The Red Cross of Gold III:.
"The Head of the Crow"
The Assassin Chronicles
by
Brendan Carroll
The Head of the Crow is dedicated to everyone who has ever had the desire to find the Philosopher’s Stone.
The characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and coincidental.
Brendan Carroll can be reached at:
http://redcrossofgold.blogspot.com/ for comments or questions.
The Red Cross of Gold III:. The Head of the Crow
Published by Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Brendan Carroll
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Preface
“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomine tuo da glorium. Amen,” Andre ended the closing prayer after they had finished off the meager meal of coarse, dry bread and thick beer.
“Amen,” Geoffrey and Godfrey echoed in unison.
Godfrey turned up the empty beer bucket and watched as the last tiny drop dripped into the dust and was gone. He made a wry face and dusted off his beard before sitting down heavily.
“He can’t be Merlinus Caledonius,” Geoffrey whispered to his companions as he wiped at the dirt and sweat smeared on his forehead. “I have heard it on good authority that Merlinus Caledonius had been dead some 500 years gone now. None can live that long save our good fathers.” He nodded to himself as if confirming this bit of knowledge.
“Take this…” Andre pushed a water skin at him. “The heat is baking your brain, Brother. Do not let him hear you murmuring. Hughes puts much store by him and his knowledge of these parts.”
“I say he is mad,” Geoffrey insisted, but took the water and slurped down a welcome drink, allowing the water to make muddy trails over his bare chest. “What are we looking for? Have we not already found the chest? Is that not enough. May the Lord have mercy on our wretched souls. What are we doing here?”
“We are waiting for orders,” Godfrey spoke up from a few feet away where he was taking his leisure on an overturned cask. “Let him dig for a while. I, myself, am bone weary and choked with this filth.”
The three Knights exchanged looks of heartfelt understanding and commiseration. They had been digging under the ruins of Solomon’s Temple for months. Working under the cover of night with only stinking oil lamps for light and crude picks and axes for tools. Hughes would not even allow them to hire boys to help carry out the baskets of debris dislodged by their haphazard excavations. Secrecy was their creed and their only hope of carrying out Hughes insanely ambitious plot. But Hughes plot had not turned out to be so very insane after all. Only three days earlier, at the direction of the man now in question, they had come upon a secret chamber wherein the object of their unofficial quest had sat inside a sealed stone box. Merlinus might have been a madman, but he was full of surprises and Hughes trusted him implicitly, even though he was a Brit, not even French.
“What do you suppose he wants?” Geoffrey asked the question that had been on all their minds and jerked his head toward the small opening into which Caledonius had disappeared some time back. “Is Hughes paying him to stay mum? What says he will not give us away for a… handsome reward?”
“We must trust in the Lord, Brother,” Andre laughed and then crossed himself. “If he gives us up, I, for one, will disown him entirely. Look at him! He is a Brit. Uncouth and unbaptized. Who will believe him?”
“That is true,” Godfrey agreed as a small smile played across his lips. “We will declare him mad publicly and have him put to death for heresy. Hughes can surely have it done if need be.”
“Hush, now, he comes,” Andre hissed at them.
Presently, Merlinus’ filthy face popped out of the tunnel. His blue eyes sparkled with insanity in the lamp light.
“It is here,” he announced and climbed out of the hole. Standing up straight, he arched his back and popped out the kinks. "Your master will be pleased.”
Geoffrey snorted. Caledonius’ command of Latin left much to be desired. A barbarian he was through and through. What did he want? Why was here? And more importantly, why would he be helping a Frenchman attain one of the greatest treasures in all the world?
“If what you say is true,” Geoffrey began and then paused to pour more water over his head. The water ran down into his face and dripped off his beard “why would you give this secret up so readily to your enemies?”
“Enemies?” Merlinus asked and smiled at him. He had extraordinarily good teeth for a barbarian. “Do you consider yourselves my enemies? How so?” He actually sounded hurt. “I have no enemies in this world. You know nothing of enemies, my friend. Where I come from, there are things that would drive you mad at first sight and make your heart fail in your chest ere you drew a breath.”
“But why do you give us these things?” Godfrey continued where Geoffrey left off. “Why not take them for yourself? Surely you would wish to be rich?”
“Rich? I am already rich,” Caledonius muttered as he scratched his head with both hands and reached for the water skin. A cloud of dust hovered around his head and small pebbles fell to the floor. “I would have your master take this thing from this place before it falls into the hands of the Saracens. Though you would not know what to do with it, as Frenchmen, you will do nothing but posture and gesture until Kingdom Come. That is what I wish. It will be safe in Gaul.”
“Champagne!” Andre corrected him. “We will be taking it to Champagne.”
“Ahhhh, forgive my ignorance, my lord,” Merlinus said and made a sweeping bow. “Champagne. Yes. And then further on beyond Hadrian’s wall. That is where it will be safe. You will see.”
“Hadrian’s wall?!” Andre, who was most worldly amongst the Brothers, scoffed. “Hughes will not be going into that barbarous land. What need have we of…”
“Hughes will not be going where?” another voice interrupted their conversation.
They looked up to see Hughes sliding down the rubble pile to join them. He got up at once and dusted off his clothes as best he could. The dig was such a filthy place and water was scarce.
“This one claims that we will be going to Caledonia and beyond Hadrian’s wall,” Andre answered his question.
“Ahhhh, Merlinus,” Hughes nodded and turned to his odd companion. “What news have you?”
“This,” Merlinus said as he dug inside a dirty, brown bag hanging from a worn leather belt at his waist. He pulled out a small disc and held it in the palm of his hand.
The Brothers gathered round to look at this new wonder. A round, shining disc of gold. On its face were carved symbols of ancient Hebrew.
