Chapter Nine of Twelve

let thy wrathful anger take hold of them.

Thomas Beaujold had made his way around the big house with the ease of an honored guest. There was no one to stop him. No one confronted him. The cook and cleaning woman had completely missed his comings and goings. He could not believe that his Brothers were being held in such a weakly defended fortress, but they were not in the house. Only Dambretti was inside the house and he was now locked in one of the upper floor bedrooms, and he was not alone. The Knight of the Sword had searched the house whilst his Brother shared breakfast with the woman on the verandah. The man with the shotgun had gone off through the garden, taking his guns with him. Beaujold found and disabled the monitoring system in the room under the stairs, listened at the upstairs bedroom door for a few moments and then retreated after hearing a woman’s voice as well as Brother Dambretti's.

They were holding Lucio in the same room in which they had placed the rug. The same one in which they had found Ramsay’s luggage. It was like a recurring nightmare! Had they now lost Dambretti as well? Would he be taken in and ruined like his Brother Ramsay? Beaujold felt that it almost served the man right since Dambretti had missed his opportunity to behead Ramsay in the basement and then allowed the girl to interfere with Simon’s opportunity as well. Dambretti was of no use to him. He was no better than Ramsay. Italians and Scots! Of course, there was no honor in either.

His immediate concern was the man with the shotgun. If he had gone out in search of Ramsay, he might just get lucky and find him.

Sir Beaujold slipped down the back stairs and made it outside to inspect the doors to the basement. There was no way to get past the locks on the doors without setting off the alarm and it was getting later and later. He would have to go to town and get the iron-clad box from the hotel. Without at least one of his Brothers to help him, he would be forced to kill him or else he would not be able to handle him. He knew that his Brothers would eventually escape and come back to the bed and breakfast. The keys to the van were in his pocket and no one noticed as he left the house by way of the front doors and drove away toward town.

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

“Good afternoon, Penelope,” Valentino said curtly and sat down behind the desk with a heavy sigh.

Miss Penelope Martin paced the floor of the library in front of her desk. The woman wrung her hands in agitation and nervous perspiration beaded above her top lip.

Whatever this problem was, it had better be good and not just another round of whining about the bed and breakfast. Valentino had already made two personal loans to the woman in support of the bed and breakfast in which she was a silent partner. She fully intended to foreclose on the place when it finally went under and reopen it as a guest house for the members of the Order of the Rose... but then, she might not need the house after all, if things went well.

The three hours spent with the Italian were much more pleasant than the few minutes spent with the Scot, but Dambretti was the second man that she had willingly allowed to touch her and she did not want to pick up a new habit at this late date. She did not need men in her life, especially dangerous ones. Her thoughts traveled back to what Ramsay had told her about relationships between men and women. Well, now, at least, she had a common frame of reference to work from, but men were just too unpredictable and just too… what? Masculine, for her tastes? Besides, Dambretti had almost talked her into letting them go. Very charming, he was, but not quite charming enough.

“Miss Valentino.” Penelope stopped her pacing long enough to speak coherently. “I am sorry to bother you, but two more men arrived this morning at my hotel and they are asking about some of the gentlemen who came out here last night. They paid me quite well to drive out here and tell you that they are in town. Why didn’t they just call you? It’s not that I mind coming out… I mean they did pay me, but those men they’re asking about didn’t come back and neither have the other three. The first three, you know? Dombrittie, the pretty one with the scar and those two Frenchman? They had another young man with them at breakfast. I thought that the one called Boo Joe was awful, but this new one? The man really scares me, Miss Valentino. There’s something about him. I don’t know. He’s just…well I just wish…” her voice trailed off and she began to pace again.

This was an unexpected development. Seven missing, not counting Ramsay. Three members of the Order of the Rose. Three Knights. One apprentice. So Herr Schroeder had come to America after all. But where was the original Grand Master from Germany? She had not considered what might have happened to the real Herr Schroeder as well as d’Antin and deVilliers. This Boo Joe she talked about must be the dark Knight in the basement. So Miss Penelope thought he was scary too.

“Who are they asking about? Which ones?” Valentino tried to keep a note of lightness in her voice.

“They asked about Mr. Doornan, Mr. Boo Joe, Mr. Dombritti, the Eye-talian and someone called Vonnets and oh! Yes, a boy named Stewart,” she said, mispronouncing their names terribly. “They don’t seem to know Mr. Deevillay, Mr. Dantine or Mr. Schroeder. The others all had breakfast together and then I didn’t see Mr. Deevillay, Mr. Dantine or Mr. Schroeder again after they left my place before your party. I don’t understand it. They are your friends. I don’t like this at all. If they are still here, will you please tell them to call their friends at the hotel?”

“They are all still here, Miss Martin. I’m sorry that none of them contacted you. I asked them to stay in case the burglars returned,” Valentino explained and waved one hand nonchalantly as she tallied the names against the numbers. So she had four Templars in the house, counting the apprentice, Ramsay was still out there and that made five, but there was another horse missing and Penelope had supplied another name: Vonnets! She had assumed that Ramsay had taken both horses. If there had been another Knight… yes. She remembered now! Dambretti had arrived with three others. The ugly, skinny, blond one was missing. That made six. Six plus the two new arrivals made eight. Eight! Her heart rate quickened. This was not good news. From what she had read and what Gavin had told her, eight Templars constituted a small army, especially on horseback and they had already done away with three relatively innocent bystanders. “You say there were six of them at breakfast?” she asked the nervous woman.

“Seven,” Penelope corrected her. “There were seven of them. Four French. One German. One Eye-talian and one Alaskan.” Miss Penelope threw herself in the wicker chair in front of the desk.

“Now, tell me about these two men,” Valentino said and leaned back in her chair. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, trying not to show her concern.

“One is a big, red-headed fellow named Daybrooshaw or something like that and the other is a tall fellow, Mr. Montagoo, an Englishman, from the accent with brown hair.”

Valentino sat up straight and leaned forward, staring at the woman in surprise.

“Did you say d’Brouchart?” she asked. “Is he here?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s his name,” the woman assured her. “He’s the really scary one. He said ‘Tell Miss Cecile Valentino that Monshoor Daybrooshaw is here to see her’. That’s all. You do know him, don’t you?”

“He’s come for his Knights,” Valentino said involuntarily.

“They’ve paid for another four nights,” the woman corrected her incorrectly and fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t think I can handle it.”

“Four Knights?” Valentino’s eyes grew wider. Four more were coming? She had three; there were possibly two more in the hills; d’Brouchart and his partner made seven and four more. Eleven. She had to meet with d’Brouchart and get the thing settled before it was too late!

“I just want them out of my house so I can get everything cleaned up again. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the business you send me, but these men are just too… too…”

“Masculine? I understand. I truly do,” Valentino cut her off. “I believe I can help you clear this up.” She opened a carved cedar box on the desk and took out a fifty dollar bill for the woman. “If you will just take a letter back to Mr. d’Brouchart for me, I think they will soon be out of your hair. Now if you will just go on out to the kitchen and tell Jim to give you a glass of tea while you wait, I’ll write a quick note for them.”

Penelope nodded her head thankfully and took her leave. She resented being treated like a servant, but then she was not overly fond of Miss Valentino’s company either.

Cecile pulled out a box of elegant parchment stationery and picked up a pen from the holder. She looked up at the ceiling and then bent over the paper to begin her letter.

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

Mark Andrew Ramsay felt himself falling into the darkness below the ledge. He grabbed for the boy, but only managed to pull the skinny child screaming into the drink with him. The fresh wound from the dagger in his side sent waves of searing pain and nausea through him when he hit the water and came up again gasping for breath, choking and thrashing in the waist deep water. The boy climbed from the pit and then reached back to pull and tug him onto a lower ledge. Mark wiggled his way into the narrow passage beside the boy and laid his head on the cool stone floor, closing his eyes. The pain in his side gradually subsided to a burning ache. He felt weak and hungry, but the cold water revived him after the heat and dust of the streets above. He raised his head and looked at the ragamuffin in the dim gray light.

“What is your name, boy?” he asked when he had regained his breath.

“My name is Lucius di Napoli, Sir.” The boy smiled at him with a perfect set of white teeth and then put his dirty hand to his face, wincing in pain. The white teeth were an unusual sight since most of the children in this Godforsaken place had rotted teeth from lack of proper nutrition and poor hygiene, but the long bloody slash down the side of the boy’s face made him grimace. It started under his left eye and ended at his jaw line, ruining his otherwise dirty, but handsome appearance. He also noticed that the dirt on the child was fresh, not accumulated layers of grime like the other little street beggars. This child had the look of nobility about him and he had meat on his bones. What was he doing here and how could he bear to smile with such a terrible wound on his face? Surely it had been put there by an Infidel’s dagger. The boy held up a curved dagger still sporting traces of blood. Mark recognized it as the knife that had been in his side only a few moments before.

“Who cut you?” Mark demanded to know, though he knew it did not matter.

“You did, Sir,” the boy said and winced again. “It is no matter, Master. We are safe here.”

Mark pushed himself up and turned around. He was looking directly into the eyes of a Saracen woman standing in front of a brightly colored, tiled wading pool. Her dark eyes were wide with terror above the veil she wore over her the lower half of her face. She began babbling hysterically in her native tongue as soon as he turned. Something about murder and murderers and God’s Knights. She held a jeweled dagger in her left hand. He watched as one drop of blood dripped from the glittering tip of the curved blade and fell to the tiles in front of her bare, brown feet. The bright red drop hit the floor with a resounding crash that reverberated through the courtyard like the sound of thunder. A red stain welled up in front of him and colored the entire courtyard scarlet. He leaped upon the woman, taking her wrist in his hand, twisting her arm up behind her back and disarming her at the same time. She shrieked in pain and he threw her away from him before turning to stare into the wading pool through the ruddy glare.

The body of his brother floated face down in the pink water. A swirl of darker red drifted near his head. He blinked at the sight of the dead man in disbelief. His brother. Luke Andrew. Not just a Brother of the Order. His twin brother. Eldest of the two sons of Sir Timothy Ramsay, named after the four apostles. A terrible calm had fallen over him as he turned to find the woman still babbling incoherently about devils, demons and God, calling him by his Brother’s name, cursing him as a demon and trying to crawl away from him, away from the sight of his dead brother, away from the crime that she had committed. He went after her, grabbed her by the foot and dragged her back to him screaming and kicking. A rage like nothing he had ever felt filled his mind. He fell on her and covered her mouth with one hand while ripping the long, loose robes from her body with the other. She fought him desperately, but he proceeded with the action ruthlessly taking what he should not have taken. There was no joy in it, no pleasure, only pain. Pain for her. Pain for him. And when the deed was accomplished and she lay whimpering pitifully beneath him, he drew the same bejeweled dagger across her throat from ear to ear and left her dying on the tiles while he went back to pull the body of his brother from the water.

As he was climbing up the slippery steps, another screaming Saracen raced toward him from the far end of the courtyard. This one, a bearded, turbaned man with a sword drawn back over his head shrieked more curses at him concerning the violation of the Sultan’s daughter. Mark shoved the body of his fallen brother away from him and prepared to meet this new threat. The dark-eyed boy, still sporting the fresh wound on his cheek, waded into the pool after the dead man. Mark drew his own heavy broadsword and held it in front of him to greet the man who would try to kill him. The attacker misjudged Ramsay’s speed and leaped for him, very handily skewering himself on the upraised blade of the sword. Mark Andrew fell backwards from the momentum of the dead man’s body and got up again, blinking away the cold water, expecting more of the screaming demons. He kicked the Infidel away from him, before placing one foot on his chest, forcing him under the surface, effectively drowning his screams. When the man stopped thrashing, he wrenched his sword free and the man’s lifeless body floated to the surface, eyes wide, mouth open, rotted teeth stained red with blood. Mark screamed incoherently in the man’s face and then separated his head from his body with one swift blow. He held the head up by the hair and turned in a circle as if showing the world what he had done. He dropped the head and sheathed his sword after cleaning it on the man’s turban.

The frightened boy was moving away from him, dragging his brother’s body with him. Mark Andrew clambered from the pool and took up the body of his brother, laying him on the floor carefully, crossing his feet and placing his pale, cold hands on his chest. He made the sign of the cross on his brother’s forehead and kissed his blue-tinged lips lightly. He had compounded his own grief by committing a terrible crime in front of the boy. Two crimes, in fact. Raping the woman and mutilating the dead. The sight of his brother’s lifeless face made him cry out in renewed anguish “Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame, and my dishonor: mine adversaries are all before thee.”

He knelt on the floor and repeated a prayer for the dead, before turning on the boy, taking him up roughly by the collar of his filthy brown tunic. He pulled him off the floor, close to his face, looking into his eyes one long moment before speaking.

“One misplaced word and the world will no longer know you, boy!” he threatened him in a low voice and then shoved him brutally to the tiles, unaffected by the terrified look on his face.

“Ow!” Merry cried as her head bounced off the ground where Mark had suddenly shoved her without warning, waking her from a sound sleep. She sat up, rubbing the side of her head; looking at him in astonishment. He was sitting straight up, holding the golden sword out in front of him in both hands. His eyes were glazed as if he were not truly awake. The dangerous blade sparkled in the filtered light.

