Red Cross of Gold I: The Knight of Death

The following is the Preface from my novel entitled The Red Cross of Gold I:. The Knight of Death.  It is the first book in the Assassin Chronicles series. The Chevalier Mark Ramsay is one of twelve immortal knights forming the Council of Twelve for the Red Cross of Gold, a clandestine order of the Knights Templar, the only surviving chapter of the original Knights of Christ.  The books are set in the present age with flashbacks to earlier years including the crusades, WWII, Napoleonic Wars, etc.  The preface begins with a flashback and chapter one continues in the year 2000.  There are currently 16 books available on line at Amazon in Kindle format and Smashwords e-books formats.  Paperback versions are available at Amazon for Books 1-12.



Preface





For days the forces of Saladin had pounded the walls of the great City of Jerusalem, seeking out the weaker portions of the fortifications, searching endlessly, relentlessly for the one place where his ballistas and catapults could do the most damage.  A veritable rain of arrows, rocks and Greek fire poured into the city over the walls and into the streets, killing everything from dogs to rats caught out in the open.  News, what little there was, from the army was hard to glean and disheartening at best.  There would be no returning forces coming to drive the Saracens from the gates of the old city.

All was lost.

Lords Balian and Ranier of Naples had gone out to meet with the tyrant, Saladin, seeking terms after a mounted foray through the Jehosephat gate had been utterly destroyed.  The two emissaries had gained nothing more than the ill-received news that the ransom prices would be paid in gold or else those who could not pay would be put to the sword.  Every male over the age of ten would pay ten besants, females would pay five.  Younger children would be required to pay one besant.  Very high prices indeed and impossible for most of the city’s population… those that remained alive… to pay.  Saladin had graciously granted forty days for the gold to be gathered.

The young Templar Knight, Androu, only just arrived from the wilds of the lowlands of Scotia, with his new Latin name of Armenius, had only just learned that he and his twin brother, Mathou, also newly named Larmenius, would be ransomed and allowed to leave the city with those other citizens, soldiers, clergy, royalty and Knights fortunate enough to have the ransom handy.  This was great news.  The two Knights had lain together in the darkness beneath the heavily fortified walls of the Commanderie, listening to the bombardment at night, speaking of their misfortune at having been amongst the few Templars left behind when the armies of the King had ridden off into oblivion.  If only they had been allowed to accompany the army, they might have met more useful deaths.  Anything would have been preferable to starving in the darkness like rats or being cut down by an errant arrow in the street or burned alive in some subterranean dead end. 

But this latest news was grand indeed and he wanted only to share it with Mathou as soon as possible.

Mathou, however, was not in the Commanderie, nor was he found in any of the usual places they come to haunt since the siege began.  Androu rushed through the halls, calling for his brother in their native Scots tongue, drawing stares and admonishments from the clergy, monks and attendants who were desperately trying to minister to the masses of wounded and dying and dead who had sought refuge inside the fortified structure.  Everywhere was the stench of blood and death, weeping, wailing women, crying children, but nowhere was the sight of his brother.  He drew up short at the spectacle of bright sunlight spilling through a tall set of open doors. 

Androu blinked in the bright light as he realized that the hail of arrows was no longer falling into the street beyond the doors.

Several young men and boys were standing just inside the doors, looking out at the incredible carnage in the street.  Blood filled the shallow drains alongside the street, bodies of men, women and children were strewn about along with dogs, cats, goats, sheep, chickens, donkeys and horses.  All piled on top of each other, looking very much like hedgehogs under the weight of hundreds of arrows.  There were also fallen blocks from the buildings surrounding the square as well as the rounded boulders flung there by catapults, overturned carts, broken pottery, pieces of metal and glass and splintered weapons of every imaginable sort. Food, much needed to feed the hungry, lay rotting amidst the destruction.  A sad sight indeed.  The fountain, choked with debris showed promise of nothing more than blood-tainted water.  Poison.  The sight was beyond comprehension.  The smell was unbearable and the silence even worse than the constant explosions had been.