“The Key!” Hughes exclaimed with excitement glowing in his eyes. “You have found the Key! God bless my poor head! It is ours.”
“The Golden Key of the Ark of the Covenant,” Geoffrey muttered. “I thought it only a lie.”
“O ye of little faith,” Merlinus answered. “I thought you a good Christian, Geoffrey.”
“I should cut your throat!” Geoffrey threatened him and Hughes held up one hand between them.
“Peace!” he cried and took up the golden key in his hand. He removed himself nearer the fire and examined the artifact closely before frowning up at Merlinus. “There seems to be some problem here, friend.”
“Ahhhh, yes,” Caledonius agreed. “The stone is missing, my lord.”
“Where is it?!” Hughes turned on him at once.
“Do not accuse me, my lord,” Merlinus answered him without fear. “It is I who have led you thus far. Why would I be deceitful now?”
“Search him,” Hughes ordered his men. “Off with the clothes!”
Merlinus laughed.
“As you wish, my lord,” he said and laughed again at them. “I am honored that you would be concerned with my welfare so much so that you would wish to gaze upon my manhood. Let us not forget our beginnings and our ends. You may wish to avoid thinking of me in the night whilst wondering where your wife and daughters might be.”
“Hold your tongue, lest I remove it from your head!” Geoffrey growled at him as he spun him around in the dusty chamber.
The four Brothers watched as the Brit disrobed and handed each piece of his ragged clothing over for inspection. His meager possessions belied the education and knowledge he held in his head. He was dressed not much better than a beggar. His rough shirt and breeches were tattered, brown wool and full of holes. His cloak was threadbare and his purse held only two pieces of silver. The pay he had received from Hughes earlier in the morning.
Hughes gathered the clothes and threw them back at the man, turning aside his gaze as he dressed.
“Forgive my impertinence,” he said when Merlinus was dressed once more. “Pray tell me what do you think has become of the stone? Shall we search further?”
“The stone is not necessary for our purposes,” Merlinus told them.
“Our purposes?” Godfrey asked in amazement. “What do you know of our purposes?”
“My purpose is your purpose,” he answered. “In time, the stone will be found again and replaced in the Key. There is no hurry. Our first concern is getting the Key and the Ark to safety.”
“Will you come to Champagne with us then?” Hughes asked when Merlinus began to make his way over the rubble pile toward the tunnel that led up and out of the ruins.
“I may come by and by,” he answered over his shoulder. “But do not expect to see me again in this lifetime.”
Chapter One of Nineteen
I will make a man more precious than fine gold
Mark thumped the calendar hanging on the wall in his cluttered laboratory, scaring three fat brown spiders away from the dusty paper. He ripped it from the wall angrily and shook off the dust. It was new, but looked old like everything else in the dimly lit room. The page had not been turned in four months and still showed February. He flipped it over to June and looked at the date. June 19, 2016. Two days before Midsummer’s Eve. The calendar, compliments of a local feed store where Major MacLaughlin, his latest apprentice, bought dog food and other supplies, showed four magnificent stallions galloping across an emerald green pasture. He sighed and smiled at the beautiful photograph of the stallions caught against the dark green backdrop of the Scottish countryside. A red one, a black one, a white one and a gray one. Beautiful animals though they reminded him of the Biblical horses of the Apocalypse. His mind pushed away the pain just long enough for one fleeting thought to enter. He thought of how wonderful it would be to ride such an animal at full gallop along a windswept beachhead, but the thought made the pain return, reminding him of how much more comfortable was the seat in his Mercedes sedan than a saddle. Subconsciously, he rubbed the offending spot on his back with his left hand and tried to work the kink out by rotating his shoulder, but it was persistent.
He yawned as he hung the calendar back on the hook and then winced as the pain grabbed him anew. Leaning both hands on the workbench, he stretched his back once more then realized that he felt bad all over. Not mentally, but physically bad. His whole body ached. Pressing one hand to his forehead, he found the skin hot and dry. Fever? How could that be? His cheeks burned and his lips were chapped. The glowing coals in the forge made the laboratory hot and stuffy. In fact, should have been sweating by now. Instead, he felt cold and clammy. He’d been planning to work on a double-headed ax blade that Sir Barry had commissioned, but he’d lost interest when the pain had presented itself again. Aggravating. He tried to remember what he might have done to cause it. He picked up an antique soda bottle from the clutter on the long table and swirled its bluish contents briefly before drinking it down, making a terrible face. The bitter flavor made him wish that he had brought some water down from the kitchen to wash away the taste of the herbs. He was no herbal specialist like Simon of Grenoble, but he knew a bit about medicine and medicinal concoctions from his studies at Oxford and had occasionally made potions for his household members when they suffered from the normal aches and pains of everyday life. But one had to be very careful, especially with the mortal members of the Order. Some of his chemical compounds and herbal decoctions were quite toxic; many were deadly.
A small, oddly shaped brick oven hissed and sputtered on the table in front of him. Time to add more fuel. He found the coal bucket and opened the little iron door at the bottom of the ancient alchemical device. Three small lumps of coal fit into the firebox. He raked the excess ashes into a metal can, added fresh coal and closed the door. A small window made of clear yellow quartz allowed a peek at the red hot crucible suspended on hooks in the center of the oven. The compound in the dish was blackened, almost ready to be removed, cooled and ground into powder. He closed the window and another pain, that made the previous ones seem like twinges, assailed him, sending him stumbling backwards, gasping for breath. This one hung on for several breath-taking seconds before releasing its hold. The cause of his malady eluded him. He didn’t remember straining his back or falling or being run down by a train.
In mounting anger laced with fear, he ripped the calendar from the wall and flung it to the floor before retreating back up the stairs.