“Mark?” she asked hesitantly and crabbed backwards out of reach of the sword.

He turned his head to look at her, blinking in confusion. The terrified boy was gone. The tiled courtyard and the dead bodies were gone. Only green trees and soft, dappled sunlight were in front of him. He was no longer in the courtyard. He shuddered visibly and lowered the sword to his lap. He was shaking all over even though the air was warm.

Merry crawled back to him and reached out cautiously to brush back his hair from his eyes. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her at first and then he let go a long breath. Sweat trickled down both sides of his pale face.

“Are you all right?” She looked into his haunted eyes and he shook his head slowly, staring at her as if he did not believe she was truly there. “It’s me, Merry. Don’t you remember me?”

“I thought you were a faery,” he said, managing a half-hearted smile. He looked down at his ruined clothes in confusion.

“We have to get out of here,” she told him. “That horrible man might be back any minute. Can you ride?”

He tried to get up on his own, but had to wait until helped him.

“We’ll get you back to the house and get your car,” she told him as they hobbled toward the horses with him using his sword as a crutch. “I’ll go with you, Mark. Anywhere you want to go, but we have to be careful. I'll get you to a doctor if you like or a hospital. Is there anyone we can call for help?”

All he could do was shake his head. The only one he could trust was Christopher and he didn’t know where Christopher was at the moment. The stallion pranced and snorted as he dragged himself painfully onto the short, black blood-encrusted saddle, again with her help.

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

“Monsieur le Knight,” Sir Montague read to the Grand Master from the parchment paper in his hand. He looked up, his eyes snapping with indignation. “Monsieur le Chevalier. Surely this is a joke!”

“Go on, read it, William,” d’Brouchart said irritably from his position in the rocker.

“Monsieur le Chevalier and Master Extraordinaire of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. This is preposterous, Sir!” Montague could not contain his consternation.

“Read, man!” d’Brouchart raised his voice sharply.

“Please allow me to welcome you to America and especially to Texas and the heart of pecan country…” the man’s voice trailed off to silence.

“Montague!” The Grand Master warned him.

“I have so longed to meet with you, most Excellent sir. It has been a life-long goal and now I am beside myself with excitement that you have come here, all this way, just to meet with me. I would be honored to have you as a guest in my house. I will greet you as a Brother with open arms. Odds bodkins! The bloody bitch thinks you are a joke!” Montague made a rude noise.

“Brother Montague, please, calm yourself,” d’Brouchart said and actually smiled at the Englishman. “Continue, I implore you.”

“But Your Grace, this sounds like something Elmer Fudd would write to Bugs Bunny!”

“Who to whom?” D’Brouchart frowned.

“Never mind, Sir.” Montague cleared his throat and looked at the letter again. “You may be received at my residence. Sir, she condescends to receive you. What luck!”

D’Brouchart chuckled at Montague’s discomfiture.

“She is very well accomplished at touching the nerve, is she not?” he asked the Knight of the Holy City.

Montague drew up short of another outburst at this underhanded insult. He had lost his objectivity. He read the rest of the letter without comment. Cecile informed him of the number and condition of her ‘guests’ and hinted at making an ‘equitable exchange’.

“So! We will be received at nine tomorrow morning.” Sir Montague looked at the Master in disbelief. “And we are going?”

“Of course,” the Grand Master answered shortly and stood up. “That is what we came here for. She has three of my Knights and one apprentice. We still don’t know who she has and who is still free. Let us move into their chambers and wait there on the chance that some one of them may return here.”

“What does she intend to do? Does she expect you to give yourself over in return for their release?” Montague asked him.

“She does not want me, Brother,” d’Brouchart eyed him coldly. “She wants the Tree of Life.”

Montague sighed. After all this time, to be held hostage by a group of idiots was more than he could comprehend. He followed his Master out of the pleasant little room and down the hall. It would be a very long night.

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

Lucio Dambretti sat on the carpet in the room where she had held Mark Ramsay prisoner for almost four days. His hands rested on his knees as he sat straight up, cross-legged, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Valentino leaned against the dresser while Maxie stood nervously near the door with his shotgun. The Knight had fallen easily under her hypnotic, lucid-dream technique. Much easier than Mark Andrew.

“Who are you?” she asked the first question.

“Some would call me Lucius di Napoli. Others know me as Lucio Apolonio Dambretti,” he answered.

“Where did you get that scar on your face?” she asked, smiling down at him in satisfaction. First things first.

“In Jerusalem,” he did not blink at the absurdity of the question.

“How did you come by it?”

“In the Service of God.”

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“I pulled a dagger from the Knight,” he said simply.

“What Knight?” She smiled and looked at Maxie.

The big, ugly man looked bored. What difference did it make? She’d never asked him about his scar! She was insane. Next thing she’d be doing was asking the dipshit about the strange tattoos on his chest. They looked like some kind of Egyptian stuff with birds and eyes without faces and dogs and cats and monkeys and stars and moons. All kinds of junk.

“Eques de Ordo Supremus Militaris Templi Hierosolymilitani, Eques de Mortu, Eques Marcus Andreas Ramsay,” he told her. “We fell. It was an accident.”

“What was an accident?” she asked. This was even more interesting than she had expected.

“This,” he raised one hand slowly and pointed to the scar. “This was an accident. We fell in the water. It was my fault.”

“The water? What water?” she asked.

“The water in the well. In the catacomb. Before the death of his brother.”

Maxie cleared his throat. Time was short. She needed to ask more important questions.

“His brother? Which brother?”

“His brother. Eques Lucas Mattias Ramsay. They killed him. And the woman was killed.”

“What woman?” Valentino was fascinated by this revelation. There had been two Ramsays?! One was quite enough.

“The woman in the palace courtyard. The Sultan’s daughter. He slit her throat. The company of women is a dangerous thing!”

“And what did Sir Ramsay do when that happened?”

“He… killed them... he killed the Infidel dog. He killed her. All of them. He killed them all. There was blood. He killed her. Non nobis Domine, non nobis sed Nomini Tuo da Gloriam.”

“Who?” Valentino glanced at Maxie. The man shook his head. They were running out of time. “Who killed her?”

“I will not betray my Brother. One misplaced word and the world will no longer know me.”

Valentino shivered and then resumed her former line of questioning.

“Go to Egypt, Lucio. Leave Jerusalem. Where are you now?” she asked casually.

“In the Temple of the Sun,” he answered in a matched tone and relaxed visibly.

“What do you see?”

“I see the High Priest and the Light of the Eastern Heaven.”

“What do you hear?”

“I hear the wind blowing among the stars.”

“What do you say?”

“I am but a simple priest in the underworld. I am a prophet in the opening of the Earth. I behold the Mysteries of the underworld. I direct the ceremonies of Mendes. I am assistant…” his voice trailed off and then he resumed speaking. “Good and evil. Light and dark. Life and death. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“And what is the nature of your sin, my son?” she asked and raised both eyebrows at Maxie.

“Of my crime, sir?” He frowned in confusion. “I have committed no crime. I am no heretic in the eyes of God. I worship no idols. I have defended the Holy City against the Infidels. I serve the Creator. I am but a Poor Knight of the Temple of Solomon. I proclaim my innocence to the people! I will not deny my allegiance to God. Rome is the heretic. Rome is the heretic, the murderer, the whore of Babylon!”

He had moved to another location without being instructed. He was, it seemed, as unpredictable as Ramsay and he was not in a pleasant place. His face was covered with sweat and he had lost much of his healthy color.

“You are guilty of the sin of fornication.”

Maxie grumped in disgust and shifted on his feet uneasily. Why was she toying with this dangerous man? Hadn’t she learned her lesson from the first one? Had she not bemoaned the loss of her virginity to him, of all people! Why did she think he would care? All he wanted to do was get the hell out of her life before he ended up dead, but payday was still three days away.

“I have sinned, it is true. I have committed adultery, not fornication. I am a married man,” he lowered his head and then got to his knees, placing his hands behind him. He waited, perfectly still as if for her to do something physical to him. Maxie moved apprehensively, expecting something more.

Cecile pushed herself off the desk. “Married? Who are you married to?”

“I am married to the Order, my lady,” he told her in a whisper that now sounded desperate. He had moved again. “I cannot marry you. I cannot help you.”

“You must repent and receive your penance.” Valentino smiled and shrugged. She had no idea what she was saying. She was not even Catholic. The Italian seemed to have a number of skeletons in his closet.

“I beg forgiveness, Father. I accept the penalty for my transgressions,” he answered.

“What is the nature of your sin?” She frowned.

“I have lain with a woman,” he confessed and appeared to be truly upset. “I am ready to receive the punishment, Master. I accept the penalty for my sin, but do not punish her. She is ignorant. Her soul should not be on my conscience.”

Valentino’s frown deepened. Was he referring to her? Was she now just a sin for him to regret? What punishment was he waiting for? The thought made her angry, but didn’t she now regret the same ‘transgressions’?

“For penance, you must…” Valentino tapped her front teeth with one finger. “Say ten Hail Mary’s and twelve Our Father’s and reveal the secrets of Osiris and Isis to purge your soul of this terrible sin and the weight of your burden. You cannot enter the kingdom of Heaven with the burden of these secrets on your heart.”

The Knight of the Golden Eagle raised his head very slowly looking directly at her before raising his eyes to a point on the wall somewhere above her head. This action unnerved her and she pushed herself off the dresser, ready to run, but he was still in the trance-like state, half awake, half asleep.

“Oh great Hermes, thou wert right when thou spake saying unto them ‘O Egypt, Egypt! A time shall come, when, in lieu of a pure belief, thou wilt possess naught but ridiculous fables, incredible to posterity; and nothing will remain to thee, but words engraven on stone, the only monuments that will attest thy piety.”

“Who is Hermes?” she asked, surprised by this outburst.

“I cannot say,” he raised his chin slightly.

“Unburden your soul,” she told him.

“My soul is not burdened, Father.” He smiled the same smile he had used so well to pique her interest to begin with. “My spirit is pure, but I see that yours is less than righteous.”

“You stand accused of idolatry, witchcraft, heresy, blasphemy and sodomy.” She played the part of the Inquisitor, naming the horrendous crimes of which the Templars had been accused during the Dark Ages. Her tone clearly betrayed her growing aggravation with him. He frowned in confusion as the scene in his mind apparently shifted again.

“Your Brother Mark Andrew is accused of rape and murder,” she said. This was more fascinating than useful. Maxie cleared his throat again loudly.

“He is sick. He is not himself. There was blood. She had the dagger.” Dambretti lowered his eyes and looked at the floor frowning. “It is not for me to say. It is the Hand of God. One misplaced word and the world will no longer no me.”

“And what of you? Will you divulge your secrets to save your Brother Ramsay? Tell me your secrets, my son. The confessional is sacred. The priest cannot tell what is said here.”

He turned his head to the right as if listening to someone she could not see. “Shrive me, Brother, for I am innocent and I would go to my death free of sin,” he spoke to his unseen companion. “I have dedicated my life to the Service of the Temple and now, if I must, I will sacrifice my life to preserve the sanctity of the Order. My Brother will kill me, if I betray him. Give me my sword, Master, and I will cast myself upon it, but do not ask me to betray my Brothers. That I cannot do.”

Valentino was getting nowhere. Just when she thought she was making some headway, he would unexpectedly go off on a tangent as if he, or someone else, were controlling the session. Now she had brought him to the brink of suicide. It was obvious that her dream therapy would not work on him any more than it had worked on Ramsay though this session was much more interesting. She would have given anything to get into his mind and see what was there. What was so important that he would give his life before revealing it to her even under hypnosis? He was willing to talk, but his thoughts were disjointed, it would have taken weeks of therapy to sort it all. She didn’t have weeks to spend with him. The few hours had been enough to tell her that she could not afford to be around him at all, if she were to retain her detached objectivity.

“Go in peace, my son,” she said disgustedly and placed one hand on his dark hair. He crumpled to the floor, sound asleep. “Damn it all, Maxie. Well, at least d’Brouchart is here. We will see how much these Knights are worth to him. Leave him here for a while. Maybe you can do better with him. He really pisses me off.”

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

How Mark Andrew could manage to hang onto the prancing stallion for the slow, hard trip back was beyond her comprehension, but the longer they rode, the better he got. The big horse refused to behave as she pulled him along by the reins. She walked the bay as slowly as possible, but the black horse swerved back and forth behind her in a zigzag pattern, obviously wanting to take the lead. It seemed the horse was much like its owner, Cecile Valentino, self-centered and unsympathetic to the troubles of its rider. It wanted only to get back to the stables for a rub down and a bag of oats. Halfway back, Mark Andrew took over the reins and their progress improved. By the time the two riders got back to the house, the sun was slipping down the western sky.

