The Centaur

The Red Cross of Gold XXVIII:.

“The Centaur”

Assassin Chronicles

By

Brendan Carroll

Copyright 2012

The Centaur
is dedicated to everyone who is looking forward to the next great extinction level event precipitated by the collision between earth and some anomalous celestial body.

And it is also dedicated to my good friend Sue Guerth who has given so much time in return for a few laughs.

The characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and coincidental.

Brendan Carroll can be reached at
[email protected]
for comments and/or questions.

Warning copyrighted material:

No part of the contents of this publication may be copied, printed or sold without permission of the author.

If you enjoy reading the Assassin Chronicles, do not be discouraged. Only two more left! It’s almost over, but wait! What about the
Apprentice Diaries:. The Knights of Christ
.

If you enjoyed Brendan Carroll’s writing style, have you checked out his other works also available in eBook format and paperback?

Hounds of Oblivion
:
A small town is plagued by a string of gruesome murders and mysterious abductions. When the evidence begins to point to a local murder/mystery writer, things get kind of weird. Fortunately, his long time friend and local constable thinks there is more to it than meets the eye. The unlikely pair must solve and the mystery surrounding the murders and abductions before the FBI catches up with them.

Tempo Rubato ~ Stolen Time:
A tribute written to Brendan Carroll’s favorite classical composer: Wolfgang Mozart action/adventure style with a touch of sci-fi and romance.
Tempo Rubato
is an epic story about a corrupt, clandestine corporation using Einstein’s accomplishments and modern technology to make money in a somewhat less than legal manner. Murder and mayhem ensue when a Mozart scholar and NYC homicide detective get involved. Check it out on Amazon, available for Kindle and also in paperback.

Prologue

Morna
Ramsay was astonished! She backed away from the barn, almost tripping over her own skirt in the process. The tray she carried crashed to the stony ground and the resulting noise caused the horses and sheep in the holding pens on either side of her to shy, prance and urn, whinnying and bleating in fright. She looked down at the food and drink wasted at her feet and back at the dark opening before her.

From within the barn, she heard his voice. Ambrosius’ clear, smooth voice drifted out to her ears. He was singing, but not in Latin, not in English or Gaelic, but in some other language unknown to her. Surely, he had heard the crash.

She waited motionless for the animals to settle down again and then knelt to pick up the crockery shards and wooden vessels from the ground. With so much poverty and starvation in the countryside, she was pained to see the bread, cheese and gruel lost in the dirt. Her two deer hounds joined her immediately, careless of her attempts to shoo them away. One of them grabbed the cheese and the other took the bread. They loped off into the gloom to enjoy their unexpected windfall.

Mumbling to herself about wastefulness and being a fool, she gathered the dishes and eating utensils onto the wooden tray and frowned. Her eyes had to be deceiving her. She was a practical woman, not a suspicious, lily-livered sniveler. Ambrosius was just like anyone else. Poor, lost and hungry. Rambling around the countryside was dangerous! No wonder he had lost everything to brigands. Probably took him unawares whilst he had been lost in his prayers and songs.

This thought made her even more angry with Sir Timothy for leaving his household unprotected in these trying times. The only thing that saved her from roving bands of criminals was her generosity and her status as the wife of a Laird and favored advisor of the King. Retribution would be swift and merciless if anything should happen to her, her servants or her household.

These thoughts filled her mind and pushed away the silly notion of mystical illusions. She got up, leaving the tray on the ground with the intent of apologizing to her guest for disturbing his meditations and dropping his supper. There would be no more bread until the morrow and the milk was all gone as well.

When she stepped forward, she realized the singing had stopped. Ambrosius stood in the barn’s open doors looking at her, and, even though the light of the full moon was bright over the thin ground fog, it seemed that his eyes shown with a light of their own.

“My Lady,” he said quietly.

“Sair!” she almost gasped in surprise and pressed one hand to her throat. She gripped the broken handle of a crockery pitcher in the other.

“You’ve had an accident?”

“I… dropped yur supper,” she said and felt her cheeks flush not with embarrassment, but with something quite sinful. “I’ll ’ave t’ bring ye something else. We’ve no mair milk and thot was th’ last o’ th’ cheese. I’m sorry…”

“No need,” he said and crooked his fingers for her to come closer. “I have only to feast upon your countenance under the light of
Anu and I am filled as never before.”

“I’m a
marrit wooman, Sair!” she said, but stepped forward anyway.

“Call me Uriel,” he said and motioned for her again.

She could see now, the glow he had in his eyes seemed to come from his entire body at one.

“Ye said
thot yur name was Ambrosius,” she muttered.

“And so it is.”

He turned and walked away from her and the glow followed him, leaving her somehow bereft and suddenly cold.

“Wait!” she called and followed after him quickly.

Inside the barn, she found him sitting on an upturned wooden bucket in front of a small fire built in the blacksmith’s furnace.