(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))
Mark’s clock fell to the floor when he reached for it, bounced once on the rug and then skittered across the hardwood floor, sliding out of sight under the bureau. It seemed to move in slow motion and he wondered if he were dreaming. After several seconds, when nothing else happened, he decided that the clock was real enough, but the time was surely wrong. Seven-forty-five. He never slept past six-thirty. The intensity of the sunlight filtering through the shades and around the draperies affirmed the hour as much later than usual, but the time was not the only thing wrong. Cold sweat made his long, dark hair stick to the back of his neck and the pain he had attributed to yet another nightmare battlefield clung to him even though he lay staring up at the underside of the canopy above his bed. The cause of the pain in the dream had been the result of a stab wound in his back, inflicted by some shadowy, unseen enemy. It was a deep, gripping pain that should have dissipated immediately when he opened his eyes to the morning light. Tomorrow was Midsummer’s Eve and time again for the feast of St. John. For fifteen years, the Feast of St. John had marked a time of increasingly vivid nightmares and unbidden memories from the distant, and not so distant past, tormenting and haunting him in the wee hours of the night. Nothing could turn it aside and nothing could alter it. Each year, in his dreams, it seemed that he relived the experiences of every Midsummer’s Eve throughout his lengthy life. Relived the physical pains he had suffered on this particular date, felt every emotional distress with acute remembrances that disappeared almost immediately upon waking. If it had always been so, he didn’t know. There were still many fuzzy areas and gaping holes in his memory proceeding from the bout of amnesia he had suffered just prior to meeting Miss Meredith Sinclair for the first time. In fact, his life was now divided quite distinctly into two halves. Before Meredith and After Meredith. Why it was so each year on the Summer Solstice, he was unable to say, but always, it was the same… until this morning. This morning it was different... very different.
Everything in his room looked as it always had to his bleary eyes as he tried to focus on the familiar articles. Everything smelled at it should. Wood polish, floor wax, lemon oil, brass polish and the faint aroma of Scotch whiskey from the bottom of the glass on his bedside table. The white linen panels between the heavy green draperies fluttered softly in the morning breeze, bringing in other smells from the meadow. Flowers. Wild flowers accompanied by the distant sound of birds and the tinkle of a cow’s bell. His neighbor’s milk cows were loose again, grazing in the open expanse of land between his house and the thick hedgerow near the highway. But it was not his neighbor’s errant cows that made this morning different.
Mark Andrew was still in pain and he was not injured!
At first, the idea was incomprehensible. Very slowly, he came to realize that he was ill, but he couldn’t be ill. He was never ill. He was one of the three eldest members of the immortal Council of Twelve. He never caught colds, fevers or any other disease that plagued the rest of mortal mankind. He did not suffer the normal aches and pains associated with the wretched human shell in which his soul was captured and he never felt the weight of eight-hundred-plus years in his bones. The only physical pains he ever suffered were inflicted by injuries and the occasional headache associated with a hangover. Nothing ever invented by God or man could cure the effects of good Scotch. Unfortunately, these wondrous aspects of immortality did not abolish mental anguish, which could be, at times, even more debilitating than a knife wound to the kidneys. But, this morning something was terribly wrong.
He dragged himself from his bed and walked stiffly into the adjoining bathroom. His back hurt... terribly. There was a pain in his lower left side that felt as if all the muscles were tied in knots. A quick self-examination of himself in the mirror showed nothing overtly amiss. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed. His face was still the same. Long, damp hair cascaded down each side of his face and his striking blue eyes stared back at him, frowning deeply as he tried once more to remember if he had perhaps injured himself accidentally. Hell, he hadn’t even been drunk enough lately to fall down the stairs. The idea of drinking at the moment made him shudder. Another abnormality. The day before had been particularly depressing and he’d not even finished one glass of Scotch. Highly unusual. Dreary gray clouds had filled the sky most of the day and he’d not even bothered to leave his room before noon though he’d been up before five, praying and cleaning out an old trunk at the foot of his bed. After that, he’d gone down for lunch and spent the afternoon moping in his equally dreary laboratory in the basement, making up a new batch of the Yellow. Not that he really needed more of the explosive liquid, but it passed the time.
Pressing one hand against the offending spot, he leaned back, trying to stretch the pain away, but the effort only made it worse. He turned around and tried to see his back in the mirror. He touched the scar on his side, just below his ribcage, where a Saracen’s dagger had brutally wounded him in the bloody streets of Jerusalem almost a millennium ago, but the pain did not emanate from there.
After a shower and shave, he knelt in front of the crucifix in his bedroom, crossed himself and repeated six of the twenty-eight Pater Nosters required by the Primitive Rule each morning upon rising and then went down to the kitchen for breakfast. Six was a good round number and he fancied that God would not care for a droning repetition every morning. If he were God, he knew he’d not like it all. Taking his place quietly at the head of the table, he cast a quick glance at Major MacLaughlin, who had been training with him in the Art of Alchemy with him for the past eight and a half years. The young man sat on his right, watching him from the corner of his eye. Mark looked up at him only twice during the silent meal of oatmeal, buttered toast and peaches drenched in his favorite dressing: condensed milk. The apprentice, the latest in a long line, was a grim reminder of the events that had occurred almost nine years ago when he had lost his former apprentice, Christopher Stewart. Christopher had died uselessly at the hands of Sir James Argonne, late and former, Knight of the Throne. Every time he thought of the insane Argonne, he wanted to drag the man’s corpse from the crypt under the chapel and kill him again.