They rode into the stable where she dismounted quickly and pushed her bay into her stall. The stallion pranced about nervously; his rider was unable to dismount without her help. Merry pulled on Mark and he half fell from the saddle, but it was not nearly as bad as the first time she had tried to help him down. He caught himself on her shoulders and then stumbled away from her. He grabbed one of the support beams and purposefully stretched himself up. She was amazed when he actually did two chin ups before dropping to the hay strewn floor in agony. He did not scream, but his faced belied his condition as he pulled himself up again and stood leaning on his knees, gasping for breath and clutching the sword’s hilt in a death grip. His eyes rolled back in his head and she thought he would faint before she could catch him, but he held out one hand, stopping her. He focused on her face and nodded.

“It’ll be all right,” he said.

“You won’t be going anywhere tonight,” she objected and shook her head.

“Just get my car,” he whispered and managed to straighten up again. The pain was now a throbbing burn, front and back. Nothing like it had been before, but he still felt weak and was afraid to take a deep breath. His breathing was limited to shallow, open-mouthed gasps. Incredibly enough, he was hungry, but not terribly so. What he needed was rest and water.

“Let me take you inside first,” she insisted. “You can rest before we go. I am not going to allow Valentino to go on with this stupid plan. She’s already caused too much trouble. I’ll call the police, if need be. I know how to handle her when I have to. And the first thing I’m going to do is fire Maxie. I pay his salary, you know. I can fire him. And,” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have a pistol in my room.”

“I thought she was in charge here,” he told her. He could not trust her words, but he was in no shape to run around hot wiring cars or fighting off the Knight of the Sword, who was still lurking around somewhere. “You could drive,” he suggested hopefully. “I’ll let you drive me. How about that?”

“I could, but I need to change clothes and so do you. We’re covered with blood. We’d attract too much attention wherever we went,” Merry said and took his arm. “Come on now. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. She owes me a few favors.”

Mark shook his head. He had worked so hard to get away and now he was back where he had started. But he couldn’t stay in the stable. The horse that Beaujold had been riding was still missing and that meant that Beaujold might be out there on it somewhere. Even his fingers betrayed him as the golden sword slipped from his grasp into the straw on the floor. She picked up his sword awkwardly and then wrapped her arm around his waist. They limped slowly across the yard to the side door. No one was in sight as they entered the back service door.

If they ran into Maxie, he would just have to kill him.

It seemed the house was deserted, but she knew that should not be the case. The cook was in the kitchen busily dictating a grocery list to one of the maids as if all was well. She was almost as exhausted as Mark and she desperately needed a bath. She had blood all over her from his clothes and the bareback ride had left her feeling numb. They made their way slowly up the stairs and then across the balcony to her bedroom. She locked the door securely after depositing him on her bed and then went to draw a bath. She wanted to check his wounds to see if they were as bad as she expected. He made no protest when she took off his shirt. Partially dried blood, sticky and dark covered his stomach and his back from just below his ribs downwards to where it disappeared into the horribly stained slacks. She found a ghastly wound, still very red and about three inches long on his stomach just below his ribcage and a matching laceration, somewhat smaller was on his back. Clean through! But the cuts were no longer open. They were already healing without the benefit of stitches or bandages. Flakes of blood, sand and debris showered the carpet as she helped him undress.

“I’m sorry, Merry,” he told her as she pulled off his socks. Even his feet were covered with blood. “I needed some time. Three days. Just three days.”

Merry didn’t answer him. They didn’t have three days. She helped him into the tub, brought the sword as he requested and then left him to take care of his own business. She had nothing to give him that he could wear. Glancing back once to see that he was sitting up and able to continue the bath on his own, she left him to check on the rest of the household.

They needed food, water and clothes and she was lost. She felt like a stranger in her own house. Secondarily, they needed to know the whereabouts of their enemies. Maxie, Valentino, the other Knights of the Order. If the blond Knight showed up again and found Ramsay in such a sorry state, he would not stand a chance. Clothes first and then she would go down to the kitchen for food and water. She would simply inquire of the cook and the maid as to Valentino’s location. She needed to warn her before it was too late… if it wasn’t already too late… of the other Knight. The one she had not captured.

When she stepped out into the hallway, dressed in a fluffy bathrobe, the house was eerily quiet.

From the top of the stairs, she could hear faint voices from somewhere downstairs. A man and a woman. Most likely Valentino and Maxie in the library. Good. It wouldn’t do to leave Mark for long. He would need help putting on clean clothes. When she reached his room on the third floor, she found the door locked. She tapped hesitantly on the door and waited several seconds before knocking again. When she heard nothing from inside, she went to the table at the end of the hall and fished the key out of a vase. Inside the room, she locked the door again, just in case, and got down on her knees looking for his bags under the bed. She grabbed hold of the nearest one and pulled the heavy case from under the bed. When she hefted the bag onto the bed and looked up, she almost screamed at the sight of the quizzical face of the curly haired Schroeder impersonator smiling at her from the other side of the bed. His chin was propped on his hands and he looked as if they played peek-a-boo every day.

She caught her breath and fell sitting on the floor. The key slipped from her hand and bounced across the carpet under the bed as the blood drained from her face. Ironically, she had locked herself in the room with this unknown threat.

When she clawed her way back up on her knees, he held a hammer in one hand. It was the same hammer the maid had brought them when they had come to install the Oriental rug. He’d found it lying on the floor under the bed where he had left it, thinking that Mark might need it. Little did he know then that he would be trapped here himself. He slapped the head of the hammer against the palm of his hand and looked at her in amusement. She made a mad dash for the key, but he was faster and they met, face to face under the bed. His hand closed over hers and the key cut into her flesh. He turned her hand over forcefully and she tried to scream, but he stopped her scream with a kiss. This unexpected action completely shut her down for several seconds. Long enough for him to replace his lips with his hand and to pull her kicking and thrashing from under the bed.

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

Mark washed the blood from him as best he could and wrinkled his nose at the rose colored water in the big tub. The hot water felt like a dream, but the red tinged swirls feet reminded him of the recurring nightmare about the dead Knight and the Saracen woman. He closed his eyes and forced the vision from his mind. He looked down at the new red wound on his stomach that was very near the older scar he had worn since the crusades. It would be gone in a day or so, but it was still very tender. He had a few visible bruises here and there and his head hurt where he had struck the boulder when Beaujold knocked from the stallion, probably a fracture there. When he was satisfied that he was fairly clean, he pulled the plug and got out of the tub, wondering where the Pixie had gone and why she had not come back. It seemed she had been gone overly long already.

He checked the door and then combed back his hair with his fingers.

"Dammit!" he cursed when his fingers got stuck in his hair.

Something hard was tangled in his hair and would not come out. He was too tired and his fingers too clumsy to get it out. He wrapped one of her fluffy towels around his waist and sat in the chair in front of her dressing table, staring at his own reflection while he waited for her, drumming his fingers on the smooth glass. He would not move again. It was too painful.

After a few moments, he got up and checked the door again. Still unlocked; no one in the hall. He sat on the bed and pulled the comforter around his shoulders. He would wait for her here. The minutes ticked by and he began to shiver and shake again; his eyelids drooped. The soft down comforter was too tempting to resist. He dropped the towel on the floor and stretched out between the silken sheets, pulling the comforter over him. He would wait for her here. He hoped she would find something clean for him to wear and that she would not be gone much longer.

His body was once more trying to shut down for healing purposes. It was becoming an annoying habit, finding himself without his clothes in the wrong place at the wrong time. His sword lay on top of the comforter, winking at him in the reflected light from the slowly turning ceiling fan above the bed. He drew it under the cover, laying it by his side, parallel to his body. It was not the first time he had slept with his sword. The feel of its cold presence was comforting and familiar. As he lay on his back staring up at the canopy, he had the strange notion that he should be holding the sword more closely. He turned on his side and pulled the hilt close to his chest, bringing one leg up slightly and hooking his left foot behind his right knee. That was better. He could watch the door from this position. The blade was razor sharp, but was just as comforting as the Pixie might have been. Perhaps more so. It did not take long for sleep to overcome him and he drifted away into peaceful, dreamless oblivion. He would wait for her… here.

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

When Thomas Beaujold burst into the room at Miss Penelope Martin’s Bed and Breakfast, he was astounded to see Sir William Montague lying on one of the beds, staring up at the ceiling. The Englishman turned over slowly and propped his head in his hand.

“Brother Thomas,” he said in a pleasantly sarcastic voice. “My Brother, it is such a nice surprise to see you again. We thought perhaps you were one of the prisoners.”

Beaujold’s mind recovered slightly from the shock of seeing the Knight of the Holy City, only to be swept away in terror at the sound of the Grand Master’s voice to his left.

“Where are your Brothers?” d’Brouchart asked him bluntly.

The accusatory tone in the man’s voice was unmistakable. The Grand Master’s presence spoke for itself, telling him that he was in serious trouble and that the Master already knew of his blunders. The Knight of the Sword turned slowly and then went to kneel before the Grand Master. He lifted d’Brouchart’s hand from the arm of the rocker, and kissed the ring on the man’s left hand before looking up. The rage he felt and his need for haste ebbed away, like the tidal surge after a storm. He lowered his head and began to cry uncontrollably. Something he had not done in almost sixty years.

D’Brouchart stood up slowly and then caught the smaller man by both arms. He pulled him to his feet and kissed him lightly on the lips in the Templar fashion then released him.

“Now tell me what has happened, Sir.” The Grand Master looked into his tear-filled eyes. To see this one cry was almost beyond endurance. His news must be grave indeed. "And I shall see no more tears!"

Two hours later found the three men speeding down the highway toward Cecile Valentino’s mansion in the shallow valley west of town. They passed the drive to her house and proceeded down the blacktop for several kilometers before turning the Range Rover across the open terrain between the highway and the dry wash running west from Valentino’s property. Beaujold was behind the steering wheel and d’Brouchart sat stone-faced in the passenger seat.

Montague sat in the back seat with one arm propped on the wooden chest in the seat next to him, wondering what they would find when they arrived at their destination in this Godforsaken wasteland. His anger at what Beaujold had told them was fading, but it left his face burning like the aftermath of severe sunburn. The red-orange sun was sinking rapidly over the horizon, and several times they were forced to brake for the coyotes and jackrabbits that darted across in front of the vehicle. Large gray deer simply stood in their path, mesmerized by the lights of the Rover as it bounced over the rocky terrain. Montague shuddered, thinking about his Brother lying in the desert all day under the heat of the sun and now the damned coyotes added to his terrible visions. The sheer number of creatures they flushed from the underbrush was staggering. God knew what else might be out there looking for a meal. How could Beaujold have left Ramsay in such a terrible position? And how could the Grand Master have made them wait so long before going out to look for him?

Beaujold had paced the room, wearing out the carpet in his anxiety, alternating between bouts of mumbling to himself and fitful prayers. Perhaps d’Brouchart was trying to teach the man a lesson, but at Ramsay’s expense? It was heartless and cruel. The Grand Master must have been angrier with the Knight of Death than his unreadable countenance betrayed. To Montague's eyes, Edgard did not give a whit about Ramsay’s plight, but Montague held his tongue, unable to think of anything to say that would describe the way he felt at that moment. And nothing he could say would have helped. He wished desperately that he was back home in his London cottage, having a sherry before bed.

The Grand Master’s face had remained unchanged as Beaujold had unfolded the tale of the mission’s misfortunes and misadventures. It was inconceivable that one woman had been able to capture four of five Templars sent against her. And a fairly well-trained apprentice in the mix. Inconceivable!

William glanced at the wooden chest on the seat next to him and shuddered again, dreading what he would be expected to do, if they found what they were looking for. This sort of thing was not in his job description. That the Knight of Death should be in need of his own services was something Sir Montague had never considered. He hoped against hope that the Grand Master would not expect him to take on the Mysteries of the Final Rites from the Chevalier du Morte for long. If worse came to worse, he would ask to transfer the mysteries to someone else after a reasonable time. He was an accountant, not an assassin, but, by God, he would do it gladly before allowing Beaujold to take on the duties of the Chevalier du Morte. He would be damned if he would stand for it!

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

Mark opened his eyes as someone sat on the bed next to him. The room was dark, but not totally so. The indirect lighting from the track lights over the Pixie’s marble tub spilled across the floor, illuminating the room in soft, lavender hues. Lavender. Purple. Lavender. There was someone… ‘Did you miss me?’ a ghostly voice echoed through his mind and was gone. His mind awoke more slowly than his eyes and he wondered where he was. His grip on the sword tightened automatically as he looked up into the dark eyes of Cecile Valentino.

“Imagine this!” she said in mock surprise when he looked at her. “Where’s Merry?”

“I would ask you the same thing,” he said and pushed himself up very slowly before leaning against the headboard. He moved the sword closer to him under the cover with his left hand.

“I haven’t seen her since last night after you stole my horse,” she told him coldly. “I thought she was here asleep, but I see she has been busy again. I cannot believe that you would escape, steal my horse, circle back and go to bed with Merry. How clever. No one would look for you here, would they?”

“That is not true.” He closed his eyes briefly. He wondered what the time was? How long had Merry been gone? And what, if anything, should he say to this woman?

“I don’t know where she is,” he said simply.

“I’m sure she’s around somewhere,” Valentino shrugged. “I guess we’ll just wait for her to come back. I want to hear her explanation as to why she did not tell me that you were up here. We’ve been chasing around the hills all day looking for my horse.”

