Cross Council Page 4

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  “This way,” the jailer mumbled and Ramsay cringed as the numerous odors assaulted his nose again. Onions, rotted meat, wine, urine, sweat, blood. The various stains on the man’s tunic and overlay were indescribably foul and portended worse yet to come. The twists and turns in the dark recesses of the jail soon made the Knight’s head spin. He clutched the hilt of his sword in a death grip, wary at every turn for some unknown assailant to leap on him. The purse had been heavy, but treachery was not out of the question and he would not rest easy until he was far from this foul pit.

  They came at last to a cell with a solid door which served to separate the more dangerous criminals from the unwashed bodies of the wretched prisoners crammed into the larger accommodations for those ‘convicted’ of less serious charges. These pitiful souls would eventually be released… if they survived. The portion of the jail where Simon of Grenoble and the other Templar prisoners were confined did not give up their occupants so easily. Eerie wails and occasional snatches of murmured prayers reached his ears from deeper in the maze of dark, damp passages and each set his teeth on edge and made his stomach knot.

  The iron keys clinked together as the man found the correct one for the door and opened the door. The iron-bound wooden planks swung inward on rusty hinges, creaks echoing loudly in the corridors. Ramsay looked around nervously and then stepped into the room.

  “I’ll wait, but be quick about it!” The jailer snapped.

  Mark Andrew walked forward to the raised stone slab where the cell’s sole occupant lay shivering in chains. He stopped suddenly and pressed his hand over his mouth when he saw what they had done to the young priest. He was too late. The jailer had assured him that the Inquisitor in charge had received his share of the booty and made arrangements to have Simon’s name erased from the roster, but there had been no mention of torture or injuries. A red flare erupted in Ramsay’s brain and he turned on the jailer, drawing his broadsword. Blood glistened darkly on the stone from a hideous wound, the nature of which was quite loosely concealed beneath a bloody bandage.

  “Wot th’ fock?!” He shouted, pushing back his nausea with anger. “I paid thee fur a livin’ soul, not a dead mon!”

  “He’s not dead!” The jailer objected and his eyes widened at the sight of the blade gleaming in the torchlight. “The physician assured me that he would live. Now take him and go before I sound the alarm!”

  Ramsay took a step forward, hesitated and then ripped his mantel from his shoulders. He turned quickly and covered the naked priest, tucking the cloth tightly about his body. The priest knew nothing of his surroundings; he shivered and shook violently from cold and shock, thankfully unconscious. The Knight could not help but think the poor fellow would be dead before he could get him back to the rendezvous point.

  The streets were fairly empty and the ride out of town uneventful. Simon moaned and groaned only occasionally, but never regained his senses.

  Three days later, he was still unconscious. His head rolled slightly with the motion of the ship as the Master wiped the cold sweat from his pale face. The blood loss had been stemmed and their own physician had done all that could be done for him, but the fever raged intermittently and his condition was worsening with every hour that passed. He would soon be gone from them and there would be no ransoming him again.

  Mark drew a deep breath and looked out the square porthole at the gray expanse of sea. A strong northwesterly wind blew the tops off the whitecaps and sent sprays of seawater into the air to join the pouring rain and shivering chills up his spine. The porthole remained open at the behest of the doctor who insisted that Simon needed fresh air to heal. The priest lay under a number of woolen blankets and yet, when the fever took him, he threw them off and shouted obscenities that made them all blush.

  “I’m sorry, Edgard,” Mark said after a moment more. “I wish things could have been different.”

  “They can and they will be different, du Morte,” d’Brouchart said and turned his weeping blue eyes on the Scot. The big man tucked his fur collar under his chin and then swiveled on the small stool, causing it to squeak ominously.

  “What you say is true. Things will always be different. Nothing is sure, but change,” Ramsay agreed.

  “No, I mean to use the Tree of Life on him,” Edgard whispered.

  “Wot?!” Mark pushed himself off the barrel on which he had been leaning. “Ye canna do thot, Edgard! Twas not in th’ covenant and ye know it!”

  “I am the Master!” The larger man growled. “I can do whatever the hell I wish to do. Besides we need a new Healer now that Girard is no longer with us.”