Thankfully, Major MacLaughlin looked nothing like Christopher. His big, brown eyes danced with a mischief that was well disguised by his somber disposition. Mark Andrew had chosen him almost haphazardly from Sir Barry’s academy in Italy simply because he bore a Scottish surname and the Grand Master was pressuring him to replace Stewart. Major had proven to be a good choice for apprenticeship in the Art of Alchemy, in spite of the careless method in which he was chosen. His secondary duties as Assassin were as yet to be tried. Mercifully, no one had needed assassination recently. Major was well mannered, studious and best of all... quiet. He had none of Christopher’s rambunctious desire to be doing and talking and thinking out loud all the time, but this morning, there was something on the apprentice’s mind. The only two things the Knight and the apprentice had in common other than their shared nationality, were the Order of the Red Cross of Gold and a pair of carefully concealed tempers. Mark was in no mood to entertain the young man’s fancies and so, concentrated his attention on stirring an inordinate amount of sugar into his tea.
Bruce Roberts, also a fairly new member of the Ramsay household, employed as cook and handy-man, filled the younger man’s glass with milk when he held it up and retreated to his stove where he was already busy cooking dinner. Mark leaned one elbow on the table and pressed his left hand to his forehead. The pain in his back had not lessened, but was gaining in intensity as he sat on the backless wooden bench. When he managed to down only half of his breakfast, he looked up once more and found Major staring at him pensively. The alchemist stood slowly and muttered the call to prayer, repeating the thanksgiving prayers required after the meal, his voice was strained and he stopped and started again jerkily, as the pain ebbed and flowed. He held up his cup for more tea and sat down heavily… tiredly. The barest groan escaped his lips unexpectedly and unappreciated when the action jarred his spine.
“What?” he asked simply, ending the silence of the meal, opening the floor for the unavoidable discussion of whatever was on MacLaughlin’s mind.
“You are in pain?” Major asked him in a low voice.
“Why?” Mark did not want to tell him or anyone else about the pain. It was not possible. It would go away.
“I can see it in your face.” Major glanced at the cook to make sure the man was not listening.
“It’s nothing.” Mark looked up the ceiling, but did not elaborate. He felt angry with the young man for asking the question, though he knew he was only showing concern.
“What will you do, sir?” Major asked him.
“I’ll consult with the Healer, if need be,” Mark told him nonchalantly as if he suffered from illnesses on a regular basis. He repressed the urge to admonish the apprentice for prying into his personal business, but apprentices were similar to body servants in many ways and the Master’s well-being was legitimately within his area of concern. The Order’s apprentices were more closely related to what had once been known as Squires. They were the Knights’ attendants in addition to student and possible replacement if the Master somehow, somewhere managed to lose his head. It was Major’s duty to care for his Knight, irksome or no.
“Would you like me to contact him for you, sir?” Major offered. He knew very well that the Knight did not like to use the phone or the computer in the library, preferring to send letters or speak in person with whomever he wished to communicate. As he put it, he did not like ‘sending words into the ether for anyone or anything to hear or see’. Major did not know what his Master might imagine would be lurking in the ‘ether’, but had never dared to ask.
“I will let you know!” Mark Andrew answered brusquely and got up too quickly. The pain grabbed him worse than before and he put one hand on the heavy table to steady himself. Major was up in a flash and almost touched him before he thought better of it.
The apprentice watched him thoughtfully as he straightened slowly, cast a dark, warning glance at him and then made his way up the hallway where he disappeared into the library. Bruce brought the apprentice a cup of tea as he sat back down at the table. The old cook took a seat across from Major and glanced nervously down the hall. It would not have been proper for him to sit at the same table with the Chevalier without an invitation, whereas Major was likened more to an officer of the ranks than an enlisted soldier.
“Master Ramsay is ill?” the cook asked and Major looked at him sharply. The retired soldier was no idiot. “Isn’t that a bit…. unusual?” He leaned toward Major and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“Nay, not unusual at all...” Major said and leaned toward the cook, likewise lowering his voice before continuing. “Impossible would be the better word.”
Bruce nodded, leaned back and sipped his own honey-laced cup of tea thoughtfully as he perceived one of the neighbor’s cows encroaching on the lawn outside the kitchen window.
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Mark limped into the library and slammed the double doors behind him. He stopped in front of the desk and glared down accusingly at the computer. The shiny new computer he had bought after the death of Christopher Stewart made his heart ache. State of the art with all the bells and whistles anyone might wish for. With a pang of remorse, he thought how much Christopher would have appreciated the thing and how often the young man had begged him to buy one. And then Christopher had been killed… for nothing! The computer asked what his pleasure might be when he touched the keyboard and he almost jammed his fist through the thin monitor where one of Major’s cartoon characters smiled at him, blinking and winking. His pleasure could not be had and he would not talk to the machine. After a few moments and another excruciating cramp in his back, he sat down at the desk and began slowly pecking at the keys which would connect him to Simon d’Ornan’s computer in Italy. He knew there was supposed to be an easier way to do this, but he’d never paid any attention to Major’s attempts to teach him more about the bloody contraption. Major told him that all he had to do was ‘say’ what he wanted. Say the message and say ‘send’ at the end. Too easy. What if you made a mistake and wanted to change something? Memory sticks, brain chips and blooming address snips. Sounded like hors d'oeuvres. Instant messages. Hrrump! Instant tea. Instant pudding. Instant gratification! Instant death...
His message to the Mystic Healer was simple and direct: Contact me at once. I need you. MAR
“Send!” he said irritably when he could not find a way to manually transmit the message. The computer thanked him and asked if it could further help him. He muttered something rude and left the machine totally confused.
Sir Ramsay collapsed into his favorite armchair in front of the cold fireplace and stared into the grate dejectedly. His thoughts were blank, his clothes were black and his future was bleak. Whatever was causing this pain in his back could only be the product of sorcery. Something that he’d not thought of in years. Someone, somewhere was calling up what should not be disturbed.