Apparently, she was not overly worried about being alone with him and he wondered if she had already summoned her watchdog. He was certain that Merry had not had the opportunity to speak to Cecile since their return. A twinge of panic stabbed his stomach next to the other wound. If Cecile had not seen her, where had she gone? Where was Beaujold by now?

“You should have kept riding, cowboy.” She eyed him casually when he fell silent. “I have your friends… all of them.”

“All of them?” He raised both eyebrows. How many had come? He remembered at least four. Maybe five. It was very difficult to maintain any semblance of control as he sat staring at her.

“Yep. All four,” she told him smugly.

He felt somewhat relieved to know that the Knight of the Sword was not still at large, looking for his head.

“You know that Merry still thinks you’re as neat as cherry cheesecake,” she said.

“I wasn’t aware of that.” He managed a smile for her. “Cherry cheesecake. Sounds wonderful.” Ironically his stomach chose that moment to growl.

“But I know better,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You are an assassin and a rapist. And you will leave her weeping or dead. Probably all the same to you.”

He drew in a sharp, involuntary breath.

“I know a lot more than you think I do,” she continued. “You remember that I told you that I would die for Merry in an instant?”

“Yes,” he answered and tightened his grip on the sword, wanting desperately to make it happen for her.

“I believe that only something drastic will show her what you truly are,” she said and reached into the pocket of her slacks. She pulled out the small ceremonial dagger she had worn for the ceremony the night before. It looked remarkably like the one the Saracen woman had used to kill his Brother in Jerusalem, definitely of Eastern design. He shook off the image of the woman lying dead on the tiled floor in a growing pool of dark blood. “I have been studying the exploits of the Templars during the Holy Wars. I have read all about the atrocities committed in the name of your God. Atrocities committed by men like you, Chevalier Ramsay. How many women have you killed, Sir Ramsay? A dozen? Two dozen? Or have you lost count?”

She twirled the point of the knife against the tip of her index finger, mesmerizing his beleaguered mind.

“You are allowing your imagination to exceed your capacity for understanding,” he told her lightly. Her words were not helping the situation, which was growing more and more desperate. He could not afford to lie still and wait for Maxie to show up.

“You're right. My imagination most likely does not do you credit,” she said. “You were not the gentlest of lovers when I came to your bed. I would say it was more like rape than a normal sexual encounter. And to think I wasted my virginity on the likes of you!”

His eyes widened. What the hell was she talking about? He blinked at her and she laughed.

“Oh, I see,” she said and her face took on an expression of disbelief mixed with amusement. “You thought I was Merry. Well, I fail to see what she finds so attractive about you. I thought it was quite disgusting. Perhaps she is just living out some ludicrous fantasy. She gets all her ideas from those stupid romance novels. Tall, dark strangers with long hair and equally long peckers, living in big, old drafty houses in the middle of nowhere and her playing the part of the innocent young orphan seduced by the big old, bad old peckerhead. Yeah, I know all about those stories.” Cecile smiled ruefully and leaned toward him slightly. “She keeps them in the coat closet under the galoshes.”

His mind flashed back to the strange encounter she was referring to and everything fell into place. She had tricked him and made a fool of him and this revelation only added to the rage growing in his head. He felt his face flush and nausea washed over him momentarily. How dare she defile him with her filthy accusations and lilting superiority? She knew nothing of him. Nothing of what he had seen. Nothing of why he had done what he had done. Nothing of duty. Nothing of war. Nothing of honor. And she had stolen something sacred from him! Sacred? He closed his eyes and shook his head. Perhaps sacred was the wrong word, but she had stolen it none-the-less. She sat twirling the little blade, looking smug and self-satisfied. All of this was her fault. She had killed Anthony, or had him killed, just to serve her own greedy purposes. And perhaps the dagger she handled so carelessly now in front of his eyes was the very weapon she had used. History was repeating itself and he would not stand for it. He would not permit it.

“The company of women is a dangerous thing,” he said more to himself than to her.

She turned suddenly and put the blade against his throat. “Is this how you killed them? Did you cut their throats?”

He looked at her blankly at first, unblinking and then reached up with his right hand to take hold of her wrist and slowly, deliberately twisted her hand around in a manner in which it should not twist. She dropped the knife to the floor.

Like taking a bottle from a baby, with very little additional effort, he yanked her completely across his body onto the bed on her back, ignoring the pain that the jarring caused him. Before she could cry out, he was up on his knees with the golden sword lying across her neck. She stared up at him in shocked dismay and touched the edge of the blade gingerly with her injured hand.

“Perhaps it is your fantasy that you speak of and not Merry’s. Is this what you wanted when you came to my bed uninvited?” he asked her. “You asked me then if I like things rough? You have no idea, lady.” He slid back in the bed and put the point of the blade against her chin. She opened her mouth and he nudged her chin ever so slightly with the blade. “Shhh! Now take off your clothes.”

She closed her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head minutely.

“It’s not a request, Madame,” he said.

“Get off me, motherfucker!” she cursed him through gritted teeth.

“Not what you expected, is it?” he asked. “Things have a way of working themselves out, do they not? Now, off with the clothes. I’d do it myself, but we don’t have time.”

“Fuck you!” she hissed, but began unbuttoning her blouse with shaking hands. She wiggled out of it, keeping herself carefully below the blade, then held the blouse clutched in front of her. She was wearing a decidedly manly safari blouse and hiking shorts. She wore no bra, but instead a small undershirt of thin, stretch material.

“Drop it on the floor.”

“Ass hole!” she cursed him again, but complied with his instructions.

“Foul language will not help you, lassie. No, no, don’t stop there,” he told her. “Go on with it.”

She slipped out of the flimsy black tanktop and dropped it over the side of the bed with the blouse, still keeping her eyes closed.

“Hmmm. Not bad in the light,” he said more gently. “All right. Now these. I see you are in the Sir Valentino mode today. Let’s see if you have all the equipment to go with the attire.” He flicked the brass, military style belt buckle with the tip of the sword and moved back a bit, allowing her to slip off the shorts while he pulled off her sandals and dropped them in the growing pile on the floor.

“Almost done now,” he resisted the urge to laugh at her as she began to cry. “No tears!” he said with mock surprise and nudged her chin again with the blade. “No crying. Real men don’t cry.”

She sniffled and opened her eyes.

“A brave Chevalier does not cry,” he told her again. “Now the rest.”

She pushed her cotton briefs down and finally dropped the last bit of her pride onto the floor with them.

“There now,” he told her and pretended to inspect her critically while she cursed him. “I must say I am relieved, Miss Valentino. Now, there is nothing left between us. We are truly equal and there is only the one thing left to do. It seems that you have the lock and I have the key, no? The one thing you were so concerned about. Didn’t you tell me yourself that I possessed some key or something?” He glanced down at himself and was greatly relieved to find that he was not prepared to carry out the ‘key thing’.

She opened her mouth to speak again and he fell on her bodily, quickly covering her mouth with one hand, leaving the cold, golden sword between them. It served as a most apt substitute for the one thing that was thankfully missing between them. He could feel the cool blade against his skin. “Don’t you want to know what it is like? Don’t you want to know what it is really like?” He caressed her ear with his lips. She shook her head. “No? But you’re sober now and I’m in the mood for love, not war.”

He raised up again and looked down at her. “You should have cut me into little pieces when you had the chance. Be careful what you wish for, Chevaliere Valentino, you might get it.”

The disgusted Scot climbed out of the bed and wrapped his discarded towel around himself before sitting down wearily on the edge of the bed. He winced in pain, closed his eyes and took several deep breaths to calm himself against the flood of pain and emotion assaulted his mind. The golden sword felt heavy in his hands as he pushed the dagger about with it. “I should do us both a favor and kill you here and now. Make the crime complete.” He was in a better frame of mind now to deal with anyone who might come through the door, not to mention a better position and he was certainly glad that Merry had not chosen the wrong moment to return.

He had beaten the rage this time and he knew in his heart that it was the first time he had ever overcome the uncontrollable urge to kill once he had passed a certain point. Valentino had no idea how fortunate she was to be alive. The realization that he was indeed some kind of monster made his stomach churn.

“You’ll have to come back some other time,” he told her over his shoulder. Turning his back to her was the height of insult. “Get out before I truly lose my temper,” he said quietly.

Valentino bolted from the bed and reached for her clothes. He slapped her hand away with the side of the sword. “Uh, uh. Leave them. I may want to wear them myself.”

She paused momentarily and then ran from the room, trying to cover herself with her hands. He jumped as the door banged against its frame with a resounding thud. He pushed her discarded clothes under the edge of the bed. No need to start rumors at this late date.

He didn’t care what she did or where she went. He was ruined. His life was a complete wreck. She was right. He was a murderer and a rapist. Nothing could ever change that. He had to get back where he belonged before something happened to Merry. Something he could not prevent. Easing himself back on the bed, he drew the hilt of the sword up to his chest, clasped both hands over the hilt and crossed his feet, closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it would truly be like to be dead. He felt that his life was over and wondered if he would even resist, should anyone come now to kill him.

“Let their eyes be darkened, that they see not,” he spoke the words of the scripture aloud to the empty room.

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

The big house was strangely quiet as Maxie entered the side door and made his way through the kitchen and down the hallway past the library. The door was open and he stopped briefly, wondering where Valentino was. The sound of sniffling and the crash of some object being thrown across the room made him decide against going inside to see who was there. Most likely Valentino, throwing things was another of her famous trademarks. He had other things on his mind. He would finally get the chance to do what he had wanted to do, although it wouldn’t be that dipshit Ramsay. It didn’t matter. This other one looked and acted enough like him to serve the same purpose. Maxie hefted his favorite shotgun in the crook of his arm and walked quietly down the hall toward the stairs.

It had not been easy taking the three idiots from the basement up to the old fallout shelter on the hill. The ugly one had scared him shitless with his ranting and raving. The only reason he had agreed to do it was the promised bonus from Valentino’s generous checkbook, along with her promise not to interfere with his plans for the Italian. Knocking out the young one and making the other two carry him had made the odds more even, and now he could relax a bit knowing they were out of the house. There was no way they could escape from the limestone cavity carved in the hillside behind the house. The chains on the big door had almost given out as he’d struggled to lower the slab into place, effectively cutting off their only exit. The old bomb shelter tunnel had been pitch black in, making it seem more like a cave and he hated caves. The wiring, plumbing and ventilation systems had long fallen into disrepair and nothing worked anymore. Better them than him.

He made his way quickly to the third floor bedroom where Dipshit II waited for him, an ugly smile fixed to his face as he stepped into the hallway. The tattooed wonder was almost to the service stairs when he brought up the shotgun and shouted a warning at him.

Dambretti stopped and threw his hands up, before turning slowly to face him. He had taken too long apologizing to the lady for tying her up. She had refused to tell him where Mark Andrew was hiding and judging from her condition, Ramsay had suffered some serious injuries and could very well be in need of Simon’s services, but the young woman had refused to cooperate.

Maxie pushed the bedroom door open and motioned him inside, relieving him of the hammer as he passed. Merry sat in the chair in front of the desk with her hands tied behind her back. When she saw Maxie, her nerves snapped and she screamed one of those ear-splitting Psycho screams he hated so much. Dambretti turned and lunged across the floor at the man’s feet. Maxie brought the butt of the shotgun down on his head and he fell flat on his face.

The big man looked at Merry with renewed surprise. What was she doing here? What a little whore she was! And she had never allowed him to do anything more than watch when she went skinny dipping in the stock pond and when she had her little fling with Dipshit I in the orchard, but he’d gotten his own sneak previews with his hidden cameras. Another thought crossed his perverted mind and he grinned at her. This was perfect. He owed her one… or two… or three. Now she would pay for playing with him. For treating him like a fool with her exhibitionist teasing. He would give her the chance to watch him for a change.

“Let me go, Maxie!” she shouted at him and then screamed louder. “Cecile! Help me!”

“I don’t think she can hear you. She’s down in the library… bustin’ up the rest of your crystal collection,” he told her smugly and laid the shotgun on the dresser. He picked up the unconscious Knight and dragged him to the bed, dumping him unceremoniously onto the mattress. The ugly man removed a pillowcase from one of the pillows and turned toward Merry.

“What are you doing, Maxie?” she asked hysterically as she watched him twist the pillowcase into a long roll. “Let me go! Cecile!”

“Not just yet, Your Preciousness.” He grinned at her. “You like to put on shows for me. I thought I might return the favor.” He crossed the room and wrapped the pillowcase around her head, covering her mouth just as she was about to scream Mark Andrew’s name. It came out a muffled “Mmmm!”

“Yeah, mmmm mmmm. Just what I thought, too, but I wouldn’t want you to get carried away cheering for me, though. Our little friend here will be the real hero.” She shook her head and pulled on the ropes, her blue eyes wide with fear and astonishment. Where was Valentino? The man was crazier than she had thought.

