Knights of the Blood (26 page)

“I still wish I had some garlic,” he muttered to himself, as he stood up and cautiously resumed his approach to the other door.

He took the stirrup—shaped latch handle and tried to turn it. Nothing happened. The door was locked. Drummond tried shoving against the door with all of his might, but it didn’t budge.

Drummond took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was a dead end. And even as he decided that all he could do was go back the way he had come, he heard the only other door slam shut behind him.

Panicking, Drummond turned and launched himself across the chamber, terror clawing at his belly, but he never made it to the door. From up in the rafters, three men in hooded white capes dropped down on Drummond, knocking him unconscious as they landed on him. Then two of the men dragged Drummond to his feet, while the third produced a large key and unlocked the door that led down into the courtyard of the castle of the Order of the Sword.

FATHER FREISE
stood motionless before the castle gates and stared up at them for what seemed like a very long time before bending down to pick something up. Watching from the woods at the edge of the [noon—drenched meadow, even with his heightened senses of sight, Kluge couldn’t tell what the priest had recovered before he vanished into the shadows.

Curious, but only mildly so, Kluge turned and retreated into the darkness where his followers waited, ignoring the punkers to pass directly to where his knights stood silently awaiting the coming confrontation.

Of the nine knights, only one of them remained from the original dozen he had selected to form the nucleus of his Knighthood of Blood. Besides himself, Baumann alone wore the blood—red arm band of the old order–a visible link with the
Blutfahne,
the blood—soaked flag that Hitler and his comrades—in—arms had carried in the Munich Pustch in 1923. The knights were as yet untried in battle,
although after tonight,
Kluge thought,
no doubt they will have earned the right to wear the arm band that will bind them to the fallen heroes of the Reich.

Beneath the polished steel helmets, eight handsome faces followed every move that Kluge made, their blue eyes shining eagerly with devotion to their master. Kluge allowed himself a rare smile. Racially pure, these young men had been selected from among the very best of the Aryan people. Hiding them, training them, and finally initiating them into the immortal chivalry of the Knights of Blood had been no easy task, but it was one to which Kluge had dedicated not only his life, but his very soul.

Pulling his cape close about his shoulders, Kluge walked over to Baumann, the only man on earth he possibly regarded as a friend.

“When I give the order to go in,” he said very quietly, “I want you to remain behind, just in case.”

“Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannführer,”
Baumann replied, clicking his heels as he brought his right hand up to the brim of his helmet in a sharp military salute. Kluge returned the salute, then turned to survey the rest of his cohort.

Most of the punkers were sprawled on the spongy ground, as lacking in discipline as they were in pride. The punkers and their nihilistic attitude revolted Kluge. As part of the black—uniformed SS of fifty years ago, he had helped try to destroy one civilization so that another, greater civilization could replace it–a civilization that would last a thousand years.

But these modern—day Germans–Kluge hated to even use the word “German” in connection with them–were bent on the total destruction of society, and themselves with it. Kluge had experienced the total destruction of
his
society, and had risen, phoenix—like, from the ashes to perpetuate it anew. Looking at the punkers, he knew that for them, there would be no return from
Gotterdämmerung.

Deep in the woods, four hooded men with longbows patiently watched as Kluge turned back toward the castle. With a hand signal, their leader sent one of the men moving silently away from his comrades, to disappear into the black shadows of the night.

* * *

Torches were blazing in the great hall as Armand du Gaz led in two men—at—arms dragging the unconscious Drummond between them. De Beq and four other knights sat at a table drawn up at the far end of the room, while half a dozen serjeants and men at arms sat attentively on benches pushed back against the unrelenting stone walls.

“And the other one?” de Beq asked, looking up from the parchments spread before him on the table.

“Still in the woods,” du Gaz replied, signaling his men to lower Drummond onto the flagstone floor.

“Are they alone?”

“I think so,” du Gaz answered, “but I left four men from this evening’s patrol in the forest, just in case.”

De Beq grunted his approval. There once was a time when he hadn’t been sure that du Gaz would fulfill the duties and vows of a knight. As the years had passed, however, du Gaz had blossomed, and de Beq now was happy to accord him the full respect due a brother knight.