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The normally restful Roman Villa set in the picturesque olive groves near the shoulder of Mount Vesuvius was in an uproar. The Grand Master had gone without a word to anyone. Suddenly and without warning, Edgard d’Brouchart, Grand Master of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold had packed a borrowed bag and left... alone. Sir Philip Cambrique had been holding court at the pool side in the sunny courtyard all morning and well into the afternoon, trying to answer the same questions he had wanted to ask of the Master himself. He had no answers. The Grand Master had gone on a mission. Yes, yes, unheard of, but there was nothing more to tell. Yes, yes, he would be standing in for the Master while he was away. Yes, yes, everything would go on as usual. Nothing would change. Yes, yes, he would call a meeting of the Council and inform everyone as soon as possible. Yes, yes, of course, Master d’Brouchart would be returning. Don’t be upset. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to do. Nothing. Nothing was what the venerable Master had left for his second and that, not even from his own lips, but from a lesser member of the Order. A valet had brought the news, handwritten on the back of a cruise ship brochure! Was not he, Philip, second in command? Why then had Sir d’Brouchart seen fit not to confide in him?
Simon d’Ornan, Chevalier du Serpent, Mystic Healer, had been the last Brother to speak with the Master before he had gone off so mysteriously in the night. The thought rankled in the Seneschal’s mind, but he, like all the members of the Council, had a difficult time finding fault in Brother Simon. Simon was the Master’s favorite of the Twelve. Philip could not be sure as to the reason why, but it was so. The big, red-haired man, sporting a new dress coat and slacks, had visited the Healer’s rooms at three in the morning, roused him from a sound sleep, frightened the wits out of him or so Simon had related the tale to the Seneschal before breakfast.
Simon d’Ornan sat down at his desk. Everything was out of sorts. He couldn’t understand what was happening. His thoughts replayed the encounter with the Master in the wee hours of the morning.
‘I am leaving,’ the Grand Master had announced without preamble while Simon had sat on the side of his bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘I will be gone a few weeks. It is imperative that you stay here and make sure that Philip has the help he needs to keep things in order while I am gone. I will be in contact with him.’
‘Where are you going, Master?’ Simon had asked, his large blue eyes wide in disbelief. The Master had not left the Villa in almost sixteen years. His last brief trip had been to America when the Assassin had been in trouble with the infamous Order of the Rose. He’d often talked of taking a pilgrimage to the south of France, but the proposal had never manifested itself beyond a few wistful words spoken over a bottle of shared wine.
‘I cannot say just now. But I will not be alone.’
‘Who is going with you, sir, if I may ask?’ Simon had blinked in the semi-darkness.
‘Sister Meredith.’
‘The Chevaliere?!’ Simon had been shocked. He knew that the Master had never fully accepted her presence in the previously all male Council. ‘Why Sister Meredith? Won’t you allow me to tag along?’
‘She is necessary,’ D’Brouchart had shrugged resignedly. ‘Would that Hugh d’Champagne had not fallen! But that is not to be helped now.” The Master referred to the death of the Chevaliere’s predecessor who had been murdered nine years previously by the renegade Knight, James Argonne. The Grand Master had continued after a moment of silent reflection. ‘This a matter of grave importance. I may need your help as well when I return. I will send word to you personally, if such is the case.’
“Yes, your Grace.”
This last did not bode well. The only time any one sent for him was when his services as Healer were needed for one of the immortal Council of Twelve. And then, only when they had been grievously injured. If the Healer could not help them, then the Chevalier du Morte would be called to finish them. Simon had shuddered before answering him. ‘I will be here, Master.’
And then he was gone. Simon had found Philip in an uproar by the time he had gone looking for him after morning prayers. The Master had sent the Seneschal only a terse note. Philip had treated him rudely for the first time in their long association, questioning why the Master might have come to him first and not his Seneschal. A real breach of protocol and trust. The Healer had thought that Philip surely knew more than he did, but it was quite evident he did not. Simon was as baffled as Cambrique that the Master would leave without confiding the details of the trip to the Seneschal if for nothing else other than security reasons.
Now the late afternoon sun slanted through the window in his sitting room, falling perfectly on his desk where a small bottle containing a few drams of a dark red liquid sat illuminated, shining like precious rubies. But this was far more precious than rubies, diamonds or gold. This was his most treasured possession. Personal possessions… something strictly forbidden to members of the Order. Yet, they all had personal possessions. Should anyone ask, he would be expected to share everything he had. It was the Rule, but Simon would not share this particular item with anyone, but then no one would ask him to share it. No one knew he had it. He picked it up and absently tilted it back and forth, watching the liquid flow up and down inside the glass, while he pondered the meaning of this latest development. Why would the Master go off now? Why on earth would he take Sister Meredith with him? Slowly his thoughts focused on the liquid’s movements and the rest of the world slipped away.
His PDA intoned the chime that alerted him to incoming e-mail. Probably more junk mail. As hard as he tried to keep the spam blocked, they still managed to get in from time to time. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. He ignored it.