He went back to the bed and pulled on the Knight until he had him stretched out on the mattress just so. He rounded up the rest of the rope that he had used to tie Mark Andrew in the same chair Merry now occupied. Merry made the chair hop in a desperate attempt to break loose, but stopped before she fell over. She watched in horrified fascination as Maxie pulled off the Knight’s boots and tied his feet to the foot of the bed, then he dragged her chair to a more opportune spot for viewing.

“Now keep your eyes open, little girl,” he used Valentino’s favorite term of endearment for Merry. “I don’t want you to miss anything.”

He picked up the hammer from the floor and looked at it curiously before climbing onto the bed. He sat on Dambretti’s stomach and pulled something from his pocket.

Merry craned her neck to see what he was doing and then let out another loud “Mmmmm!” and a muffled scream. She thought she heard someone else screaming with her and then there was nothing.

“Wake up!”

She felt water in her face and blinked up at the ugly, scar-faced man as he stood over her, flicking water in her face from a plastic cup. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Sweetie. I’ll be right back. I gotta get my stuff.”

Merry frowned at him and wiggled her hands again. What stuff? Her stomach lurched and the nylon rope cut into her skin. She looked involuntarily at the bed. Both of the Knight’s hands were pinned to the head board with cheap, glittery daggers. Blood ran down his arms and his arms obscured his face. She could hear him breathing above the sound of her own heart beating in her ears, but she could not tell if he was awake or unconscious.

“Neat, huh?” Maxie asked her, as he admired his work. “I bet he’ll be real still and real cooperative now. You just stay right there, Your Preciousness and then we’ll see what’s so damned interesting about these jerks.” He stopped at the door and turned back, grinning at her again. “Miss Valentino was wondering about his tattoos. I intend to investigate them for her.”

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

Beaujold pulled the Rover alongside the huge boulder where he had left Ramsay pinned to the ground. The three men climbed out of the vehicle and went around to where Beaujold was looking down at the ground in confusion. A massive, dark stain was quite visible in the spot where the downed Knight had lain, but there was no sign of him anywhere. A multitude of insects were cleaning up the spill, but there was nothing here other than the blood. Montague coughed, gagged and brought up his flashlight, panning it back and forth over the rocks in the immediate area. They could see where the blood trail started and stopped and started again. The ground was trampled and scuffed by boot prints and horse’s hooves at one point and then only the hoof prints headed off to the west. They followed the trail for a few dozen yards, finding the same blotches of blood that Merry had followed. The stains were now dried completely and almost black, but the three Knights were well acquainted with the sight of such things. It was clear to them what had happened, but what was not clear was the third set of lighter hoof prints and the prints of small bare feet in and around the area.

Montague squatted over one of the small footprints and placed his hand in it.

He looked up at the Grand Master who stood looking off in the distance.

“A woman, Your Excellency,” he said in disgust and then stood up, dusting his hands off on his trousers. He glared at Beaujold who stood by miserably shaking his head.

“I cannot believe that he could get up and ride,” Beaujold said after a few moments.

“Believe it and he had help,” d’Brouchart said and looked back toward where the mansion lay several kilometers distance. “There is much that you do not know about du Morte. You really did not expect him to stay here, did you?”

“What now, Your Grace?” Montague sighed.

“I think we are too late,” d’Brouchart told him and kicked at one of the numerous paw prints of the coyotes already beginning to yap on the hillsides above them. “He is not out here. I don’t know where he is now, but it would be advisable to return to town and wait until the morning to keep our appointment with the Chevaliere Valentino. At least we can know that the wild beasts did not take him.” He cast a dark glance of his own at the Knight of the Sword. “That much should allow us to rest easier.”

The three Knights climbed back in the Range Rover and started back the way they had come. They rode back to Miss Penelope Martin’s establishment in total silence.

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

A crash of thunder caused Mark Andrew to frown. A growing sense of dread was working its way into his guilt-ridden brain overshadowing the feeling of self-pity he had been wallowing in. He had been lying on the bed staring at the canopy over his head without seeing it for quite some time in a half-waking dream, wishing someone would show up to end the misery he was feeling. His thoughts had vacillated between getting up and walking out of the house in the altogether and taking his chances, or just lying there and letting what would come, come. But just before the thunder had rattled the walls and windows, he had heard something. It had sounded like an animal wailing or screaming from somewhere outside the house. He tried to imagine what would have made such a noise. He was not that familiar with the land in which he found himself and wondered if the wild dogs he had heard barking in the hills could also howl like wolves or if there were wild cats behind the house. Dread had come to replace the guilt completely. He got up and searched the room for his bloody clothes. His things were scattered on the marble tiles near the tub where Merry had tossed them.

He picked up his shirt.

The black pullover was almost totally stiff from the dried blood. He held it up and looked at the two rips in it. One in the back and one in the front. At least none of the material was missing. He would have hated to let Simon go digging around inside him, looking for the foreign material. That was it. Simon, the Healer, had been with them in the basement. Another of his Brothers. The sight of the shirt made him cringe and the smell of the blood made him nauseous. He pulled it over his head gingerly and had to force the thought of it from his mind as the blood-stiffened material rubbed down his back and over his stomach. The pants were worse. They were completely soaked front and back and still damp in spots. Never mind the fact that he had no underwear. He pulled them on and had to fight another wave of nausea as he zipped them up. The gooey blood clotted on the metal made the mechanism sluggish. He went into the glassed shower stall in Merry’s private bath and turned on the water, allowing the cold water to do what it could to rinse away the horrid mess. He shivered to his toes and watched his feet until the water ran light pink before turning off the water. Anything was better than the smell and feel of the drying blood. Even freezing wet.

When the water ceased running in the shower, he could hear the rain pouring down outside. He would have gotten wet eventually anyway. He rinsed his boots as best he could in the lavatory and then cringed as his bare feet literally slid into the leather. He used another of Merry’s fluffy towels to pat himself down. It was hopeless, but not the first time he had been forced to wear wet clothes under bad circumstances.

He stopped short at the door as he thought he heard the animal crying again. It sounded vaguely familiar and caused his heart to lurch. It was definitely a human sound, but he could not leave until he found Merry. He had to see that she was all right and had not run afoul of Valentino or the ugly Maxie. She had been gone much too long and he cursed himself for having fucked around for so long.

The door opened without a problem. Valentino had left in a hurry, but she should have summoned her body guard by now. Should have sent good ol’ Maxie up to finish him off. He stepped into the hall and walked quietly to the head of the stairs and looked down. Only the sound of the rain outside and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer reached his ears. The lightning flashed outside the stained glass windows behind him and thunder crashed around the house again. He could see light shining into the hallway below.

Where had Merry gone? She had said something about clothes? Clean clothes? He slipped down the stairs and made his way quietly down the hall to the library. The door stood open, the source of the light. Cecile was asleep on the leather couch. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor by her hand.

He checked the kitchen and found a note from the cook stating that he and Maria, the maid, apparently, would bring the groceries back in the morning. Good. He used the rear stairs to get to the third floor where he hoped to at least find some clean clothes before continuing his search for Merry.

The door to the bedroom where he had been kept was closed. He held his sword in his right hand and twisted the knob very slowly with his left. He could hear noises from within. Strange muffled noises. He allowed the door to swing in of its own accord.

Merry sat in the chair by the desk with something white wrapped around the lower half of her face. She looked at him with very wide, very red eyes. He frowned and blinked at her and a shiver coursed up his spine. She jerked herself forward and the chair scooted on the floor, teetering dangerously, threatening to topple over. She kept her eyes on his face for what seemed like several long seconds and then slowly turned her head toward the bed.

Something made him not want to look. He drew a deep breath and took a step forward. At first, what he could see made no sense. It seemed that someone was sleeping in the bed, but then he focused on the figure and recognition flooded over him. One of the Knights from the basement. He could not see the man’s head. The view was blocked by the Knight’s arms. The sight of the two knives holding his hands in place against the dark wood sent an electric shock through him and he knew why Maxie had not been up to see him. He had been busy elsewhere.

Bright red blood ran down the Knight's arms, staining the sheets and the quilt under his shoulders. He wore a black t-shirt and some sort of blue uniform pants with a red stripe down the leg. The t-shirt was pushed up and more blood was visible on his chest. It was not Beaujold. This one had dark hair on his chest and arms and Mark distinctly remembered the yellow uniform that the Knight of the Sword had worn the night before. This was one of the others but his eyesight and his mind had been too shrouded in the fog of pain for him to remember who had worn what. Merry shook her head from side to side rapidly and stomped her foot on the floor to break the trance he had fallen into.

Mark repressed a shudder and went to Merry first, pulling the cloth from her mouth, and slashing the rope holding her hands with the sword. She leaped from the chair and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing and babbling senselessly into his wet shirt. He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back.

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she kept saying over and over. “He’s coming back. He’s coming back.”

Mark turned his attention to the bed and felt his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he stepped closer. He still could not see the man’s face and did not know if he was alive or dead or if he even had a face or, for that matter, a head, at all. He forced himself to calm down and went quickly to look down at the Knight’s face, thankfully finding that he did have one.

“Lucio?” Mark saw lights swimming in front of his eyes and a cold darkness encroached on his vision. He did not recognize his own voice, but he recognized the face of his friend and Brother, Lucio Dambretti, Chevalier l’Aigle d’Or. Someone had sadistically re-opened the old scar on his face and had been carving designs on his chest. Blood was everywhere.

Mark was sick of blood.

Dambretti heard his name being called from the fog in which he drifted and opened his eyes reluctantly, expecting to see the horrible face of the man who had been slowly, but surely cutting him to pieces for quite some time now. Instead, he saw the Flaming Sword of the Cherubim above his head and immediately assumed that Chevalier Ramsay had come to end his suffering. Whatever the man had done to him after he had lost consciousness must have been horrible indeed and he did not want to know what it was, nor did he want to linger long enough to feel it. He smiled automatically and then winced and grimaced as pains stuck him in several places at once. He’d forgotten about his hands. Even the slightest move was paid for by unbearable pain in the palms of his hands. He had never realized that his entire body was connected to his hands before, but the last half hour or so had taught him many things about anatomy.

“Brother Ramsay?” his voice sounded almost conversational in spite of his troubles.

“Yes, it’s me,” Mark answered and looked more closely at the hilts of the daggers. They were not real gold. Chips and dents showed on the hilts where they had been hammered into the bedstead. The knuckle guards almost touched the Knight’s bloody palms. He reached out one hand tentatively, to touch one of the hilts.

“No! No! No!” His Brother’s eyes widened with desperation. “Don’t touch it. Leave it.”

“Mark!” Merry called his name. She was at the door, looking out into the hallway for signs of the security guard. “Mark, we have to get out of here. Mark!”

“We can’t leave him here,” he said.

“We have to hurry,” she told him again and came to stand beside him, sniffing and holding one hand over her mouth at the sight of what Maxie had done to the Knight with the beautiful smile. “Just hurry! Do whatever you have to do.”

“Keep watch in the hall!” Mark shoved her toward the door and turned back to look down at Lucio. “This is going to hurt, Brother.”

He put one knee on the bed. Lucio moaned and rolled his head back and forth.

“NO!” he shouted at him. “Get off! Get away! Don’t touch it!”

“You have to be strong, Lucio,” Mark told him calmly. “I have to get you out of here.”

“No! Just do it,” Lucio begged him. “Just do it.”

“I am. I have to pull the knives out.” Mark looked around the room in desperation.

“No! No! Just say the words,” Lucio gasped at him and looked up at his hands. “Don’t bother with them. Just say the words. I’m ready.”

“What words? What are you talking about?” Mark shook his head. Was he supposed to know some magick to make this go away?

“I am he that liveth and was dead and behold, I am alive forever,” Lucio panted the strangely familiar words. “In God, the Master.” Lucio closed his eyes tightly. “Santa Maria, just say it. I hold the key of Death. I have seen…” Dambretti opened his eyes to look at him again. “The words! Say the words!”

He moaned again as Mark climbed onto the bed with him and put one knee on each side of his stomach. Mark laid his sword on the bed beside him. Lucio continued to speak “I have seen the work of thy labors and have been witness to…” Dambretti stopped talking. He lay breathing very hard against the pain that Mark’s movements on the bed caused him. “I have been witness to the devotion of thy trust, O Brother. By this act…” He stopped as Mark took hold of one of the daggers with both hands. “No! No! Please, don’t do that.”

Mark ignored him.

“By this act I command…”

Mark rose up and put one foot against the headboard, leaning straight back. Dambretti closed his eyes and shouted at him to stop one more time and then began to babble again. “I commend thy soul to God and set thee free of this broken body.”

Ramsay wiggled the blade slightly and Dambretti screamed at him. He set his jaw and then pushed against the headboard with every ounce of strength he possessed. He closed his eyes when Dambretti rose up beneath him and the knife came free. He tumbled back across the bed, trying to catch himself fruitlessly before flipping over the foot board onto the carpet. He scrambled to his feet holding the bloody knife aloft triumphantly. There was still one to go.

“Mark!” Merry shouted to him from the door. “He’s coming.”

She dashed back into the room and stood near the dormer window as he reached for his sword. He raised the sword just as Valentino’s ugly security man stepped in front of the open door swinging the shotgun up to bear on him. The sight of the weapon did not stop the infuriated Knight.