  “Wot aboot ’is apprentice? Bernardo ’as trained with him fur years!” Ramsay objected, his distinctive brogue overriding his normally calm exterior as he reverted the language of his childhood.

  “I’ll not argue with you, du Morte,” Edgard said and eyed him coldly. “I have decided.”

  “I canna let ye do thot, Edgard,” Mark lowered his voice and drew his sword, pointing the wickedly sharp tip at the Master’s neck. “Give me th’ box!”

  Edgard’s mouth fell open slightly and then he reached inside his mantel, beneath his tunic where a leather bag hung from his belt. He pulled off the bag and then held it out to the Scot.

  “You would let him die?” The Master asked him in disbelief.

  “He is not a member of the Council, nor is he an apprentice!” Ramsay said with more control.

  “He is my son!”

  Mark blinked at him in astonishment. This could not be possible. Sons were not permitted. Women were not permitted. Families were not permitted to Knights of the Council. The Master was in error. The Master was lying! Mark allowed the tip of the blade to touch the floor. A mistake. The Chevalier du Morte suddenly straightened in shock and disbelief as the tip of a bloody blade appeared just below his sternum, staining his light gray tunic a deep red as his blood poured from a grievous wound. Someone had run him through from behind. He grabbed the blade in his left hand as his own sword fell to the deck. Slowly, he turned to face his cowardly attacker, but he never saw the man’s face before death overtook him and he slumped forward into his murderer’s arms.

  James Argonne caught the Chevalier du Morte and lowered him onto an empty bunk, face down, before removing his sword from him none too gently.

  “You didn’t have to kill him, Brother,” Edgard said harshly.

  “What difference will it make, Master?” Argonne’s emotionally devoid eyes stared at him blankly. “He will be up and about soon enough.”

  “Help me with this!” Edgard barked at the French Knight as he threw the blankets off the priest and dragged him from the bed.

  “What do you mean to do, my Prince?” Argonne asked in surprise as the priest was shoved into his arms.

  “Hold him up!”

  Argonne held the semi-conscious priest in a kneeling position in front of the Grand Master while he received the rank of Knight in service of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold and the Gift of immortality from a cup of tepid wine. James had to clamp his hand over the priest’s mouth and noise to make him swallow the miraculous drink. The priest sputtered weakly as they laid him back under his covers.

  Bernardo would never be Knight of the Council, this hapless young priest would usurp Bernardo’s right to the title of Knight of the Serpent and take the late Healer’s place at the Council table. When Mark Ramsay awoke from his healing coma in three days time, he would have no choice but to transfer the Mystery of the Mystic Healer to Simon of Grenoble.

  “Will you make a formal charge against the Assassin, Your Grace?” Argonne ventured the question once they had the priest back in bed and resting comfortably. Already the mystical tree of life powder was working its magick. Simon’s pale features had regained a bit of color, he had ceased his shivering and his breathing had taken on a more regular pace. Edgard leaned over him and whispered somet
hing in his ear before standing up again. He straightened his mantel and looked over at his Knight of Death where he still lay face down on the cot. The storm had lessoned and the ship’s rocking had leveled off somewhat. In the light of the lantern, he could see that the Scot was breathing again. Three days, he would lie in the healing trance and then he would awaken mad as a March hare. No harm done. No charges would be pressed. Ramsay had every right to challenge him, but they had other problems to worry with at the moment and petty grievances could not stand in their way now.

  The Scots were at war with England and their only hope of surviving intact as an Order lay in joining forces with Robert the Bruce in Scotland. In return for their help, Robert would allow them to live free of oppression if he were to win the throne. They could not fail in this mission.

  “Call the physician for Ramsay,” he told Argonne before starting up the ladder to the deck. “Have him cleaned up and bandaged and I warn you, James, let no one know of your part in this lest you find your head resting at your feet.”

  “Understood, Your Grace,” Argonne said quietly and bowed his head. Argonne snorted when the hatch closed above him and he turned on Ramsay, leaning over his ear. “You are lucky, my friend, that I do not behead you as you lay. Someday, when the time is right, I shall have that sword and that mystery and you will feed the worms.”