The red tincture in the bottle seemed to mock him. It bore on his mind like the weight of the centuries. What to do with it? What should he do with it? What? His vision focused to a minuscule point of red light and the sound of singing voices filled his head. All around him were the wings of angels. Their beating wings created a stir in the room and ruffled his blonde hair momentarily before he snapped back to reality. He asked himself the same question over and over and yet no answer ever presented itself. His inner voice failed him on this one subject and he attributed it to the fact that he had stolen the Dragon’s Blood from his Brother’s bedside. Certainly it belonged in the treasury with the other relics rather than Brother Ramsay’s dusty laboratory. Surely it was as precious as the Cup of the First Communion, the Holy Grail. Or perhaps, he stepped down his adoration; fearful of committing blasphemy, at least it was worthy of some veneration. It was not exactly the Blood of Christ, but it was close. Very close. The Blood of the Dragon and the Lapis Philosophorum stolen just after the disaster in Scotland nine years ago. The potion could erase sins and make one wholly pure. The precious little measure, sparkling in the bottle was the sum total of all that existed in the world and it could be found sitting on a shelf in his bedroom like a jar of strawberry jam. Simon had not even dared to transfer it to a more fitting vessel for fear of losing some of it in the process. He placed the bottle carefully on the desk by his computer and got on his knees to say his noon prayers and then, finally, begging, as was his daily practice for the last nine years, for forgiveness for stealing the bottle. After the prayers, which had not served to comfort him, he signed into his e-mail account, intending to do more research on the Hermetic Mysteries and the role played by the Order of the Benedictine Monks in their early searches for the Philosopher’s Stone.
Alchemy was not Simon’s specialty. He was the Mystic Healer. He did not dabble in the Art, but he had been researching Sir Ramsay’s mystery for almost a decade now. It had become an obsession since Ramsay had concocted this potion with Sir Dambretti’s help. Ramsay had used his own blood and the Philosopher’s Red Tincture to make it. Simon had been terrified and greatly honored to have had a small hand in the process though his weak constitution had prevented his full cooperation. Watching Mark Andrew poke an awl through his own arm, had done him in quite quickly. One of the things he hated about himself. Every stressful situation sent him running for the toilet where he would inevitably throw up his last meal. A curse from which he could find no relief. Even the Red Tincture had failed to rid him of it.
It seemed strange since this very potion had actually restored the life to Sister Meredith as she lay dying of a mortal wound. A wound inflicted by the insane Knight of the Throne in the crypt below the chapel at Glessyn. She had taken a hit meant for him. She had freely given her own life to save him when he had been barely more than a stranger to her. Had she not intervened, Argonne would have beheaded him. This same potion had served to protect them all from the angels of destruction and a horrible fiery fate. This same potion had cleansed them physically as well as mentally and spiritually, making them ‘like unto virgins’. It was this very potion that had ultimately allowed Meredith Sinclair to become the first woman ever initiated into the ranks of the Red Cross of Gold, let alone become a member of the immortal Council of Twelve. The Healer well remembered his shock upon hearing that she would be knighted. He had questioned the Grand Master intensely, learning nothing. Even now he suspected that the Grand Master knew something that he was not sharing with the rest of the Council concerning Sister Meredith. Since then things had settled into a comfortable routine as if nothing had happened. He, himself, did not feel changed in any manner and the only residual effects was the insatiable desire to learn more about the remarkable liquid. His heart told him to return the vial to the Knight of Death, but he could not bear to part with it, fearing that Mark Ramsay would simply pour it out in frustration. He felt he knew what Bilbo Baggins had suffered upon giving up the Ring of Power in Tolkein’s epic novel. Besides, Ramsay had never mentioned the stuff again. Not once had he asked what had happened to the bottle in which the residue had been. It seemed that Ramsay had completely forgotten about it in his misery and grief, but if he ever did ask for it, Simon would have absolutely no problem turning it over to its rightful owner.
Since then, Simon had done a great deal of research that he should not have been doing, but he was curious. Simply curious. He was, after all, a Healer, and this potion could apparently cure anything up to and almost including death, itself, excluding pre-existing conditions. He laughed to himself. It was like health insurance. No good for guillotine victims either. Simon smiled at the irreverent thought.
He hoped to hear something interesting from his apprentice, Jacques de Plessier, who was currently in France collecting data from the library of one of the Benedictine monasteries. Their works, couched in metaphorical riddling, made them extremely difficult to read and understand. If he hadn’t wanted to keep his investigations quiet, he would have asked Dambretti to help him translate, but Lucio would not be pleased to learn that he was digging in forbidden ground. Jacques faithfully gathered the data and sent it to him in daily e-mails, never questioning his Master’s interest in alchemy. Together, they hashed it over and tried to make sense of it all by phone and computer.
In his youth, Simon d’Ornan, or Simon of Grenoble, as he had been known then, had been a Cistercian monk, and had spent his entire early life living in a monastery in France, living the monastic life of peaceful service and solitude. In fact, he had been recruited by d’Brouchart as a Friar for the order just prior to his ‘accident’ which had occurred almost simultaneously with the Friday 13th arrest of the French Templars in 1307. One moment he had been holding mass in one of the chapels and the next thing he remembered was waking up in Scotland. There was a sizable chunk of memory missing in his brain that covered about three months, but considering the nature of his ‘accident’, he preferred it that way.
Jacques had made many good friends at the monastery and had sent back a wealth of information concerning the subject of his search, but all in all, Simon had soon learned that the Benedictines were still in search of the legendary Philosopher’s Stone, which they believed to be an actual stone and not some sort of concoction or more esoteric item such as truth or philosophy, as some students of the Art believed. There had been a few notable Alchemists among the Benedictines, but they had taken their secrets to the grave and left behind only hints and glimmers of what discoveries they had made. According to what Jacques had unearthed, the Philosopher’s Stone would be revealed in time to an elect few and would be used to bring about great and miraculous works in the end times. Works, which would be done when Christ’s army returned to earth to battle the forces of evil. Of course, Armageddon or Har Megiddo. Simon had wondered whom the elect few might be and if it referred to the Council of Twelve or particular members thereof. They were supposed to do great works when the Christ returned in the end of times. So, if this was true, and the Philosopher’s Stone was an actual stone, then what was it that Ramsay used to make his gold? Was the Argent vive in the bottle something entirely different from the Lapis Philosophorum? Only the Knight of Death knew the answer. But he could not ask Ramsay about his mysteries. Argent vive. What did it mean? Perhaps he could ask him just in passing, somehow work it into the conversation. But what conversation? He tried hard to remember a real conversation with the Scot. Dambretti was Mark’s closest friend and yet, they sometimes seemed to be mortal enemies bent on destroying each other.