The old familiar rage filled him at the sight of the man’s face spattered and smeared with his Brother’s blood. He was on the man before he had time to pull either trigger, knocking him backwards onto the floor in the hallway. His own momentum took him over the man and across the hall where he crashed into another door and bounced off. He fell onto the floor beside the struggling Maxie. The man made it to his feet first and scrambled off down the hall toward the stairs, abandoning the shotgun in his attempt to get away from the gleaming sword that had embedded its point in the rug next to his head. Mark yanked the blade free and started after him. He stopped halfway to the stairs and doubled over as the pain caught up with him. The dual impact of door and floor coupled with the tumble from the bed, brought biting reminders of the dreadful wound he had received less than twenty-four hours ago. Gasping for breath and clutching his side, he leaned momentarily on the sword and then ran down the stairs after the man.

Merry ran after him, screaming his name. At the second floor landing he stopped. Maxie was halfway down the hall and making for the grand staircase. Merry almost caught Mark, but he sprinted away after the man oblivious to the pain in his side and her desperate cries for him to stop.

The big man paused at the top of the stairs and turned to look back. Mark brought up the sword and leaped into the air swinging the blade around in a wide arc which would take the man’s head off clean from his shoulders. Merry screamed again, the man threw his arms into the air overbalancing himself. He teetered on the edge of the top riser for what seemed like several long seconds, grabbed for the banister and then toppled backwards down the stairs just as the golden blade grazed his left arm.

Mark turned a complete three-sixty in the air, landed heavily on the rug, stumbled and caught himself on the banister with his left hand. He came down hard on the railing and knocked what remained of his breath away. Pain, pain and more pain. He was momentarily incapacitated as stars danced in front of his eyes.

Maxie tumbled heels over head backwards down the stairs until he sprawled face down on the marble tiles of the foyer below. Valentino appeared in the hallway just as her security man made his last yelping slap against the stone floor and then lay very still. Blood trickled from his ear.

Merry dashed down the length of the upper corridor and stood beside Mark looking down in shock at the scene below. Valentino knelt beside the man and picked up his wrist. She held a handkerchief in front of her face. Only her large, dark eyes were visible above the cloth as she looked up at them. To Mark’s pain-wracked mind, she looked like the veiled Saracen woman in the courtyard. She stood up slowly, her eyes locked on Mark Andrew’s face. He shouted something down at her in what sounded like Latin and started down the stairs with his sword raised over his head, but Merry threw herself at him, grabbing his shirt, yanking him back against the banister. He spun on her and then blinked rapidly, confused by what had happened.

“No!” she said adamantly. “We’ve got to go! Leave her alone.”

“Lucio!” Mark said as his mind cleared of the red rage. She found herself racing after him again as he ran back up the hall and up the stairs to the room on the third floor.

Lucio Dambretti was no longer conscious. He lay where Mark had left him with his free hand bleeding against his forehead. He was a gory mess. Mark crossed himself, unaware of the action, before laying aside his sword and climbing back on the bed to repeat the same process with the other dagger. This time without the strange accompaniment of the prayer Lucio had been repeating. The second dagger was embedded more deeply and it took two panicked attempts to dislodge it. Merry untied the Knight’s feet and grabbed up his boots. She was still barefooted, still wore the ragged lavender gown from the night before. It was hopelessly ruined, stained with both Mark’s and Lucio’s blood, as she struggled to help Mark lift the unconscious man onto his shoulder. She picked up the golden sword and carried it, along with the boots, after Mark down the hall to the service stairwell. They stumbled down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the pouring rain through the side door.

“This way!” Merry rushed ahead, leading them around the house down the walk toward the garage.

She held the door for him as he stumbled inside the darkened building. She slammed the door and bolted it while Mark dumped his Brother’s unconscious form across the hood of the nearest vehicle, a black El Dorado. His car.

He leaned on one hand, holding his side with the other, coughing up pink foam. Something had reopened inside him. Water dripped from his hair and ran into to his face. Merry joined him, looking down at Dambretti in shock. It was too much. Too horrible.

“Is he dead?” she asked when she had caught her breath.

“No,” he told her shortly and glanced about the dark garage as a bolt of lightning flashed outside. “Where are the keys?”

“In the house… my room,” she bit her bottom lip as if she expected him to hit her. When he merely slapped his palm against his forehead, she handed him the sword, dropped the boots and hurried across the garage to a work bench where she dragged a white box onto the counter.

Mark watched her in confusion. The box had a large red cross on it next to the entwined serpent symbol of Hermes Trismegistus. The Templars. Always the Templars! “Spes mea in Deo est,” he said softly and checked his Brother’s pulse. It seemed strong enough.

Dambretti moaned and rolled his head on the hard metal surface.

“Until we shall meet again in Paradise. I bid thee farewell,” the Italian whispered into the darkness.

“No!” Mark caught his chin in his hand. The words! The words of his secret. Lucio was repeating the Last Rites of the Key of Death. The memory of the meaning of the words returned simultaneously with a jolting peal of thunder. “No, Lucio! Wake up. You are not dead, Brother.” He leaned to kiss him on the mouth and saw his dark eyes open in the dim light.

“I should be,” Lucio blinked at him and then held up his hands to survey the damage. “Are you sure?”

“You’re not dead. I’m sure of it.” Mark smiled at him very briefly.

Merry came back with several small packages of gauze, a pair of surgical scissors and a roll of tape. Mark helped Lucio sit up on the hood of the car and she hastily bandaged his hands with gauze and tape. He grimaced and winced and made a lot of noise, but otherwise seemed none the worse for wear in spite of his wounds. It seemed his complaints were made more for her entertainment than from real suffering.

Mark watched him curiously. Lucio had always displayed a high tolerance for pain. The face of the smiling ragamuffin in the catacombs with the terrible wound on his face returned to haunt him. Now the scar was bloody again from the sadistic work of Valentino’s watchdog. But another darker memory hovered just beyond his reach and his feelings toward the Knight took a slight downturn. He thought that he was supposed to be angry with him for some reason. Merry finished her work and went back to the box, bringing back antiseptic ointment for his face while Lucio pulled on his boots with Mark’s help. Mark shook his head. Lucio did not need antibiotics. He only needed time.

“Where are the others?” Mark asked him finally.

“They were in the basement. All except Brother Beaujold,” Dambretti said and shrugged somewhat chagrined. “I was with them… for a while. The Will of God.”

Mark remembered that. To Lucio, everything was the Will of God, especially the good things that happened to him and the bad things that he might be blamed for.

“I have paid for my sins, Brother,” Lucio held up his hands. “I have done my penance. It is very much like crucifixion, no? And if you had cut off my head like the Infidels cut off Saint John’s head, I would be very close to martyrdom. I would be the first martyr of the Temple. San Lucio di Napoli.”

“You are very close to blasphemy, Brother. St. John did not die because he was careless. He died for his beliefs. That is one of the requirements of Sainthood.” Mark looked away from him. “I have done my penance as well.” He glanced at Merry who was rummaging in the first aid box again.

Dambretti followed his gaze. “But you are not repentant, il mio Fratello. I can see it in your eyes,” he said and reached up to take hold of the silver earrings entwined in the strands of Mark’s hair “and your hair.”

Mark frowned as Lucio peered closely at his hair in the dim light. The Italian recognized the earrings as the ones the blond fairy princess had worn at the reception the night before. So she was the one. Not the dark-haired Valentino. Lucio was very relieved. It had almost happened… again. Only one stolen kiss this time.

Mark Andrew looked down at the bangles, frowning, wondering how they had gotten there.

“You would do well not to look into my eyes until you can see out of them,” Mark’s frown deepened to an angry scowl when he looked up again. The tone of his voice carried the old familiar ring that Lucio remembered so well. ‘One misplaced word and the world will no longer know you.’

Merry returned with a bottle of peroxide and a bundle of cotton balls.

“Pull up your shirt,” she told Dambretti.

He held up his hands. He would not be pulling anything anywhere for a while.

“It’s not necessary,” Mark told her a bit too gruffly. He was shivering from the cold, wet clothes and his own recent injuries. “He will be fine.”

“Great!” she matched his tone and jerked her head around to stare at him in the dimness, surprised by his hostile tone. “Then this is it? You find one of your beloved Brothers and that’s it? That’s all? You don’t need me anymore?”

“That would depend on what you mean by ‘it’,” he said offhandedly and looked down at her bare feet, unwilling to meet her gaze. “You had best go back to the house, lassie, and see to your own needs. Brother Dambretti and I have work to do. We’ll have to go to the basement. It would not be a good place for you.”

“I see,” she said coldly. “And how will you get into the basement, Sir Ramsay?”

“You can get us in, la mia dolce,” Dambretti interjected quickly, trying to avoid the brewing confrontation between the woman and his Brother. They were not out of the woods yet and needed her help.

“I’m only a woman. How can I help you, brave Knights?” she asked sarcastically and went back to replace the peroxide in the medical kit.

Mark followed her and stopped behind her as she jerked the box around angrily. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her ear. “I love you, Merry,” he told her simply. “I don’t know how all this will end, but I want you to know that much. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You simply don’t understand what this is all about.”

She stiffened in his embrace, but said nothing. Of all things, it was not what she expected to hear from him at that moment. She had always thought it would have somehow been much more romantic to hear those words from the man she loved. But there was no romance here in the chilly, dark garage in the presence of another man. His Brother. One of his freaking Brothers that had come halfway round the world to kill him. It sounded more like a simple declaration of fact, more like ‘I’m hungry’ or ‘Something stinks’. His words had a much more profound effect on her than she had expected in a strangely inappropriate way. Instead of melting her heart, assuaging her fears, comforting her pain, they seemed to freeze her blood in her veins.

Mark went back to help Dambretti off the hood of the car where he sat looking down at his hands. The effort hurt both of them and Dambretti pulled his t-shirt out gingerly from the cuts on his chest. The jerk had been cutting off his tattoos! He would have to get them done all over again.

Merry snorted derisively. They were going with or without her help. Now was not a good time for pouting and silliness. He had done his best to protect her and she had, after all, thrown herself on him. He had never asked for her attentions. She had initiated every one of their romantic encounters. With the exception of this very brief encounter in the garage which should have been the most important of all.

“All right,” she came back to join them again. “I’ll get you into the basement and then I’ll go upstairs, take a bath, curl up in my bed and read a good book.”

Lucio smiled at her and then winced. He had to stop doing that… if he could, but she was so beautiful…like an angel. Her hair hung in tiny, dripping ringlets about her face like a flower pixie and he felt himself falling in love with her. He was always falling in love. It was nothing serious. It would pass.

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

“Anything yet, Christopher?” d’Ornan’s voice echoed in the pitch black enclosure.

“Nothing, Master,” Christopher’s disembodied voice answered from somewhere in front of him.

“Nothing here either,” von Hetz’s voice was worst of all in the darkness. “There seems to be nothing in here with us. At least there are no rats.”

“A small blessing perhaps.” D’Ornan could be heard clumping about the smooth stone floor. “They will not chew on us as we sleep, but neither will we chew on them as we starve.”

Christopher shuddered and turned about slowly in the direction of Simon’s voice. His head ached miserably from where that insufferable man had whacked him with his pistol. Now these two were calmly discussing the possibility of spending some time locked in this place. He was the one that would starve. Not them. They might get hungry, but they wouldn’t starve. Sir Ramsay had expounded upon it often enough. Every time he had complained about the food at the Villa, his Master had offered to go hunting in the cellars for something more palatable for his apprentice to eat. Christopher had always been afraid that his Master would someday pull a horrible joke on him and serve him a rat burger as he’d so often promised to do.

They could hear nothing but the rustlings of their own clothing, the clump of their own boots and the occasional rumble of thunder from somewhere far overhead. Nothing… except for the constant sound of dripping water, disconcerting sound in the utter blackness of the cave. The walls curved down sharply to meet the floors, which felt polished to the touch, though a bit uneven, suggesting that they had been imprisoned in some sort of natural formation in the rock. An enclosure carved out by eons of running water. The only break in the continuity of the walls was the faint outline of the heavy slab that served as the door. The only way in or out. They had almost been deafened by the crash when the big rock had come down. It had sounded ominously permanent. The floor was marred by a depression in the center which was about three yards across, full of cold water and seemed like a bottomless well or spring. Von Hetz had reached his arm into it as far as he could feel and they had paced about it to determine its size. At least they had water.

“We may as well rest, Brother,” von Hetz said into the darkness and they heard him sit on the floor somewhere. “They will come for us. Already, the Grand Master has crossed the sea.”

The sound of a splash and a muttered “Uh, oh!” caused him to stand again.

“Christopher Stewart?” d’Ornan called in alarm as he thought the boy had fallen into the hole.

“They had better come in a hurry, Masters,” Christopher’s voice was full of alarm. “The pool is growing.”

They circumnavigated the water again, counting the steps. It was twice as large as before.

“We will not drown. It is impossible,” von Hetz told them reassuringly. “Be patient. Brother Dambretti and Brother Beaujold will find us eventually.”

“Speak for yourself, Master,” Christopher replied from the inky nothingness. “I'm not immortal. I cannot afford to be patient.”

