Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness. Broken hearted.
Sir Ramsay caught up with Christopher Stewart just as he was nearing the entrance to the old bomb shelter. The ground was still shaking and trembling from the tremendous works going on atop the hill. Water alternately gushed and trickled from the opening which was now clogged with tumbled down boulders and debris. Merry clung to the apprentice desperately and the young man did his best to comfort her. He could hear Christopher using the same soothing voice that he most often employed whenever he was speaking to his pair of wolfhound pups back in Scotland. Mark Andrew took hold of her arm and turned her around abruptly, eliciting a short shriek before she recognized him. He looked into her eyes and saw there a mixture of conflicting emotions. She blinked up at him, frowning in bewildered confusion, her deceptively innocent beauty seemed permanently marred by an expression of total fear and incomprehension. He kissed her lightly on the lips, hugged her briefly and then released her before repeating the same actions with his apprentice. It was the embrace of a brother for a sister and he realized that his feelings for her had changed radically in a very few short minutes. He still loved her, but his duty to the Order had crashed in on him and brought him to his senses. No matter the nature or depth of his feelings for her, there was no hope and he had buried them in the deepest pit of his mind. It was the only way he could cope with the present intolerable situation.
"Take her down to the house," he told the young man. "Stay with her until I come for you. Don’t let her return here."
Merry caught his arm. "No!" was the only word she could manage as fresh tears sprang to her eyes. He knew that she was saying no to more than his return to the top of the hill and he could do nothing for her. Nothing for himself. Mark Andrew could not look at her again or he would have taken her and run.
Christopher dutifully took hold of her arm and pulled her along with him beginning his litany of reassuring phrases, sounding much like a priest or a father speaking to a child. She stumbled after him, trying to look back as Mark Andrew retreated up the trail.
He had to go. There was no other way. Mark did not dare even the shortest glance back.
When he reached the summit of the trail, the sight of the devastation appalled him and renewed his own fear of the magick his Master had wrought here in the bright summer sun. Huge gleaming blocks of limestone lay neatly arranged in rows of threes across the flat top of the hill beside a gaping pit from which wisps of steam drifted. The terrible insects were no longer working the quarry. The only evidence of their existence was the flapping, blood-smeared silk that looked like a downed battle flag, lying directly in front of him. It was the remains of the creature that he had slashed with Beaujold’s sword. There had been nothing in the thing, but air… no blood. The blood looked too red, too real in the brilliant sunshine. This was the place where he had left the downed Knight of the Sword. The bright red streaks on the white limestone reminded him of the Templar cross and white mantel. The Templar cross on the white shield. The Templar cross on the white disc on his sword. Blood, the color of life and white, the color of divinity. There was nothing but death and destruction on the hill top and the sight chilled him to the bone causing a deep shudder to pass through his soul. This was the blood of the Chevalier d’Epee and with a sinking feeling in his stomach he knew that the Knight was beyond help this time. Even so, someone would have to finish the job, though he was not sure that it should be him. It was now up to the Grand Master to decide what would be done.
Sir Edgard d’Brouchart stood with his four remaining Knights surveying the scene in wonder and awe. The Grand Master turned to look at Ramsay as he approached them slowly and the others followed suit. Mark stepped over the lifeless body of the security agent, his eyes were locked on the big, red-haired man holding the staff of twisted ivory. He knelt on one knee in front of the man, laid his golden sword on the ground between them and bowed his head, exposing his neck for them to do as they would.
He closed his eyes and waited. Rough hands closed on his shoulders and he was pulled to his feet. He opened his eyes and saw the face of the Grand Master very close in front of him. The watery blue eyes searched his face briefly and then he received the kiss of greeting.
"Brother Ramsay," D’Brouchart said simply. "The Chevalier d’Epee has fallen. Attend to his needs."
Mark Andrew retrieved his sword from the ground and walked purposefully to where the gossamer strips of the destroyed insect waved lazily in the light summer breeze. Only the Knight’s knees and lower legs were exposed as he lay wrapped in the bulk of the remains. Sir Ramsay used the Knight’s silver sword to cut away the light fluff around the man’s upper body. It floated away on the breeze, disappearing like wisps of steam or ghosts of tormented spirits, fleeing in the heat of the noonday sun. He had to close his eyes as he steeled himself mentally against the sight of the Knight’s face and fought down the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He crossed himself and knelt beside the inert body.
