions and garlic, but was nothing more than hot, flavored water. Very poor fare at best. He licked his lips and made an exaggerated point of wiping his mouth carefully on the linen napkin. Several choked giggles arose from the ladies situated among the guests. He looked at them, frowning as if their behavior were the height of rudeness. Valentino cleared her throat and he turned his most innocent gaze on her expectantly. Was she going to start talking now?

While he waited for the rest of the diners to finish their soup one spoonful at a time, he perused the banners hanging on the wall in front of him. The guests began to unwind a bit in the absence of the floor show and he heard them talking about everyday subjects that meant nothing to him. Stock market prices, new computers for city hall, the local school board meeting and an up-coming bond election seemed to be the topics of choice nearby while some of the international guests spoke of the wars in the Middle East and debated whether European cars were not better made than Japanese and American models.

Merry glanced at him every time she put her spoon to her lips. Valentino made comments to the nearest diners, but kept a sharp eye on him. He crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head, closing his eyes. They said no prayers during the meal. No one read from the bible. Their lack of devotion to God astounded him. He might as well have been at a so-called ‘steak house’ with another group of irreverent strangers fighting over fried chicken on the buffet. If this was the extent of their ‘order’, they were extremely irreverent group. He said a prayer of thanksgiving in his head, but was not overly thankful for the meager meal so far. Surely, what he had seen in the pantry would have afforded a better outlay. Perhaps it was a holiday for fasting or some such. A meatless day. These thoughts bothered him. They seemed natural enough, but they had no basis, no origin in his memory. They were just there like the ability to brush his teeth or shave. Just there. Just part of life. He raised his head again to find Valentino staring at him.

“I thought you were asleep,” she commented dryly.

He shook his head, but did not answer. No talking during meals. Apparently her order had no such rule, but that would imply that his order did and he was not sure that he had an order.

“Perhaps the next course will be more to your liking,” she said as the waiters returned, pushing a cart full of small, silver dishes with lids. He waited patiently as the soup bowls were cleared and everyone had received their new dish. He picked up the lid and set it aside. A mottled, pink fish with a slice of ripe olive for an eye replete with cracker fins along its back stared up at him. He almost laughed at the sight of it, but that would have been improper. He picked out the eye and popped it in his mouth. He chewed the olive slowly and deliberately as he waited to see what the others were doing with theirs. They were picking off pieces of it with short, blunt knives and smearing it on the crackers. This was much too troublesome. Mark picked up the blunt knife and nodded to Cecile. Her face lit up and then fell when he cut off the fish’s head, slid the knife under and ate the whole thing at once. In spite of his troubles, making her squirm eased his mind. Her resolve to remain unflappable at his behavior was slowly fading.

He was well aware of what was expected of him as far as table manners, but had no intention of honoring her with them. He had also seen enough of her to know that she lost all dignity when her temper took over. She thought him a barbarian; let her continue to think so. He had known plenty of barbarians. She had no idea what a barbarian was. As he finished the fish off in two more bites and sat waiting again, listening to the boring drone of voices around him, he pondered the question of how he would know what a real barbarian was like.

As he looked down at the empty plate, another memory, more horrible even than the rats flashed through his mind. He saw a white stone wall surrounding a burning city. He heard the screams of the people inside the walls, inside the burning buildings. All along the top of the wall, poles were erected in holes in the stones. On top of the poles were the severed heads of bearded men. Their faces distorted in pain and terror. Their long beards fluttered in the hot wind like grizzly pennants. Blood ran down the walls and pooled in the plate in front of him. He jerked his head up and the vision disappeared.

“I’m sorry it was cooked, Sir Ramsay,” Valentino said sarcastically, causing a small round of laughter. He glanced around the table and the laughter quickly ended. They were afraid of him? What had she told them, he wondered?