The thunder crashed from above and the dripping noise increased in the ensuing silence after Christopher’s words. The drip was no longer a drip, but a steady stream, splashing into the pool from above. The air filled with a fine mist.

D’Ornan began to whisper a prayer in French.

“They will come for us,” von Hetz said again. “Perhaps you should confess your sins, my son.”

Christopher sighed and made his way through the darkness to where Simon sat on the damp stone. He sank to his knees, crossing himself in the darkness. Just before each clap of thunder, a dull, grayish-green light flickered in the upper reaches of the cavern, showing nothing except that there was a sizable crack up there somewhere through which the water was now pouring.

“Shrive me, Master,” he said and closed his eyes needlessly. The cold water inched its way inexorably up his kneecaps, chilling him to the bone in more ways than one. At least he wouldn’t starve to death or be forced to live on beetles and grubs.

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

The basement was empty. The Knights were gone. Ramsay searched the office and came up with five more swords and four daggers.

“Perhaps they escaped?” Dambretti offered hopefully. He located an old golf bag in a closet and used it to carry the weapons.

Mark dragged the heavy bag into the corridor.

“And left their weapons?” Ramsay stood shaking his head. “Not likely. Von Hetz could have easily found them.” He remembered the dark Knight’s strange method for finding the Flaming Sword just before he had made him drink the mercury.

“What now?” Dambretti glanced down the hall toward Merry, who stood near the stairs watching them dejectedly while keeping an eye out for anyone else who might come their way.

“We have to find them,” Mark said matter-of-factly and shrugged.

“What about the woman?” Lucio asked him in a low voice.

“She is nothing without her guard dog,” Mark hefted the bag to his shoulder. “I left him dead on the floor.”

“I meant her.” Lucio nodded toward Merry. The Italian narrowed his eyes to look closely at Mark Andrew. “Do you intend to return with us willingly, Brother?”

Mark ignored his question at first and then seemed to think better of it.

“I do.” Mark shuddered at the memories of the misfortunes he had suffered since landing in this sorry place. Surely the Order could do no worse to him. The pain in his side throbbed dully under the weight of the bag. Mark sighed and walked toward the Pixie.

“Merry,” he said as he set the bag on the floor. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Merry. Where would they have taken them?”

“I don’t know.” She refused to meet his eyes.

He pulled her close to him and held her tightly.

“Merry. You must think,” he said softly in her ear. “I can’t just leave them here.”

“You can’t be serious!” She pushed him away and looked up at him incredulously. Why could he not have whispered those three little words to her in the same manner? “After what they did to you?”

“They didn’t do anything to me,” he objected. “They came to do what they had to do. I would have done the same for any one of them.”

“What? For them? Would you leave them in the desert pierced through and through to die?” she raised her voice and glanced at Dambretti who was holding back in the hallway. He looked away from her quickly. “Is that what brothers do for each other? I’m glad I don’t have any!”

“Merry!” Mark took her by the shoulders again. “It’s not what it appears. He didn’t leave me to die. He would have come back for me.” He was not exactly telling her the full truth.

She looked at the floor.

“I won’t help you find them,” she said with finality. “They will only try to kill you again or whatever it is they were trying to do. I offered to take you away. I have money. I could…” he placed one finger against her lips, silencing her.

Mark looked back at Lucio and the Italian shrugged. Her words embarrassed him in front of Lucio and then his embarrassment embarrassed him in front of Merry. He was caught in a cross-fire.

“What she says may be true, Brother,” the Italian said somewhat reluctantly. “Beaujold is not with them. He is most likely looking for you even as we stand here. I am afraid he has let his old feelings override his better sense. He will not listen to me and I believe he is bent on killing you.”

“See?” She looked up at him.

“No. I don’t see,” he told her flatly. “I will have to face him… and them, sooner or later. It’s just the way things are.”

“It is the Will of God,” Lucio added from where he stood. “It cannot be changed.” A vacation in Texas next year might be in order. There was nothing particularly sinful about being friendly. A vacation. Si`.

Merry let go a short sigh.

“If I take you where I think they are, will you help him?” She directed her question to the other Knight. “Will you stand with him… against them?”

“I cannot help him,” Lucio told her and held up his hands again. “He does not need my help. I can only say that I will not hinder him in what it is that he must do.”

Mark looked at her hopefully, as if this unsatisfactory answer was some sort of consolation.

“I just don’t understand this at all.” Merry shook her head.

“You don’t have to understand,” he told her. “Now please, we must hurry.”

“I have to change first.” She looked down at her bedraggled lavender gown and bare feet. “It’s up in the hills and I can’t go up there like this. There’s an old fallout shelter. I heard Maxie telling Cecile that it would make a good tomb. It’s the only place they could have taken them.”

“Can we find it without you?” Mark asked her before she started up the stairs.

“I doubt it,” she murmured as yet another peal of thunder crashed against the house. The rain began to pour in earnest through the open doors of the basement. Water ran in torrents down the stairs flooding the floor around her feet.

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

Sir Thomas Beaujold could not go to sleep and he could not rest as the Grand Master had instructed him to do. He lay on the bed fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily above him. His mind was full of jumbled thoughts. He had made a mistake by not beheading Ramsay in the desert. The man wouldn’t have gotten up and rode away without his head and by leaving him there for the elements, he garnered sympathy for the man from the Knight of the Holy City and possibly the Grand Master as well. To make his humiliation complete, he had disgraced himself shamelessly in front of his old friend’s replacement, the prissy Englishman from London. An accountant, no less. Beaujold had never accepted his late friend and Brother’s death over sixty years ago and every time he saw Sir Montague, his hatred for Ramsay grew. Never once had he stopped to think what Montague's former Master, the previous Knight of the Holy City’s life would have been like had Ramsay allowed him to live with most of his lower body destroyed. Beaujold's ability to reason rationally had been permanently affected from that moment onward. In sixty plus years his mind had forged many conspiracy theories, including the idea that Ramsay, the Scot, had been in league with Montague, the Brit, with the goal of replacing all the Frankish Knights with men like themselves from the British Empire. The rivalry between France and England was too inbred in Beaujold's blood for him to ever rid himself of such thoughts.

He got up and paced the floor restlessly. When he could stand it no longer, he pulled his bags from under the bed and took out his secondary weapons. A long, curved dagger of antique vintage and a heavy broadsword with an unadorned hilt of burnished silver wrapped with black leather lacings and wound with wire. He had to find Ramsay and finish the job before d’Brouchart and the inestimable Mister Montague ruined everything with their tolerant attitudes. Perhaps d’Brouchart was growing weak and feeble. The Grand Master was, after all, older than all of them. Perhaps it was time for the man to step down, if he did not have the stomach to do what had to be done without hesitation.

He walked quietly down the hall of Miss Penelope Martin’s hotel and let himself out the front door into the rain. That Ramsay had gone back to the house where the woman was, he had little doubt. Perhaps she would have the pleasure of watching him behead her lover before he killed her, and everyone else at the despicable house of pretenders and if Lucio Dambretti got in his way, he would not hesitate to take the Italian out of the picture as well.

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

The house was quieter than ever when the two soaking wet Knights and the blond woman let themselves in the side door. No lights were on, nothing stirred. They went quickly up the back stairs to Merry’s room. The men would wait outside in the hallway while she went in to change clothes.

Mark held his sword in one hand and Dambretti’s dagger in the other as they edged their way down the hall past Merry’s room onto the balcony at the top of the main stairwell. They checked the foyer, but the big man’s body was gone. Scuff marks on the tiles and a few splotches of blood were the only indications that he had been there at all. They returned quickly and took up a position in the corridor, standing back to back in front of her door until she emerged again wearing jeans, tee shirt, boots and a light raincoat. She carried a small flashlight in one hand and Mark could tell that she had been crying again.

No one accosted them as they made their way back downstairs and out into the night. Mark had a very bad feeling about the eerie silence in the mansion. He wanted to go back and search the house, but they had to find the others first. Then they would all come back together and make sure that everything was in order before they left. He knew that Beaujold would not hesitate to kill Valentino if he found her and Mark wanted to prevent it, if he could. He felt that it was not necessary. She was essentially harmless without her watchdog and nobody would ever believe her if she told them what had been going on for the last few weeks. She was, after all, a criminal now, a murderer or an accomplice in the very least, by whatever part she had played in the deaths of Anthony and Tellman. She had held both himself and Lucio prisoner in her house and that was just the beginning of what was probably a long list of charges she could face if the truth came out. Valentino could not afford to complain to the authorities no matter what they did.

Mark pulled the heavy golf bag from the flower bed beside the door and hefted it to his shoulder, hoping against hope that his Brothers would be able to use them when they found them. The tiny search party set off down the brick path toward the garden and beyond, up the slippery limestone hill behind the estate. Merry led them quickly through the winding paths and up the rocky path toward the crest of the hill as she had promised. In spite of her expert guidance, their way was made slow and treacherous by the rain-slicked rocks and mud where the water rushed past their feet as if they were walking upstream in a small river. The lightning flashed almost continuously in a spectacular display and Merry ducked reflexively again and again as the red and yellow prongs seemed to strike the very top of the hill above them. The frequency of the lightning provided them with a strobe-light effect, allowing Merry to keep the flashlight turned off much of the time, preventing them from sending a beacon to anyone who might have been looking.

The storm fascinated Mark Andrew and he knew that such displays were a familiar occurrence in his past and he actually enjoyed the magnificent power that filled the air around them with an almost palpable charge. If their circumstances had been different, he would have taken Merry back to the barn and watched the storm from the hay loft. The strange thought made him feel even more desperate to be done with this thing. He just wanted to get home and find out who he really was. If all went well, he would invite her to Scotland for a holiday next year. A holiday. Yes.

The entrance to the old shelter was hidden behind a pile of boulders near the top of the hill. Inside the heavy metal door, the passage was dry and their footsteps echoed eerily in the dark. They descended through the side of the hill until they were some fifty yards from the main entrance where their way was suddenly barred by a smooth slab of polished limestone. A rusty pulley mechanism with decrepit chains hung beside the door, tinkling and vibrating as the thunder shook the hill.

“They are probably in there.” She nodded to the stone slab. “It’s the only place she could have put them to be sure they would not escape without having to set a constant guard on them. This door has never been closed to my knowledge,” she looked in wonder at the rusty chains disappearing into the pitch blackness above them. “The rest of the chambers have collapsed.”

Mark examined the pulley. Primitive. Ugly and cumbersome. Nothing like the perfectly balanced blocks guarding the entrances to the secret chambers in the pyramids. Again he shook his head to clear this even stranger thought from his mind. He caught hold of one of the chains and rattled it against the rock above them. An avalanche of rock chips, dirt and rust showered down on their heads, not to mention a few startled bats. A creaky system of cogs and a hand crank of very antiquated design made up the simple device anchored to the rock floor.

He took hold of the handle on the crank and gave it a tentative twist while Dambretti and Merry looked on. It squeaked loudly and turned with a jerky clicking motion. Each link in the rusty chain was caught by one of the teeth in the cog just above his head and held in place by a primitive locking mechanism. Two turns of the crank caused the door to raise a quarter of inch. Cool air issued from under the door.

Dambretti got on his knees and projected his voice under the stone.

“Hello! Anyone home?” he called.

Soon they heard the very distinct sound of someone answering them from the other side.

“Master Dambretti?” Christopher’s voice echoed into the dark corridor.

“Yes, it’s me!” Lucio turned his head to look up at them and smiled.

“Deo gratis!” D’Ornan’s voice joined that of the apprentice from under the door. “Please hurry, my Brother. We are in trouble here. The water is rising.”

Faint splashing sounds could be heard from the hollow space beyond the door.

“And it’s dark in here,” Christopher told them urgently.

“Stand back while we try to get the door opened,” Dambretti ordered and then stood up beside Ramsay. “You must hurry, Brother.”

Mark Andrew nodded. It was not easy to work the crank as the chain creaked and popped and continued to rain down flakes of metal and red dust on them. Bats frightened them from time to time and the storm continued to rage outside. The debris stuck to their wet necks and skin, making them more miserable than ever. He expected the entire thing to collapse on their heads at any moment. The door was barely two inches aloft when the chain snapped. The stone slammed down with a resounding boom, causing them to fall back against the walls of the corridor. The sound had actually jarred their hearts.

Merry stood staring at them in the light of her flashlight, thinking the unthinkable. The link had separated at a point some two feet above the cog. Mark reached up to inspect the broken chain, while Dambretti tried unsuccessfully to contact the people within the cavern. No amount of shouting or pounding on the door brought any audible answers from the other side of the slab.

“We have to find some other way,” Mark said as he looked around the enclosure. “We have to get them out of there. We need more chain.”

“There’s some chain in the garage,” Merry told him. “Maybe we could hook up a new piece.”

“Never patch an old cloth with new,” Dambretti shook his head. “It would only cause the chain to break faster.”

“Well, do you have some other idea?” Merry looked at him in the darkness.

“No,” he told her and shrugged in his most irritating fashion. “It is not my mission, la mia dolce. No decisions are required of me.”