Sir Thomas Beaujold was no longer recognizable as the man he had been for so many years. There was no skin and very little flesh left on his upper body. His blue eyes were exposed in hollowed sockets and his teeth grinned up in a skeletal caricature of his former self. Bare white bone made up his forehead and scalp and his ears were missing along with his nose. His arms and chest and everything else that had been touched by the skin of the worm was a bloody mass of muscles, tendons, exposed ribs and breastbone. The man’s breath rattled in his chest and even his lungs could be glimpsed expanding and contracting through open slits between his ribs. He still breathed, but how could it be so? Why did it have to be he who looked upon his Brother’s dying moments?
Ramsay caught his breath sharply as the light blue eyes moved in their sockets. Not only alive, but conscious!
"No!" he said aloud and brought one hand up to cover his mouth. "God is merciful! God is merciful!" he said the words that he no longer believed and almost bolted when a bloody, bony hand suddenly took hold of his collar, pulling him down over the grotesque face. Sir Thomas was trying to speak to him. He leaned closer and held his ear very close the lipless mouth.
Three raspy words rattled in the man’s throat and escaped through his teeth.
"Shrive me, Brother."
The hand dropped away. Ramsay scrambled away from him and stood on his knees beside him with his forehead pressed against the hilt of the Flaming Sword of the Cherubim, breathing hard, trying to master control of his emotions. He had seen nothing like this in ages. The Knight of Death inhaled deeply and then leaned over his downed Brother. He tapped him lightly on the shoulder and nodded before saying "Your sins are absolved, Brother. Go in peace."
"Forgive?" one last word rattled from the Knight’s throat along with his final breath. Mark Andrew knew he would have only twelve minutes to complete the ceremony before…
He raised his eyes to the bright, blue sky and then held the sword in both hands, point up.
"I am he that liveth and was dead and behold, I am alive forever more in God, the Creator of the Universe. I hold the key of Death. I have seen the work of thy labors and have been witness to the devotion of thy trust, O Brother. By this act I commend thy soul to the Creator of the Universe and set thee free of this broken body. Until we shall meet again in Paradise, I bid thee farewell. Dominus vobiscum. Pax vobiscum."
He bent over the Knight of the Sword and kissed the bare teeth before making the sign of the cross on the bare bone of his forehead. His Brother’s blood was all over him and the cross stood out in stark relief against the ghastly background, a reminder in blood and bone of the Order he served. He had seen many things, but this qualified as one of the worst so far. He placed his hand on the cold surface over the red cross and paused as the knowledge of the Secret of the Knight of the Sword was transferred from the dying man’s mind into his own. In the heat of the battlefield, this would be one of his most vulnerable moments, when he could do nothing but sink into several moments of complete oblivion. The weight of the Chevalier d’Epee’s mystery bore down on him as if one of the limestone blocks were crushing him temporarily and then subsided as the knowledge made a space in his head. He released his hold and got wearily to his feet. When he raised the gleaming sword above his head, the sun flashed off the blade as he brought it down in one resounding blow, slicing cleanly through the man’s neck and well into the rocky ground beneath him. The sword’s song of death wafted eerily across the space between the Knight of Death and the tiny band of mourners, waiting near the trail’s head.
Ramsay turned away, took two steps and sank to the ground. He looked up at the clear sky and spoke directly to God "Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness. Forgive me, O Lord, for I am lost."
Brother Simon and Brother von Hetz were beside him suddenly, helping him up and literally dragging him away from the scene. He remembered nothing more until he opened his eyes again sometime later. The blue sky was above his head and he lay on the flat boulder near the mouth of the collapsed tunnel leading down into the ruined hillside. Pushing himself up tiredly, he found his sword lying next to him. He was alone. They had left him. A good sign at least that he would be welcomed back into the fold, though his penance might be heavy, it would be bearable and then he would go home to Scotland. To his home.
He picked up his sword and walked determinedly down the trail leading back to the red brick mansion set amidst the dark green trees in the shallow valley between the limestone hills. The sky seemed bluer here and the leaves of the trees greener. The roses in the garden were pinker and the gazebo whiter. Everything in this place stood out, sharply defined, acutely burned into his mind. He longed for the soft colors of the meadows, the cloud-smeared skies and the deep shadows of the ancient and holy places where the oaks spread immense limbs overhead and he could lie on the fragrant grass and listen to the songs of the faeries.
Merry sat in the wicker peacock chair in the library, staring out the window with a blank look on her face. Her crystal blue eyes moved, but they did not see, as they scanned the garden paths under the trees for something… anything. Christopher Stewart stood near the window watching the same garden paths below the patio. His face lit up when he saw Mark Andrew making his way quickly down the path toward the house. The apprentice threw open the glass doors and stepped outside. His Master glanced at him briefly, nodded curtly and then disappeared into the house. Christopher heaved a long sigh of relief that his Master had been spared. He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled a little tune as he clumped down the steps into the garden. He paused under one of old weeping willows and glanced back the house as if unsure whether to stay or go up the hill again. The sounds of shouts drifted down from the new made quarry as the others struggled to clean up the mess. Christopher turned and jogged up the path toward the sounds of the voices. His Master would have to deal with Miss Merry alone and he would be in enough trouble without at least attempting to make amends to the others by volunteering his assistance. Christopher could offer his Master no comfort, nor could he help him avoid this unpleasant business with the woman or the even more unpleasant business yet to come.