“Have him searched,” de Beq commanded.

“I have already seen to it, Sire.” Du Gaz stepped forward and placed Drummond’s wallet and watch on the table. William of Etton, who was seated closest to du Gaz, slid the objects over to de Beq.

“Well, Henri,” William said, “it looks as though Sir Armand has done a trusty job.”

“So it would seem,” said de Beq, sorting through Drummond’s possessions. “See if you can revive your captive, Armand. I’ve a great many questions.”

At du Gaz’ signal, one of his men—at—arms went over to the corner of the great hall and filled a gourd with water standing in a bucket. Returning to Drummond, he dashed it in his face. Then kneeling, he lightly slapped Drummond’s cheeks.

Ignoring the efforts of du Gaz’s men to bring Drummond around, de Beq stared fixedly at the silver badge that was attached to Drummond’s police ID.

“William,” he said. “Take a look at this.”

William of Etton took the badge case from de Beq and studied it carefully for several minutes, finally bringing it up to his mouth and licking it.

“Well, it’s not silver, so it can’t be too valuable,” he said. “Still, it
is
finely wrought. What do you make of it?”

“Look closely, William. The shape of the thing.” De Beq’s voice took on the tone of a teacher speaking to a not—too—bright pupil.

“I don’t follow, Henri.” William of Etton looked slightly confused and handed the badge back to de Beq.

“It’s shaped like a shield, Will.” De Beq’s voice was almost hushed. “And look–this design on it–like some sort of temple.” His finger traced the outline of Los Angeles City Hall. “And here–look–the coat of arms of some great prince.”

William squinted at the seal of the city of Los Angeles.

“It’s not very good heraldry,” he said.

“The heraldry doesn’t matter.” De Beq’s voice betrayed a hint of good—natured exasperation. “What does matter, Will, is who this man is, and whether or not he is a knight.”

Drummond began to stir, and one of du Gaz’ men helped him into a sitting position. Slowly Drummond’s eyes came into focus, and the rushing sound in his ears subsided to something less than a dull roar. Looking about him, the first thing that Drummond saw was the golden swastika set into the hilt of du Gaz’s sword.

He tried to stand up and make a dash for the door, but one of the men—at—arms–Cullen, a short, thick—set Irishman–put a heavy hand on Drummond’s shoulder and shoved him back down onto the flagstones.

Distracted by the commotion, Henri de Beq got up from his chair and came around the table to question his prisoner.

* * *

Father Freise closed the postern door that opened onto the turnpike stairs and, pulling his flashlight out of his cassock pocket, turned it on. Playing the bright beam of light around the edge of the door, he spotted the smooth wooden handle of the bolt. He drew the heavy oak beam across, seating the end into a square recess cut deep into the opposite wall. Then, with the door firmly barred behind him, he lifted the skirts of his cassock and alb and slowly began climbing the uneven stone stairs leading to the gatehouse.

Drummond’s implication that, at seventy—plus Freise was over the hill galled the priest, although by the time he gained the top of the turnpike stair, he did have to admit that perhaps he was slowing down just a tad. Still, turning the latch and pushing open the door into the gatehouse, he doubted that many men even half his age would have climbed these steps under any circumstances.

Shining his flashlight into the gatehouse, Father Freise took in the mechanism that operated the portcullis, as well as noting the murder hole in the floor, directly above the massive oak gates. The heavy weight of Drummond’s automatic bumped against Freise’s thigh.

Well,
he thought
, at least John got this far.

He couldn’t imagine Drummond giving up his gun without a struggle, though, so perhaps the knights weren’t as friendly as he’d hoped they would be.

Spotting the door in the opposite wall, Freise went over, avoiding the murder hole, and tried the handle. The latch turned, and the door swung easy on its hinges. Careful not to lose his footing going down the steep flight of worn stone stairs, Freise steadied himself with one hand against the wall while the other held up his skirts. Stepping into the courtyard at the bottom of the stairs, he patted the automatic in his pocket and then walked briskly toward the great hall.