“I’ll go.” Mark drew a deep breath. He was beginning to understand why he might have some deep-seated animosity for the Italian. “You two stay here.”

“You had best hurry,” Lucio told him and took the light from Merry to shine it at the floor near the door. Water was beginning to pool at the base of the slab. He shined the light up the passage and saw two small streams flowing in from outside. They met in front of the door soaking into the extremely dry sand and then edging out toward their feet.

Mark pulled his sword and Lucio’s dagger from the bag and started back out of the cave into the rain. Was nothing ever easy?

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

Beaujold parked the van under the trees near the point where the drive to the mansion began and then hurried along the white rock lane, keeping near the line of trees and hedges. The storm was raging around him as if God, himself, were angry with him. When he reached the house, he saw no lights inside. The electricity was out. He had seen the spot where a lightning bolt had downed the lines on his way out from town.

The front doors of the mansion were unlocked. A bad sign. There were traces of blood visible on the marble tile in the foyer. The third floor bedroom where they had kept Mark Ramsay was a scene most terrible. As he entered the room, he could smell the blood, even before the lightning showed him the dark stains on the bed, on the headboard and all over the new rug. He had no way of knowing who had suffered here. It could have been any one of the five Templars or someone else entirely. Most likely Lucio Dambretti had paid dearly for his sins in this very room.

He made his way outside to the basement doors. The only other place he knew to look, but the basement doors stood open. Another bad sign.

The water was already several inches deep in the passage at the bottom of the stairs. Beaujold turned on his flashlight reluctantly and made a quick search of the storerooms and laboratory. No one. A feeling of dread washed over him. What had Ramsay done? Killed them all? It did not seem unreasonable. If the man could get up and ride with a sword run through him, why not? The thought brought to mind a story that Louis Champlain loved to relate around the campfire.

The Templars had been caught in a siege in the Holy Lands. There had been only ten Knights in the fortress and all hope was gone. Rather than risk capture and torture, they had formulated a suicidal plan designed to inflict as much harm on the enemy as possible and, at the same time, make sure that their own deaths would be swift and merciful. They had put on their armor, mounted their horses and rode into the streets in an offensive move of unprecedented bravery or foolishness, depending on the point of view. To their own amazement and the Glory of God, they had routed the entire contingency of Saracens infesting the city, leaving hundreds dead in their wake without losing a single man in their ranks. It had been a miracle! But then, of course, as Louis Champlain liked to claim, God had been on their side and Sir Ramsay and his brother had not been with them. Most of the stories he had heard about the two brothers from those early days of the Order were much less honorable and Ramsay’s brother had paid the price. Now Ramsay would finally pay the price for his own philandering and join his brother in Perdition. He had broken his vows, betrayed the Order and disgraced himself.

A chill coursed up his spine and Beaujold crossed himself quickly at the thought that Ramsay might be hiding somewhere in the basement, watching him.

The Knight of the Sword switched off the flashlight and stuck it in his pocket. He went back up the stairs more warily than before. He turned right, once outside, and went toward the stable. There he found only the horses. They eyed him suspiciously when he entered. The stallion was back in its stall, but it still wore the black, bloodstained saddle, confirming his suspicion that Ramsay had returned to the mansion. The palomino, however, had not returned and the bay mare, wearing a halter and bridle, nudged him playfully, hoping for a treat. So, he had help. It was not surprising. He reached for the reins of the mare and frowned. If Ramsay and the woman had returned to the house and left the barn without taking time to tend the horses, then where were they?

He left the barn, blinking back the rain from his eyes, and started around the back of the house, looking for the garage. The next lightning flash showed the side entrance to the garage standing open. He stopped at the door and frowned into the dim interior. The lightning flashed again and he saw someone inside the garage kneeling in front of a large tool chest on the floor. He ducked aside and flattened himself against the side of the building to wait.

The Chevalier du Morte hurried as best he could from the garage, awkwardly carrying a bundle of chain, clutching it close to his body with one arm while holding the Flaming Sword in his other hand. Beaujold noticed right away that he held the sword in his left hand. He could have killed him then and there, but the French Knight stayed put, watching him curiously as he hurried away with his clinking, rattling burden down the brick walkway. The Knight of the Sword gave him a bit of a lead and then followed after him. It would behoove him to learn where the man was bound and whom he intended to bind with the chains. Ramsay knew where his Brothers were! It was apparent that he had taken them captive somewhere and was in the process of making ready to abandon them. Perhaps weighting their bodies down in a subterranean pool or a well or a quagmire. Beaujold had very little knowledge of what sort of landscape surrounded the estate. He knew that Texas was called ‘a whole ’nother country’ from the tourist propaganda he sometimes saw on the web and TV.

For all he knew there were bogs and swamps just down the road. This unsettling thought brought to mind the misfortunate time he had witnessed their beloved Knight of Death weighting down the body of a man he had beheaded in Romania. Ramsay had sunk the corpse in a stagnant lake full of murky, black water after stuffing the dead man's mouth full of garlic, jamming an ash stake through his heart and sprinkling him with Holy Water. It would be sad to report to the Grand Master that his Chevalier du Morte had lived up to his title by killing the Healer, the Ritter, the Knight of the Golden Eagle and his own apprentice along with two civilian women and a man. It would be sad, but it would certainly support Beaujold’s stance on the matter of what to do with the traitorous Knight of Death. Beaujold knew that he had the support of at least two of the other French Knights on the Council when it came to his feelings about Mark Ramsay. Ramsay could kill them all, one by one, and collect their secrets for himself and then he would be of such immense power; he could easily conquer the world. And who knew what that brooding mind cooked up along with his putrid chemicals and fumes in his dark laboratory in the Scottish lowlands. The Knight of the Sword was convinced that the Key of Death would be much safer in the hands of one of his countrymen. James Argonne, for example would make a much trustier custodian.

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

Merry jumped up and caught hold of the broken chain again. Each time she put her full weight on it, the rusty links began to inch slowly toward the cog. If they could just get the last link hooked on one of the teeth, they could start cranking the door open again.

The water in the corridor with them was already several inches deep. If they waited much longer, they would have to abandon the cave altogether and there would be no hope of opening the door before the water subsided again and outside, the storm showed no sign of abating. Her hands were wet and slippery and the chain was slick with a sort of rusty paste created by the rain and the action of her hands. Each time they almost got the chain to close on the cog, she would slip off and they would have to start the process over again. Her hands burned and her arms and shoulders ached unmercifully and she had already hurt two fingers in the links.

“You must try harder,” Dambretti told her as she slipped off yet again.

“Must I?” she asked in exasperation. “Why? So they can come out and kill Mark Andrew?”

“They won’t kill him, signorina,” he told her. “I am sure of it.”

“I can’t tell!” she snapped and leaned against the wall, opening and closing her abused hands. “I saw you in the basement! You didn’t look too friendly to me.”

“Mark Andrew Ramsay is not only my Brother, he is my friend,” Lucio told her. “I have known him for a very long time. He has saved my life more than once and I would do nothing to harm him though I would sometimes like to wring his stubborn neck.”

“You are here with the others looking for him,” she told him. “You would take him back with you whether he wants to go or not.”

“It is the Will of God,” Dambretti told her, irritating her beyond measure. “He must go back. There is no alternative. He will come to his senses. I know he will.”

“Everything is the Will of God to you,” she said scornfully. “Why? Can’t a person actually have a will of their own?”

“Of course,” he waved one hand in the dim light of the small flashlight. “Man has his own free will, but whatever he chooses has already been seen by God and is, therefore, the Will of God. There is nothing a man can do but the Will of God.”

“That is a circular argument, sir,” she shook her head. The light was growing dimmer as the battery in the flashlight faded.

Dambretti unwrapped the bandages on his hands as he spoke in a calm voice.

“Circles are good. Spirals are better. I will help you,” he told her and reached for her hands. She watched as he pulled the bloody gauze from his hands. “This will give you better traction and protect your delicate skin.” He smiled at her. Somehow the comment coming from him did not seem belittling or insulting, just thoughtful. He took her hands and turned them over before kissing her palms gently.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, ashamed now of talking to him in such rude tones.

“Do you love Mark Andrew?” he asked her casually as he wrapped the bloody cloth around her hands.

The question startled her.

“No,” she answered too quickly.

“Then why are you so angry with him?” The quizzical Italian asked her and looked into her eyes. “You would not care one way or another if he left, unless you care for him.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t care for him,” she retorted. “I said I didn’t love him.”

“But you do.” He touched her chin with one finger and brought her eyes back to him in the fading light. “I can see it in your… eyes. You have a beautiful soul. Unlike any other.”

She said nothing, but looked down at the rags on her hands.

“Did he tell you that he loves you?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“And so he does and that is too bad, but it doesn’t change anything,” he said. “Now hurry. Our Brothers are drowning.”

She sighed and leaped once more for the chains. The gauze helped more than she would have imagined. Dambretti managed to hook the chain link over the cog and they were in business. They took turns cranking the handle. Blood oozed from the Knight’s hands, but he did not complain. Merry figured he chalked it up to the Will of God.

The higher the door rose, the faster the water poured out of the adjoining room. It was soon above their knees and rising rapidly.

Merry looked about in panic at the rising deluge. There was, apparently, more water inside the chamber than outside.

“What will happen?” she whispered as they cranked on the rusted thing in unison.

“Who knows but God?” He shrugged and she cringed.

When the water reached their waists, they had to abandon the cave before they were trapped.

“They won’t drown, right?” she asked him as they waded toward the rapidly closing space between the lower levels and the upper cave.

“Come on, give me your hand,” he pulled her along more quickly.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said as the water rose toward her neck.

“The apprentice is not immortal, if that is what you are asking,” he said simply. “He could die.”

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

As soon as Mark Andrew reached the rusty metal door in the side of the hill, he knew something was terribly wrong. Water flowed out of the cave and ran away down the hill behind him. He dropped the chain on the ground and peered into the darkness.

“Merry! Lucio!” he shouted into the dark opening, but his voice no longer echoed in the passage. It was filling with water. He knelt near the entrance and looked for footprints, but the water was sheeting over the sandy soil behind the boulders, completely obliterating any signs of their passage. He waded down into the cave and was unable to go more than few dozen feet before the water was at neck level.

They couldn’t have stayed down there. He sloshed back out the entrance and looked about in the rain, squinting against the water pouring down his face into his eyes. The lightning was diminishing somewhat and he had to wait for the intermittent flashes to light the area.

“Damn you, Lucio! Where have you taken her?” he said aloud and brushed at his face futilely with his left hand. The lightning glinted off the blade of the golden sword now in his right hand.

“Have you also taken up cursing as well?” a voice spoke to him from his left. He spun around, slinging water out from his hair and clothing. He only got a glimpse of Beaujold, standing near the pile of boulders with his sword raised.

“What have you done with them?!” he shouted at the fleeting figure.

“I might ask you the same, Brother,” the man’s voice was muffled by the rain. The lightning flashed and Beaujold lunged at him with his broadsword.

Mark jumped back as the sword slashed through the rain, missing his chest by less than a hairsbreadth. He stumbled back and pulled the dagger from his pocket with difficulty. The lightning worked against him as he raced around the opposite side of the boulder. He drew up short when the Knight of the Sword appeared in front of him again. He had to duck quickly as the heavy broadsword swooped over his head. He fell on one knee and jabbed at the man’s ankle. The blade entered the Knight’s boot just above the ankle causing him to scream and jerk backwards. Mark held onto the dagger long enough to pull it free and then scrambled away, slipping in the mud as the broadsword’s blade came down in another deadly swing. The tip of the sword struck the ground directly in front of him and then darkness engulfed them.

Mark continued to crab backwards in the dark until he felt the rock wall behind his back. He pushed himself up, waiting for the next flash of light to find his adversary. When the light came it was brief and he saw nothing of the man. The rain fell in slanted streaks. Mark blinked rapidly and looked about. Nothing. He did not know which way to go. He closed his eyes briefly and then began to slide along the rock face to his right. Right was always his choice. The devil was left-handed. He came against an obstructing block of limestone and edged out to go around it. The next bolt of lightning illuminated the Knight of the Sword, once again, standing directly in front of him and to his right, proving his theory about the devil. Beaujold had moved to his left which put him directly in front of the Knight of Death. The silver blade struck the limestone where Mark’s head had been only a split second before and darkness engulfed them again.

Mark ended up sitting on the slippery ground with his back to the wall. He stayed down and slid forward, away from the rock face, past his foe, swiping blindly at his side with the golden sword as he went. He felt the blade strike a glancing blow on the Knight’s ribs and heard the man cry out in pain again. Ramsay continued down the hill, slipping and sliding in the loose rock and rubble mixed with water as far as he dared before stopping. He turned on his stomach and jabbed the dagger in the earth for a handhold, trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind him. A stream of rubble and mud washed against him, blinding him momentarily, but he saw nothing of the Frenchman. He had moved… somewhere. Mark crouched on the ground turning around and around holding up his sword and dagger defensively, allowing the drenching ran to wash the mud from his face and eyes. Could the Knight of the Sword see in the dark? Was night vision one of his mysteries?