Mark Andrew knelt in front of the Pixie one last time and took one of her hands in his. The blank expression had been replaced by one much harder to bear. Her eyes were full of profound sadness.
"Merry… Meredith," he said her name and realized inanely that he didn’t even know her last name. Valentino’s disembodied voice rang in his ears. ‘How so very typical!’
"Merry," he began again. "I have come to say farewell."
"I know," she nodded and placed one hand on his cheek before touching the silver earrings entwined in the dark strand of hair above his right ear. There were no tears, no protests. "I love you, Mark Andrew."
He smiled at her, slipped the little silver ring from his finger and dropped in her hand before pressing it to his lips.
"It’s not a fair trade, I suppose," he said softly and pressed her fingers to his lips. "I’ll send your trinkets back when I have the time to unlace them."
"You had better not do that, Mark Andrew Ramsay," she managed a smile for him. "I’ll never forgive you if you do."
He nodded and stood up. Merry looked up at him expectantly and he bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. She pressed something in his hand and he looked down at the keys to his car, resting in his bloody palm.
"God be with you, Meredith," he told her as he backed toward the open doors. He kept her face in his sight until he stumbled over the threshold and found himself on the verandah.
Merry stood up shakily and stumbled to the door, holding on to the furniture as she went, overwhelmed by the urge to call him back, but she only managed to blink back the tears as she watched him disappear up the garden path. It was hard to believe he had ever been there. The clock on the mantel chimed and she shrieked before she realized what it was.
"I will see you again, Sir Ramsay."
She pressed her tear-stained face against her own reflection in the glass of the door. Turning away from the door, she looked down at the ring clutched in her hand and then pressed it’s smooth, cold surface to her lips.
Mark Andrew rushed blindly up the stony path. Over eight hundred years had passed since the last time he’d cried and he had no intention of allowing anyone to see him crying now. It was always Mark Andrew who caused others to cry. The death of his brother in 1187 had seen the last of his tears. He was far too old to start new habits and he had to get away from her before he lost his resolve to leave again. There was work to do on the hill top and they had to get away before the local authorities came out to investigate the disturbance. When he reached the summit of the hill, he found his Brothers straining against one of the newly cut blocks, trying to push it over the side of the pit. The body of the downed Knight was wrapped with von Hetz’ cloak and the Knight’s sword lay atop the shrouded body. Another, smaller bundle lay at the Knight’s feet. Mark swallowed hard and turned away from the sight. The body of Valentino’s security guard, along with his head, his shotgun and everything that might have indicated his passing was no longer in evidence. All signs of the bloody confrontation between Ramsay and his two latest conquests had been obliterated. There would be no signs that the Knights had ever come here. There would be no signs that anything had happened here other than some sort of abandoned quarry works. Only the finest forensic investigation could ever detect that human blood had been spilled on these rocks.
The dust had settled. Their work here was done. Finished.
Each one of the men left standing atop the barren hill wore a different expression. Simon looked as if he was only just recovering from being ill. The Master wore an expression of disgust. Montague grimaced in pain and held one hand pressed against his shoulder while blood oozed through his fingers. He picked up the smaller bundle that had been wrapped in his own coat and tucked it under his uninjured arm before starting off down the trail. The Italian looked angry. He met Mark Andrew’s gaze briefly before jerking Beaujold’s sword off the body. He handed it over to Christopher Stewart then hefted the Knight’s body from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. With one last look around at their professional handiwork, he followed after Montague with the healer on his heels. The Grand Master walked behind them carrying the baculus aloft in front of him like a priest in a funerary march. The sound of a song drifted back to him. Simon was singing in an ancient language. Words that Ramsay no longer recognized. Halfway down the trail, d’Brouchart turned and waited for him. Ramsay sent Christopher on ahead of him and the Ritter passed them by without comment.
"This… lady friend of yours," the Master swallowed hard and looked up at the sun. Sweat stood out on his forehead and the collar of his shirt was soaked. "How can we leave her behind?"
"How can we take her, sir?" Mark asked and looked him straight in the eye as his heart lurched.
"We cannot take her with us. You know that," d’Brouchart looked away from him, unable to meet his gaze.
"She will hold her peace and keep silent," Mark told him. "I give you my word, sir. On my oath, she will hold her peace. These two who have perished here have no ties. She told me this much herself."