The wait for the next course was much longer. These people had not come to eat, but to talk. They watched him carefully, avoiding direct eye contact with him, all the while dabbing the fish pate` daintily on the crackers. Valentino had hardly touched her fish, but leaned both elbows on the table in front of her. Merry continued to eat very slowly, unwilling or unable to look at him and he thought she almost seemed embarrassed somehow. He returned his attention to the banners on the wall. One of them seemed extremely familiar. Simple black, geometric figures against a white background. A cube at the bottom with a circle resting on top of it. A triangle sat on top of the circle and a small flame was situated at the apex of the triangle. Another thought ricocheted through his mind and he looked at the Pixie in consternation. Merry had no idea what her companion was up to. Valentino had kept her out of the meat of the business. The Pixie thought it was all a game. A social club.

“Does that one interest you?” Valentino asked, following his gaze to the banner.

He shrugged slightly. He did not understand the symbols though he was sure that he should have. He felt that if he moved the symbols and compressed them together, they would mean more. As above, so below.

“The four elements, like the ring of the alchemist you wear,” she prompted him to no avail. “Earth, air, fire and water.”

He said nothing. Merry looked up at him and he raised both eyebrows at her expecting confirmation of some sort. It was the same thing she had told him about his silver ring. He refused to glance at it.

The waiters returned, saving him from both Valentino’s meaningless chatter and his sorely offended stomach. He could feel the pink fish swimming in the shallow depths of the onion soup. Each diner received an oblong platter with a huge steak draped across it, perfectly seared, surrounded by delicately browned potato wedges. Pink juices oozed from under the steak onto the plate. The conversation increased as he picked up his fork and steak knife, making short work of the beef, very glad that it was not a meatless day after all. The main course was too good and he was too hungry to play with it as before, but it was forlornly gone much too soon even with good table manners. He found himself alone with an empty plate and nothing to do.

He could not bear to watch his tablemates toy with their steaks. He was still hungry. He closed his eyes again and let his head drop, intending to meditate until the dessert arrived. The Pixie had other ideas about how to use the time, since everyday was a meatless day for her. Her plate contained only the potatoes and a medley of steamed vegetables, but she didn’t bother to eat them. Instead, she adjusted her chair closer to the table and nudged his knee with one bare foot. Mark jerked his head around to glare at the older gentleman on his left. When she giggled again, he looked at her in surprise and she placed one finger against her lips briefly before picking up her water glass. He glanced left and right again. No one was paying attention to him any more. Valentino was involved in a running discourse with the man on his left about the ancient art of alchemy and its historical significance as the foundation of modern medicine and chemistry. He did not care in the least about their discussion. Alchemy was alchemy. Very few people understood it correctly. There were levels and layers in the Art that only the highest initiates could fathom. High initiates. Like himself?

His stomach felt much better with the cow to keep the fish company and he had to smile at the Pixie when she blew him a kiss through the bottom of her crystal clear water glass. He shifted in his seat as she slumped slightly in her chair and propped both of her bare feet between his legs on the edge of his chair. He leaned his chin in his left hand and reached under the table, taking hold of one of her feet. He squeezed her toes. Why was she doing this? He couldn’t recall any rules or prohibitions about engaging in such actions at the table. Apparently he had no precedence from which he could draw. When she began an entirely obscene massage on him with her other foot, her intentions became crystal clear. When he reached for the mischievous foot, it stayed easily out of reach. He found the experience to be extremely disconcerting, but much more interesting than the conversation above the table. He allowed a slight smile to play across his lips and she winked at him again. The dinner droned on around him, but he soon forgot where he was. How she could do what she was doing under the table, while cutting her potatoes into minuscule pieces, was beyond him. Ambidextrous did not quite cover her unexpected talents.

“So!” The man next to him raised his voice suddenly, causing Mark to jump and then look at him in surprise. “Cecile tells us that you, yourself, are an alchemist.”

Mark just looked at him. Was the meal over? Everyone seemed to have given up on the steak and potatoes and sat engaged in conversation or looking at him openly.

“He has broad knowledge,” Valentino offered in the silence. “But it is only his secondary function.”

“Extensive,” Merry added an additional word and then another. “Impressive.”

Mark looked at her and frowned.

“And what is your primary function?” the man asked him as if daring him to answer.