Ordo Sancti Benedicti, his mind wandered back to Jacques. He didn’t like the Brothers overmuch even though his own primary order, the Cistercians, had evolved from them. But they were much more preferable to the Dominicans from whence the worst Inquisitors had issued. Christians killing and torturing other Christians was abominable. Priests killing and torturing other priests was unbelievable.
Simon returned his attention to his computer when he heard the tone indicating he had more e-mail. He opened his mail and saw that Jacques had sent him several messages earlier in the day, but the one that caught his eye was from Scotland and signed simply MAR, sent several hours earlier. The terse language indicated that Sir Ramsay, himself, had sent it and the contents made him shudder. Mark Andrew needed him? He hadn’t seen him in over six months. That he had just been thinking of Ramsay made him very nervous indeed. What now? He glanced at the calendar. Almost Midsummer’s Eve. Not good. He picked up the phone and called Scotland. While he waited for an answer, he opened the desk drawer and took out an oblong bundle wrapped in plastic and secured with a plain rubber band. He pulled off the rubber band and unrolled the plastic, laying it out carefully on the desk, staring at it in abstract fascination. Exposed to view after nine long years lay a long, black braid with two ornate, silver earrings entwined in one end. The braid that, in a moment of black despair, Mark Ramsay had cut from his head after learning that Meredith had betrayed him with his friend and Brother of the Order, Lucio Dambretti.
The Healer ran one finger over the silver ornaments and wondered yet again what had made him take the braid from Mark Andrew’s bed and preserve it. It must have been the same thing that had made him take the elixir. An immoral sense of morbid fascination. The braid was a memento of a real Shakespearean star-crossed love affair. Perhaps he would take up the pen some day and write about it for posterity. What posterity? If Mark found out... if Mark knew that he had stolen the braid and the elixir, he’d have no posterity to speak of.
“Aye?” a male voice, almost hesitant answered the phone.
“Brother Ramsay?” Simon was surprised to hear him answer the phone personally.
“Yes,” the voice sounded far away, stressed. “Simon?”
“I received your message. What can I do for you?”
“I need you... here.” Short and to the point.
“Have you heard the news?” Simon did not like the sound of his voice and wanted to draw him out a bit. A formidable task, considering the quiet nature of the Alchemist. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to the Scot on the telephone.
“What news?”
He sounded very distraught, almost as if he were in pain?
“D’Brouchart.” Simon did not want to say much on the phone.
“No, I’ve haven’t heard. I need you... here!” A short pause. “Now, Brother. Pass on your news in person... please.” Almost desperate.
“I will do what I can.” Simon chewed his lip as a growing sense of dread spread over him. It was obvious that Mark Andrew was not going to tell him anything on the phone and Mark would not make such a request unnecessarily, but he had promised the Master that he would stay at the Villa and await his messages. Furthermore, he’d never had Ramsay plead with him for anything. Something was terribly wrong. The Knight was not even interested in the news about the Master.
“Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Hurry.” The phone went dead.
This was too much! First, d’Brouchart’s mysterious departure and now this cryptic plea from the Chevalier du Morte? Simon speed-dialed Dambretti’s number in Naples. No answer. It figured. He was probably sleeping off another hangover in the bathtub. The Knight of the Golden Eagle had been almost as reclusive as Ramsay after Sister Meredith had chosen to join the Order instead of marrying him. The Italian had even given up his precious Amelia, but it had changed nothing.
Simon would have to go to Scotland. There was nothing else he could do. He would have to make sure his messages were transferred there, he would have to tell Philip Cambrique something.
Grabbing up his cell phone as he hurried out the door, he ran down the length of the sidewalk toward the pool where he had last seen Sir Philip surrounded by a number of worried faces. The crowd was gone. Sir Philip’s chair was empty. Only one person sat by the pool. A surprise, indeed.
Lucio Dambretti was sitting on the table looking out over the sparkling water, his deep, brown eyes concealed behind a pair of dark sunshades.
“Brother Lucio.” Simon drew up short next to the table. He suddenly felt extremely guilty for having mentally accused the Italian of being drunk and he felt as if the Knight would know it somehow. “I’m sorry,” he apologized automatically.
Dambretti took off the glasses and turned his dark eyes on the Healer. Simon almost hated seeing the man these days. A sort of thoughtful, almost pensive look, which bespoke great unhappiness, had replaced his usual lightness. His face was unchanged physically, handsome in spite of a long scar on his cheek that started just below the outer corner of his left eye and ended at his jawline. A lasting memento of his first encounter with the Knight of Death in Jerusalem over eight hundred years ago. His normally sunny disposition was gone. He’d lost not only Meredith, but he’d lost his best friend and benefactor in the bargain. This time, he’d gone too far. Simon doubted Mark would ever forgive Lucio.
“Simon,” he said simply. “What is happening here?”
“The Master has gone,” Simon told him simply. “I don’t know where.”
Dambretti nodded, absorbing this information slowly. He actually did not seem to care.
“We have another problem.” Simon glanced about.