Inside, de Beq was trying to question Drummond while du Gaz and his men held him in his place. They were making little progress. De Beq paced across the flagstone floor like a caged tiger, trying desperately to comprehend what his prisoner was saying. Finally he turned toward the man being held in a sitting position on the floor and, tapping his own chest, said, “Henri de Beq.”

He pointed at Drummond .
“Et vous?”

“John ... Drummond,” came the measured reply.

De Beq held up the badge.
“Jean Drummont. Chevalier?”

Drummond didn’t understand de Beq’s question. “John Drummond ... policeman,” he replied.

De Beq was getting a headache. He turned to William of Etton. “What, in the name of sweet Jesu, is a
poleecemond?”

Before William could offer an opinion, a strange voice spoke out in Latin.

“A policeman is a constable.” Father Freise stepped out of the shadows.

The effect of Father Freise’s entrance couldn’t have been more dramatic if he’d had two heads. For an instant, no one moved; then total chaos ensued as du Gaz and another knight rushed forward to grab Father Freise, only to be frozen in their tracks by de Beq’s booming voice.

“Halt! No one touches this man.” He looked at Father Freise for several seconds–staring at his face, taking in the cope and other priestly accoutrements–before speaking to him in a coarse form of Latin.

“I remember you. You were here when you were young.” De Beq’s voice was slightly tinged with wonder.

“Yes,” said Father Freise. “And now the Church has sent me to you.”

De Beq found Father Freise’s modern Latin difficult to understand. “Forgive me, but what other languages do you speak?”

Freise took the question in stride. “German,” he said. “And English.”

De Beq and William looked at each other. “Englesh,” de Beq said. “Spake us that.”

“Aye, Sire,” said Freise, nodding in agreement. “Who be this man?” asked de Beq, pointing at Drummond.

“He be Constable of the Shire,”· Father Freise replied, hoping that somehow the title he had just invented would equate with Drummond’s job as a cop.

“Be he knightly?” asked William of Etton.

“Nay, of captain’s rank,” Father Freise said.

“Be this the mark of his order?” asked de Beq, holding up Drummond’s badge.

Father Freise looked at the badge for several seconds before even attempting to translate Los Angeles Police Department into something approaching fourteenth—century English.

“Aye,” Freise finally said, a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. “He be a captain of the castle of the Order of the Queen of the Angels.”

De Beq translated the conversation into Norman—French for the benefit of the rest of the men, who now looked at Drummond with a sense of curiosity, rather than hostility.

“And why be you here?” asked de Beq.

That,
thought Father Freise
, is going to take some real explaining.

* * *

The hooded and armored warrior crouched low as he ran through the woods skirting the castle of the Order of the Sword. Once he had reached the far side of the castle, he trotted to the edge of the moat and, making sure that he was directly opposite a small, cross—shaped arrow slit set high in the wall, began to wade into the murky waters.

Instead of slowly sinking into the water, the warrior seemed to walk upon it, pausing in mid—moat to feel around beneath the surface with the end of his bow. Striking a stone pylon set to his right, the man stepped upon it and repeated the process, now casting to the left, left again, right, in an apparently random pattern until he had reached the castle walls and stood under the opening of a machicolation projecting from the wall some ten feet above his head.

Then, after slinging his bow across his back, he used shallow finger and toe—holds cut into the pointing between the wall’s massive stones to slowly climb up the wall and vanish into the opening of the garde—robe. When he had heaved himself into the courtyard of the castle at last, he ran toward the great hall to warn de Beq and the rest of the Order of the Sword about the intruders in the woods.

“So the Holy Father in Rome has sent you to ask for our help?” de Beq said, shooting a sidelong glance at Father Freise.

“Yes, he has,” Freise replied.

“How long has the Holy Father been in Rome?” de Beq asked. “The last I heard, he was a captive of the French king in Avignon.”

Freise stared coolly back at de Beq. “The Pope has been in Rome for more than six hundred years. Who told you he was in France?”

“Some Templars that we sheltered many years ago,” de Beq said. “They told us that the French king had suppressed their order and was holding the Holy Father against his will. Was that true?”