“I am… an assassin,” Mark answered blandly and smiled at him before pinching Merry’s little toe as she became a bit too rambunctious under the table. “I kill people for a living.”

The man blanched and Cecile laughed nervously.

“He has a great sense of humor as well,” she interjected.

“Very great. Extraordinary,” Merry reiterated, emphasizing her words with her toes. “I’ve never seen a better example.”

“Seriously, Mr. Ramsay,” the man relaxed a bit. “Your order is very old, I understand. Cecile tells me that you are in possession of knowledge concerning the Philosopher’s Stone. I, myself, am a student of Carl Jung. I fail to see how anyone could possibly assign any real significance to the old texts in regard to practical use. Dr. Jung’s research and conclusions concerning the esoteric nature of the alchemical texts make much more sense than imagining that one could actually produce gold from ordinary substances. I believe that the true modern alchemist in nothing more than a seeker of knowledge. A pilgrim, if you will. What he seeks is a meaningful purpose to existence and when he has achieved the psychological enlightenment, he is said, therefore, to have found the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Stone. Philosopher Stones. Sounds better than Philosopher’s Rocks, don’t you think?” Merry asked. “Of course, rocks and stones are both hard. I wonder what the difference is. Do you think that one might be easier to work with than the other? ”

“I’ve never given it much thought, Miss Meredith,” the man frowned at Merry and returned his attention to Mark, dismissing her question with disdain. “Do you claim to possess the secret of making gold from such things as mercury and sulfur, Mr. Ramsay? Is it true, as Ms. Valentino intimated to us, that you may have something a bit more concrete… something more physical in nature… that would prove otherwise? I understand that the true search for the Philosopher’s Stone is an attempt to rise above our lower natures and reach for the divine within us.”

Mark looked at her and then at Cecile before smiling. “I am in possession of many things, Mr… ahhh,” he paused and squeezed Merry’s foot harder. His lower nature was betraying him even as he spoke.

“Petrie. James Petrie.”

“Mr. Petrie,” his voice was not normal looked at Merry instead of the man and swallowed hard before speaking. “But secrets are secrets. They wouldn’t be secrets if we told them, would they? I know nothing of your Dr. Jung. Is he from hereabouts?” Mark knew the eminent Dr. Jung and had a great deal of respect for his philosophies. How he knew the man or why was presently beyond his comprehension and probably best left unexplored. What the Pixie was doing under the table made it very difficult to carry on philosophical discussions.

His question elicited several more twitters from the guests.

“Surely you jest, Sir Ramsay,” the man laughed. “But our hostess has told me that she has been trying to persuade you to share some of your ideas with us. I, myself, have studied alchemy for years. I would be most interested to hear some of your thoughts on the subject.”

“Our hostess is most… persuasive in some respects.” Mark glanced at Valentino. “And Miss Meredith's hospitality has been unequaled. I don’t think I’ve ever been treated so well… or so often.”

“Hospitality is a Texas tradition, Mr. Ramsay. We like to make our guests feel right at home,” Merry agreed and received another scathing look from Valentino.

“Ms. Valentino is very… verbally adept,” Mark nodded and winced involuntarily. “Her words can mesmerize a man like a snake-charmer plays his cobra. She makes her points very well. But the tongue can be like a double-edged sword. It cuts both ways. Used with the proper skill, it can bring about the desired results quite nicely. When used improperly, against nature, as it were, it could be fatal. Like using your toes to write music.”

Merry smiled.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment,” Valentino retorted acidly, while smiling sweetly. The underlying double insult was not lost on her. “It is well known that the ancients knew the secrets of the Lapis Philosophorum, which as you know, is the ultimate goal of every alchemist, whether they expect spiritual enlightenment or physical success. The secret was supposedly handed down through the ages to a select few, the Brothers of the Rose Cross, or the Templars as they are more commonly known, being among the chief suspects of having preserved the secret even unto the modern day under the guise of the Scottish Rite or other Orders. The quest for the secret has brought death and destruction on the heads of many interested parties.” The comments of the hostess had gained the attention of the entire assemblage. Mark noticed with great relief that every eye and ear in the room except Merry’s, was now focused on Valentino.