"And if she calls the police? What then?" d’Brouchart squinted at him. "She knows your name. She knows your face. She knows you live in Scotland. Scotland can become an extremely small hiding place for a murderer."
"If she turns me in," Mark drew a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing "if she turns me in, I will pass along my mysteries and forfeit my own life. Is that good enough?"
The Master met his gaze for several long moments before nodding briefly, turning on his heels and continuing down the hill.
Christopher waited for him at the foot of the garden. They passed the red brick mansion and Ramsay averted his eyes from the windows of the house lest he see some glimpse of the woman there. If he should see her, his will would surely weaken and his broken heart might betray him in front of his Brothers. His mind was black with despair though he knew quite well that Merry would never turn him in. He suddenly took Christopher’s arm and dragged him toward the garage. He had to get away… Now!
Lucio Dambretti lowered his grisly burden into the rear of the white van. He backed away, blinking back tears as he remembered their little adventure on the way to this cursed place when Beaujold was wrapped in the expensive Persian rug. He regretted every word of it now. He had never had much love for the sanctimonious Knight of the Sword, but he was glad it would not be his duty to inform the Knight’s apprentice of the death of his Master. Simon would have that dubious honor. It would be Ramsay’s duty to transfer the mystery to his replacement and it would be the Master’s duty to bestow the gift of immortality on the new Knight. Sir James Argonne would record the events in archives and Sir Barry of Sussex would prepare his body for burial. Sir Montague would purchase a fine coffin for him in London with the impression of his sword carved on the surface. The Ritter would perform the funerary rites and Simon would sing the litany. Only Philip Cambrique would be spared any personal role in the process. He would simply arrange for the transfer of the body and procure the proper papers from Rome and Edinburgh. Sir Louis Champlain and Sir Hugh de Champagne would accompany the body to Lothien for entombment beneath Ramsay’s little chapel. Next to Ramsay’s two chores, the Italian felt that his was one of the most distasteful when one of the Knight’s fell. He would be asked to examine the body to make sure that that Thomas Beaujold had indeed departed from the empty shell. Only once had Ramsay been required to repeat the Key of Death Ceremony, but that had been long, long ago under some very mysterious circumstances that Dambretti didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand. One of them had fallen while on a mission in Romania, buried by a rockslide. They had found the ‘body’ a week later in a small village inn, alive, but not alive. Ramsay had killed him and they had transported him back to France in a box, but the Key of Death had not worked for some strange reason and Ramsay had been forced to ‘take more aggressive steps’. What that meant, Dambretti had no idea. He shuddered to his toes at the memory and then closed the doors on the van. There would be much to do when they finally got back to Italy. He placed one hand on Simon’s shoulder and gave him a supportive smile. He purposefully turned away from the Grand Master, lest he be blamed for this entire fiasco as was usual. He stopped to watch the black El Dorado as it passed by them on its way toward the highway.
"Your Grace?" he looked back at the big red-haired man and waited for instructions
"There is much work to do, Golden Eagle," the Master tugged on his coat sleeve, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "Brother Simon, see to Sir Montague’s needs. Ritter, if you please," he said as he handed over the baculus to the German Knight.
There would be favors to call in, documents to prepare, bribes to pay. Lucio hoped that he would not be called upon to assist in making the arrangements. He only wanted to get back home to Naples where he intended to get drunk and then sleep for a week or two after the burial, before wallowing in self-pity and guilt for a few years. Of course, Amelia would be there to help him get through it all. He could not help but feel a measure of responsibility for what had happened to the Knight of the Sword. The Italian had been senior to the French Knight by several decades. If he had been more reliable, the Master would have put him in charge of the mission rather than Beaujold and then, perhaps, things might have turned out differently. In charge or not, he knew in his heart that the Master would place a great deal of the blame on him. It had always been so. Never in charge, but always responsible.
Von Hetz held the baculus reverently, but frowned at the disappearing automobile carrying Ramsay and his irreverent apprentice.
"Your Grace?" the German asked the same open-ended question as the Italian.
"We will meet with him in Italy," the Master told him after a protracted silence. He brushed his hands together as if washing them and turned toward the van as the healer held the passenger door open for him. "I will ride with Sir Beaujold. Golden Eagle, take the wheel."
Dambretti sighed and shook his head. He had hoped to drive Montague’s rental car back to town. He had actually hoped to have some excuse to lag behind so that he might say goodbye to the woman. Somehow he felt that he owed her an explanation for Mark Ramsay and all that had occurred. Somehow he had hoped to wrangle an invitation to return next summer… just to check on her. But it was not to be so. Not this time.
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