~~~~~
Four days later, eight Knights of the Council of Twelve sat around a rough wooden table in the Captain’s cabin. An impromptu meeting of the Council minus the four members that had sailed on ahead of them to Scotland had been convened at the Master’s request. Ramsay sat at the foot of the table, brooding over a tankard of ale, a dark look on his face. At his left hand was a much healthier, if somewhat confused, Simon of Grenoble. The youngest member of the Council was very pale, his large blue eyes were a bit sunken and his blond hair hung limply around his face. The tree of life gift had saved his life and granted him immortality, but had simply suspended him in a state of permanent illness. He would never improve, but neither would he succumb to his hideous wounds.
“We will be arriving in Scotland within three days,” the Master told them. “His Lordship, Robert the Bruce has graciously accepted our offer and agreed to our terms. He will send an envoy to meet with us near Bannockburn in order to make arrangements for the disposal of the fleet. In the meantime, I suggest that you all pray diligently for our success and victory for Robert the Bruce.”
The Grand Master nodded to his Seneschal and then sat down, having covered the main items of interest.
“Will we be fighting alongside the Scots then, Master d’Brouchart?” Simon ventured the question in a weak voice.
“That is the long the short of it, Brother Simon,” the Master answered. “I know that you have no training in the art of warfare and the bearing of arms, but you will need to familiarize yourself with the proper use of weaponry and armor. Once we are reunited with our Brothers, Sir Barry will see to it that you have your training and Sir Ramsay here will be able to make your weapons for you as soon as he might avail himself of a smithy.”
Ramsay looked up at the Master briefly and then returned his attention to the cup in front of him.
“Does any one of you have anything you might wish to say before we close the meeting and proceed with the bestowing of the mystery?” Sir Cambrique asked in general.
“Aye!” Ramsay spoke up for the first time.
“Speak, Brother Ramsay.”
Ramsay swayed to his feet and leaned both hands on the table, locking his deep blue eyes with the Master’s.
“I am at home with my kinsmen, Your Grace, and I do not oppose fighting at Robert’s side. I am not averse to offering my life in defense of the Order and in defense of my homeland. I am averse, however to bestowing Knighthood on an untrained boy and I am averse to using the mysteries for purposes other than that which they were designed. These things have been done and cannot be undone and I register my formal objection at this time. But foremost above and beyond all this, I am averse to the use of cowardly practices by my own Brothers.” The Knight turned his head slowly, making eye contact briefly with Hugh de Champagne, James Argonne, Louis Champlain, Konrad von Hetz and Philip Cambrique. “There is one among you with whom I have a bone to pick and pick it I shall until naught remains but dust. I swear here and now, I shall know who killed me and I will have my day with him when we shall meet face to face.” Shock flickered momentarily across six of the seven faces in the room excluding the Master’s. The Master had not murdered him, nor had Simon of Grenoble, but the rest were suspect. Some more so than others. Only James Argonne’s face remained emotionless at the threat. Ramsay raised his chin slightly and smiled almost imperceptibly.
“Of what do you speak, Brother?” Louis Champlain asked.
“He speaks of nothing! Sit down, du Morte!” The Grand Master was on his feet again, his face red with anger.
Ramsay stood three seconds too long and then sat down heavily, spilling his cup on the table.
“I have not pressed charges or brought complaint against you because I need you,” the Master continued. “I will hear no more of this sort of talk from the members of this Council. If I do hear of such again, Brother Ramsay, I will clap you in irons and stow you below decks. When we reach landfall, I will convene a hearing and charge you with treason. Is that understood?”
“Aye, sair!” Ramsay muttered and drew a deep breath. He knew that his point had been taken. Someday he would have his revenge and it would not go well for the man who had attacked him in Simon’s sick room.
“Now!” The Master said and flung his mantel over his shoulder. “We will get on with the transfer of the mystery. That is, if my Assassin is not too drunk to perform his own Mystery?”
Again, Ramsay’s temper flared, but he fought it down with a curt nod. The Chevalier du Morte stood up again and tossed his own mantel over his right shoulder, exposing the hilt of the Golden Sword of the Cherubim. The twisted and flattened blade gleamed in the lamplight with an unnatural brilliance sending chills up more than one spine. The legendary sword of the Cherubim crafted by angels and handed down through the ages until its golden hilt rested in the hand of this unruly Scot put the fear of God, hellfire and damnation into all of them every time they had the unfortunate occasion to gaze upon its perfection. The blade never needed honing, nor did it bend, break or chip and the Assassin did not hesitate to wield it deftly whenever the need arose.
Everyone at the table stood up with him. When Simon attempted to rise from his seat, the Knight pushed him back into his seat and used the tip of the sword to raise the priest’s face until they looked into each other’s eyes.
“Be still!” Mark Andrew told him. “This will take but a moment. Prepare yourself.”
Simon’s sad eyes widened with fear as he looked up into the Scot’s face and then he drew a deep breath and held it. Ramsay leaned forward quickly and placed his right hand upon the priest’s forehead before kissing him on the mouth in the Templar fashion.