Merry kept her attention focused on her exercise under the table. Mark closed his eyes and tried to appear unaffected by her footwork. He wondered if she intended to carry it all the way through to its inevitable end and what would happen to him when she did. Terrible thoughts began to enter his mind as their hostess continued her lecture. “Some of the Templars were accused of witchcraft among other, more heinous crimes, and were executed or burned at the stake. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay? But the Philosopher’s Stone and the secret of its composition was never learned. Nor did the Church learn the whereabouts of certain historic treasures. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsay?”

“I thought the Templars were all killed and the order disbanded,” someone spoke up from further down the table. “It has been a matter of some debate as to whether the Scottish claims were founded in truth.”

“Most of them were scattered. Some were arrested. Some escaped the persecution, but the order was banned and their properties were confiscated by the church and other interested parties. They were too rich for comfort and answerable only to the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope. Isn’t that so, Mr. Ramsay? There aren’t many real Templars left today, are there?” Valentino answered and then looked to Mark for confirmation.

“I don’t know any,” he managed to say with considerable difficulty. Templars were the furthest subject from his mind at the moment.

“Some would argue that the Philosopher’s Stone was just a legend. A myth or more likely, a metaphor,” Petrie interjected.

“I don’t believe that.” Valentino shook her head. “Too many people have died trying to find it for it not to have some basis in reality. One but has to look in the right place.” She glanced at Mark again, though he did not notice.

“Yes, one has only to look in the right place and then go after the prize,” Merry nodded and smiled impishly at her captive audience across the table. He was beyond commenting further on the subject at the moment.

The waiters returned to remove the dinner plates, replacing them with smaller plates filled with a variety of elegantly decorated pastries and cookies in front of each guest. Mark Andrew leaned forward suddenly, grabbed hold of Merry’s foot and squeezed it very hard, trying to hide temporarily behind the waiter as he served dessert to Valentino. He picked up the water goblet and drained the glass quickly, coughing again on purpose as he tried not to appear non-plussed. Cecile leaned around the waiter and looked at him suspiciously.

“Don’t you like cookies, Mr. Ramsay?” she asked.

“I’ve had enough. Thank you,” he found his voice and pushed his plate toward her. He put down the water and picked up his near empty glass of wine and drank it down as well. Cecile graciously signaled the waiter for a refill and he drank that as well. When he had recovered somewhat, he noticed that the room was spinning slowly in front of his face and the wine was not mixing well with the steak and potatoes.

Merry nibbled a cookie with a very satisfied smile on her face.

The conversation carried on throughout the final phase of the elegant meal. Mark was very anxious to get away from the table and tried to think of some way to leave, but it was hopeless. His condition was worsening with every passing moment. The dizziness worsened and he grew nauseous. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt ill to such an extent that he thought he would pass out.

Valentino stood up and the diners again took their cue from her, standing in unison as well. Mark leaned on the table and put one hand on his forehead while dabbing at the sweat on his upper lip with his napkin.

Valentino leaned close to his ear.

“What is your problem?” she hissed in his ear.

“I have a headache,” he told her. “In fact, I think your dinner conversation has poisoned me.”

“Nonsense,” she whispered. “The poison was in your soup. We are going to the patio for drinks and conversation. It would be better if you excused yourself for prayers or meditation and went upstairs now.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” he told her in truth and clutched his stomach. “Just let me sit here for a while.”

“All right then,” she agreed. “Drinks on the patio, everyone,” she spoke to the guests and then leaned a bit closer to him. “I’ll be talking to you again very soon.”

She looked for Merry who was exchanging words with another woman near the patio doors. “Merry! Mr. Ramsay isn’t feeling well. Would you see to it that he gets upstairs?”

“Sure, no problem,” Merry answered as she gladly disengaged herself from the woman who held her arm.

He looked up at her, grimacing at the prospect of trying to get out of the chair with grace and she laughed at him. His stomach felt full of carpet tacks. He should have chewed the steak a bit more, perhaps.

“You are an evil, evil woman,” he told her, but smiled in spite of his condition.