“What has happened?” He asked the boys in stilted Latin.

One of them turned large, frightened eyes on him.  His dark face was smeared with dirt and blood.

“My Lord, the infidels have entered the city,” he said.  “The wall has been breached.  Can you not hear them?”

Androu willed his heart to be still and strained his ears.  Faint shouts of “Allah Akbar!” Echoed through the streets.

“My brother… have you seen Larmenius, the elder?”  He asked, taking the boy by the shoulders.

“Your brother?  Mathou?”  One of the other children answered him with a question.

“Aye!”

“He left when the arrows ceased, Sir!”  The boy, a swarthy complected ragamuffin of about fourteen years stepped forward.  “That way.”  He pointed one dirty finger toward one of the clogged streets leading away from the square.

Androu sucked in a deep breath of relatively cool air and then stepped out into the smoke and glaring midday sun.

“Wait, Master,” the boy shouted and caught up with him.  “I can show you the way.  You must be careful, sir.  The infidels are killing people in the streets down that way.  Blood flows like water through the sewers.”

Androu hesitated, checked his weapons, jammed the helmet he had been carrying, on his head and jerked his head to the boy in acceptance of the offer.  If the boy was useful, he might see to it that his ten besants were paid.  He needed a good valet.  This one spoke Latin better than he did.

The young fellow nimbly picked his way over the carnage and Androu followed more slowly in the more cumbersome chain mail, boots and surcoat.  He heard someone shouting his name from the door, but did not look back.  Once they were clear of the square, they kept to the more protected alleys and narrow streets where less debris had accumulated.  Eventually, they came upon a less damaged part of the city where the streets were relatively free of bodies and clutter.  They stopped in front of a formidable residential home.  The doors stood open.  Amazingly, this house was undamaged.  Its gleaming white facade stood untouched by Saladin’s rampage.

“He went in there?” Androu asked and frowned at the boy suspiciously.

The boy nodded solemnly and then smiled.

Androu started up the broad steps.  He knew the place. The house belonged to a wealthy merchant who was purportedly a Muslim, himself.  Some minor official who attended the King’s court regularly, wearing outlandish garb from Persia, which he claimed to be his home.  He was about to change his mind about going inside when he heard a woman’s screams emanating from the open doors.

The Knight rushed up the steps, drawing his sword as he went, calling his brother’s name.

“Mathou!”  He shouted.

He found no one inside the first three rooms and then burst into the sunlight again as he stepped into an enclosed courtyard.  His eyes fell immediately on the sight of a Templar floating face down in a sizable pool.  A bright swath of crimson was spreading out around his head.

A woman, her face concealed behind a veil, stood near the pool, holding an ornately bejeweled knife in one hand.  A brilliant flash of red blinded his reasoning and he jerked his head back.

When he locked eyes with her, she screamed.  He screamed and the boy screamed with him.

She screamed again and the boy screamed with her.

He screamed and the boy shouted in his face.

“Sir!  Sir!  Wake up!” The boy, no longer a ragamuffin, was shaking him roughly by the shoulder.

“Christopher?” He asked and blinked into the worried face of his apprentice, Christopher Stewart. 

“Yes, Master.  It’s me, Christopher, for Pete’s sake.  The Grand Master wants to talk to you before you leave for America, sir,” the boy told him and then sat down on the small sofa in Ramsay’s sitting room. 

Mark Andrew Ramsay sat up stiffly and found himself sitting behind his rather barren desk where he had apparently fallen asleep after consuming a half bottle of Scotch the night before.

“You scared the bejesus out of me,” Christopher ventured.  “Can I get you some water, sir?”

“Get back to class, boy,” Mark grumped, managed a slight smile and then stood up.  The dream about his brother’s death rarely plagued him these days, but when it did, it brought back the proper perspective he needed for his life as the Chevalier du Morte, the Knight of Death, Alchemist and Assassin for the Order of the Red Cross of Gold, poor Knight of the Temple of Solomon.

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