He didn’t know for sure if he should confide Mark’s problem to Lucio. Mark Andrew would probably not take kindly to it. Nothing had been the same between them after Merry had rejected both their offers of marriage and taken the oath of the Templars. It seemed they blamed each other for having lost her to the Order. Now she would be with them always, but never actually with either one of them. Simon could not imagine how it must have been for them. He had never been plagued by the love of women. He had always been too shy to approach them when he was a young man and his early monastic existence had forbidden intimate contact with them as a matter of course. He had only a few vague memories of blushing young ladies hiding behind fans or veils in the chapel whenever he looked their way during services after he had become a priest in his own right. That time in his life had seemed as brief as a single breath of air. One young lady in particular had caused him a heartache or two which he’d never confessed. Shortly after that, he had joined the Order of the Red Cross of Gold and life had taken a sharp turn. Avoiding them had become extremely facile afterwards and Simon had his own reasons for avoiding the company of women.
“Brother Ramsay has asked me... no, demanded my presence in Scotland.” Simon told him and watched his face undergo a subtle change.
“What on earth is wrong with him?” the Italian asked after a moment. The hint of an amused smile played on his lips. Condescension. Not good. “Another broken tooth? Or is this some part of the Master’s plan to which I am not privy?”
“I don’t know the Master’s plan, Brother, but I do know I must go to a Brother in need,” Simon replied and frowned in the bright afternoon sun. His blue eyes crinkled and his blonde hair fluffed momentarily in the breeze. “Would you care to come along? Perhaps you may ask the same question of our beloved Alchemist.”
“No,” Lucio answered shortly and slid off the table. He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. Dambretti always feigned boredom when things really bothered him. “I’ve seen enough of Scotland to last a lifetime... a long lifetime.”
“You have forgiven yourself?” Simon asked.
“Yes, but little has changed,” Dambretti shrugged and Simon expected him to say something about God’s will. Instead he smiled, crinkling the scar on his face. “If you need me, call me. I’ll be around.”
“I will,” Simon nodded and watched him walk away before hurrying off to continue his search for Sir Philip.
The Seneschal, on the other hand, was not happy to hear that he would be leaving the Villa at this particular time. Simon had finally admitted to him why and where he was going and Sir Philip became even less happy. They were both thinking the same thing. That wherever the Master had gone, it may have something to do with the strange request from Brother Ramsay and, if that was the case, then their troubles might be magnified ten fold. Ramsay had been the center of nothing but trouble for almost sixteen years. Philip gave Simon his permission to leave and his blessings and an admonishment to stay in touch... close and frequent touch. Even Philip could not deny a request for help from a member of the Council. It was not allowed.
“I will,” Simon promised the Knight of the Orient.
“Go with God.” Sir Philip embraced him briefly.
Simon rushed back to his rooms and sent off an e-mail to Jacques in France instructing him to stay put and wait for further instructions, telling him where he was going and as much as possible about what was going on in Italy without saying too much.
(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))
Father Michel Barres jumped when the young monk crashed through the door of the chamber deep within the convoluted cellars of the monastery.
“Henri! Watch yourself,” he exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Henri said breathlessly as he pulled up next to the heavy wooden table where the Father sat perusing a tattered journal through thick reading glasses. “Another message has come. This one is very interesting.” He held out a computer printout on cheap, recycled paper from the monastery’s ancient printer.
Michel laid the journal on the table next to an array of glass bottles, corks, measuring cups, flasks, beakers, wooden spoons, burners and assorted tubes and coils of copper. He took the paper from the boy’s hand and read.
Jacques: Must go to Scotland. Urgent business. E.D.B. gone. Stand pat. Will advise. S.P.d’O.
“Scotland,” Michel mused. “Just as we expected, Henri. Very good. Very good, indeed. Have you shown this to anyone else? Does Jacques know?”
“No, Father.” Henri shook his head. “I have deleted the message just as you instructed.”
“Good! Well done, Henri.”
Michel laid his glasses aside, slide from the stool and crossed the room to a rickety table holding a few bottles of wine, tumblers and a heavy silver candlestick . “A toast to our success.”
“Wine?” the young man asked in surprise when he saw the label on the bottle. “That is the Bishop’s private stock.”
“Of course, it is. All the better, no?” Father Barres smiled at him and poured the glasses full. “You deserve a reward for your diligence.”
“Thank you, Father.” Henri took the glass and sniffed the aroma. His alcoholic tendencies were the very thing that had brought him into association with Father Barres. He really didn’t like him very much and he didn’t like whatever it was the priest was up to. It didn’t seem very Christian.
“Here’s to our success, Henri.” Michel raised his hand to clink glasses with the young monk.
“Success, Father,” Henri muttered and turned up the glass, while Father Barres watched him over the rim of his own glass. They nodded to each other and drank again until the glasses were empty.
“Bon vin, bons spiritueux,” the priest declared and set his glass on the table. “Here help me with this,” he instructed as he reached for a large cardboard box sitting on the floor.
Henri picked up the box for him and set it on the table before taking one staggering step back. He pressed one hand against his forehead and then crumpled to the floor. When he tried to get up, he coughed twice, clawed at his neck briefly and then collapsed in a lifeless heap. Michel looked at him curiously and nudged him with one foot. The stuff was potent! “Bons spiritueux,” he whispered and smiled to himself. Nogaret had asked for something quick and relatively painless. This should please him quite well.
Michel poured himself another glass of the Bishop’s best and pulled out a leather portfolio. He resumed his seat on the stool and replaced his reading glasses on his nose.
The journal belonged to Jacques de Plessier, apprentice to the Mystic Healer, the ‘S.P.d’O’ of Henri’s printout. Simon Peter d’Ornan, Chevalier du Serpent, of the venerable Council of Twelve, Order of the Red Cross of Gold, Poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple, AKA Simon of Grenoble. At last, his perseverance had paid off. A trusting young man, Jacques de Plessier, who was, at that moment, upstairs drooling over some dusty old manuscript full of cryptic alchemical treatises. He picked up a copy of the poem written by Simon Forman some several hundred years earlier concerning the Philosopher’s Stone and read aloud:
“But the four elements do make influence