“I am not,” she protested and came at once to take his arm. “These things bore me to death. At least you kept my mind off that stupid conversation about alchemy. I get so tired of it all.” Her comments affirmed his earlier revelation. Merry knew nothing of Cecile’s goals and cared little to learn about them.

“In that case, I would suggest that we leave here now while they are preoccupied on the verandah,” he suggested hopefully. Black spots floated in the forefront of his vision and he did not want to risk tumbling down the back stairs with her on his arm. “I hope you won’t mind leaving your party.”

“Don’t be silly. Like I said, it’s not my party,” she smiled and dragged him toward the door, unaware of his growing infirmity.

“She really thinks I’m immortal,” he told her as they made their way upstairs. Now he felt drunk and disorientated. He had meant to head for the front door.

“Did you know that?” he asked inanely and leaned heavily on her arm.

“Yes, of course,” Merry frowned at him “and so you are, if she says so. What difference does it make what she thinks?”

“Who is Anthony?” he asked her, jumping to an entirely different subject. Had one glass of wine and a bit of hanky-panky done this to him? His thoughts scattered endlessly.

“You know who he is. He is your Grand Master d’Brouchart’s apprentice. We don’t have apprentices in our order. That word always reminds me of Mickey Mouse. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” she spoke to him as if he were truly witless for asking. “He apparently ran away from your… school or whatever it is. He doesn’t want to be a Templar any more.”

“That’s ridiculous. I'm not a Templar." Before he elaborated more, a chill shook him from his head to his toes and he tightened his grip on her arm.

“No. He really doesn’t. He said it was too rigid a lifestyle for him. He wants something a little less… demanding,” she told him in earnest. “But then you are playing with me, Sir Ramsay. Forget all that right now. Let’s talk about us.”

“I don’t think Anthony is a Templar anymore,” Mark muttered, ignoring her suggestion. Valentino had referred to him in the past tense as if he were dead. Poor Anthony. I thought he was immortal. “I think he’s dead,” he added then wondered why he had blabbed his suspicions to Valentino’s closest companion.

“Noooo, no,” Merry shook her head. “He’s gone. That’s all. Cecile sent him away because you were coming for him.”

They passed her door and she tugged his arm.

“I don’t think that would be very wise, Merry.” He suddenly felt as old as she said he was. “I really am feeling sort of… well, I don’t think it would be wise. I need to… take a shower and revive a bit and they’ll be looking for you.”

“Who cares? I’ll give you a bath. You liked that, didn’t you?” she said. “I suppose you should get some rest, huh? I keep forgetting how old you are.”

He wanted to slap his forehead in frustration, but he held his stomach instead. It was really beginning to hurt now and they still had another set of stairs to make.

“Yes, some rest would be nice. Peachy.”

He still had the little talk with Valentino to look forward to and he had a very bad feeling about it. Maxie was waiting for them in the hall on the third floor, proved it. His hopes of getting some rest were dashed when Maxie opened the door for him and followed him inside, leaving Merry in the hall. The urge to fist fight returned fleetingly, but Maxie stayed well away from him.

“That was a very interesting dessert you had down there, dipshit. I guess you know that all the security in this house is under my… watchful eye?”

"Really? A regular Mr. Manners, you are,” Mark retorted.

“Who the hell is that? You should cooperate. Things could be a lot better for you. You could have your cake and eat it too, pardon the pun.”

Mark’s expression cut him short and he shrugged again.

“Have it your way.”

“That would be agreeable enough.”

Mark sat down at the desk. His stomach revolted and he forced down the urge to vomit. What was next? Another pain, more intense than before struck his midsection and he winced involuntarily.

“I’ll be back for you in a little while. When you’re feeling a bit more… obliging.” Maxie grinned at him and opened the door. “Miss Valentino wants to see you tonight.”

Mark was left alone again, and he was not a happy man. Too much had happened in too short a time. All he understood was that these people wanted something from him that he could not give and he doubted that he would have handed it over even if he knew what it was. He also understood that their accusations might have some foundation in truth, which left his brain swimming in a sea of conflicting emotions and contradictory feelings. One moment he wanted to fall on his knees and pray to God for forgiveness, and the next moment he was trying to kill someone. Could he be as crazy as they were? Did he suffer from multiple personality disorder? Was he possessed by demon spirits?

His nerves were on edge and his feelings for the Pixie were a mixture of fatherly affection, carnal lust and intense hatred. These were not the thoughts or desires of a rational man. What had they done to him? Surely, he had not been a psychopath before he had come here. His clothes and his appearance pointed to a man of some means. His education must have been extensive. He spoke and understood several languages. He had understood three very different conversations at the table. One in English, another in Spanish and a third in German and not only had he understood the languages, he had understood the subjects. It made no sense. None of it made any sense. And who was this Anthony character? Who was Lucio Dambretti? And Louis? And this d’Brouchart that Valentino kept talking about? Would the dark-haired man he recalled as friend and brother come looking for him? Would he recognize him?

His illness progressed, and he threw up the entire meal. While he still could, he washed his face, changed his clothes, and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. When he drifted into a fitful sleep, he dreamed of the burning city again.

He was running through the streets. Someone was chasing him. The sand-colored walls of the closely packed buildings closed in on him; the streets became narrower and narrower until he could go no further. He was exhausted from the exertion and breathing was becoming harder and harder as the smoke swirled in around him, choking him. He stumbled, caught himself with one gloved hand and tried to get his bearings. A low stone structure loomed in front of him. A well! His throat was parched and his thirst was all-consuming, but the enemy was right behind him. No time to stop here. He climbed onto the stones beside the dark opening in the ground, stumbling again, almost falling into the well, and they were upon him. He turned and raised his sword wearily. A tall man in a turban screamed at him in the tongue of the Saracens.

“Death to the Infidel Dogs!”

“Praise be to Allah, the one true God!”

The first man to fall on him received the entire length of Mark’s sword through his midsection just as he raised his own blade above his head. Blood poured from the screaming man’s mouth as he fell forward. Mark Andrew pushed at him with one booted foot, desperately trying to dislodge the blade from him before the others reached him, but the second man was on him before he could accomplish the task. He let go of his sword and reached for his dagger. Too late. The dead man’s blood made his hands slick inside the armored gloves and the dagger slipped away from him, falling into the well. He raised his arm as the second man fell on him and he felt a sharp pain in his side as his attacker brought a short, curved knife up in a wicked undercut just below his ribs. The blade grated through the links of the chain mail armor he wore under his surcoat and entered his stomach below his ribs, taking his breath away as well as his desire to wrestle with the man barehanded. He scrambled backwards, clutching the hilt of the knife that impaled him. His boots slipped on the bloody stones as he came dangerously close to the yawning black mouth of the well. The ugly, turbaned man with rotten teeth picked up his discarded broadsword and drew it back over his right shoulder with the clear intention of taking Mark’s head from his shoulders with one deadly blow. At least it would be quick. He threw up one arm instinctively when the man swung the blade, but the man vanished before his eyes as he fell backwards into the depths of the well. Screaming in terror, he clutched the dagger in his side, trying desperately to dislodge it before he struck bottom. It was hopelessly entangled in the armor and blood-stained tabard bearing the Red Cross that he wore. He struck the water on his back and sank immediately into the cool liquid. He felt it cover him, lifting his helmet from his head, loosing his long, prohibited hair.

The Order forbade overlong hair. It flowed across his face, obscuring his view of the bright patch above him where the Saracen leaned over the brink, squinting into the darkness. The water was soothing, cold, numbing. Drowning would be far preferable to having his head cut off in the baking heat of the dusty street above, but the well was only a few feet deep. He stood up and slapped the hair out of his eyes before looking up in time to see part of a nearby wall collapse on the Infidel crushing him, sending down a spray of blood mixed with dust in his face. A flaming bomb slung from a catapult by the Saracen's own army had saved him. The pain in his stomach had eased, but it returned with a vengeance as he fell back under the water again. He tried to scream under the water and kicked at the slippery stones beneath him while the water above him turned red with his own blood.