“The night air is chilling to old bones,” he said.

“Aye, tis true, but surely ye dunna count yurself amongst th’ auld?”

“Come and sit with me,
Morna,” he said and looked up at her.

He looked much younger now than he had before. His face was clear of hair, his cheeks ruddy as if recently scrubbed. Her husband’s old gray cloak fell from his shoulders and the dark blue tunic complimented his appearance and dark hair perfectly. He was much younger than she had first assumed.

She stepped closer to the fire and he slid to the floor on the straw, offering her the bucket as a chair.

“Thank ye
koindly,” she said and gathered her skirts before sitting primly on the bucket as if it were a fine upholstered chair. “Now, tell me whair ye’re bound… Uriel.”

“I’m not bound anywhere,” he said and smiled. “I’m free. I’m a free creature of God and I owe no man.”

“Thot’s strange wards comin’ from a Proselytizer. Do ye not owe something t’ yur flock?”

“Owe them? Nay. I bring them a gift. It is up to them to accept or decline my services.”

“Now thot truly is an arrogant attitude for a minister,” she laughed softly. “Do ye not owe me some measure of service for my generosity?”

“Oh? Is it now generosity that you show me and not charity?”

“They air one and th’ same in my book.”

“Well, My Lady, you are reading the wrong book.”

“Oh? Ye dunna say? Tis not generosity of ’eart requoired fur charity t’ be possible?”

“Some may think so, but it is not true that one necessarily precludes the other. A man may have a parsimonious heart and, yet, he may make himself appear charitable in public to fool his neighbor into thinking him a pious man. And one, such as yourself, may call yourself generous and give what you perceive as charity, but then ask repayment.”

Her eyes widened and her cheeks burned even deeper. “I’m sorry… your forgiveness, Sair.”

“None is necessary. Forgiveness is in the realm of our Father, the Creator. He does not expect a man to subsist on charity, not even the clergy. A godly man may yet still work with his hands and be godly on the Sabbath. Did not the Christ work as a carpenter? Wherefore do our Holy men presume to be exempt from common work? Do not the monks work their lands, cook their food and clean their cells? Does God send angels to do these things for the Holy man anymore than he does for the laity?”

“Air ye then naysayin’ th’ tithe?”

“I am
naysaying nothing, My Lady. All things are good in the sight of the one who created them.”

Morna
frowned. His words confused her.

“Then wot is
yur moind on penance, dispensation and intervention?”

“You are surely an innocent soul, Lady Ramsay.” Ambrosius Uriel looked “What is it you truly want of God?”

“I want…” she began and then stopped. She stared into the fire and chewed her lip uncertainly. “Why d’ye ask? Ye can do nothin’ fur me. I’m barren.”

“Barren?!” Ambrosius repeated the word and sat back, blinking at the fire, himself, surprised by her answer.

“Do you see any bairns under my feet, Sir?” she asked carefully, insulted by his reaction. “Tis no wondar whoy me ’usband prefars th’ coompany o’ thot run-a-muck King William t’ mine! Whoy I can no mair bear a son fur ’im than th’ King!” she blurted.

“Oh! You are a feisty one, My Lady,” he said and chuckled.

At that, she leapt from the bucket and stood glaring at him. She had opened her blackest secret to him. And for what? He was laughing at her!

“And
ye’re nae Mon o’ God!” she said bitterly and started for the door. “I’ll expect ye gone ere dawn.”

Before she could reach the door, he stood in front of her, holding both her hands in his. She stared into his eyes shocked that he could move so fast, that he dared touch her in such a familiar fashion. When she opened her mouth to protest his action, he kissed her full on the mouth, cutting off her hot words and enveloping her in an unexpected cocoon of warmth and comfort she had never known.

When he withdrew, she faltered and he caught her, placing one arm around her shoulders.

“Come back to the fire, My Lady and I will tell you the truth of men and the nature of sin. I will tell you of Heaven and the lies of the church impressed upon the minds of penurious bastards with naught in their black hearts but jealousy and lust
for the things they cannot have. I will tell you of the beauty that God intended for mankind and the real reason Adam and Eve were cast from the garden. I will show you the flaming sword that keeps the ugliness of real sin from the Gates of Paradise.”

Morna
felt as if she drifted on his voice as he drew her back to the warmth of the forge and the sweet-smelling hay of the Midsummer’s Night. With him, she was safe. With him, she was warm. With him, no harm could come to her in this world or the next.

Chapter One of
Seventeen

and there were
lightnings, and voices, and thunderings,

and an earthquake, and great hail

“Ahhh, Death’s Dark Angel, chief demon of the underworld. Where is beautiful Apollyon?”

The voice of the luminous one was maddeningly close and yet unreachable. The demon’s thirst was unquenchable, his rage unimaginable and his suffering unendurable.

“
And in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man, clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle. His head and his hairs were white like wool, as white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire…
I see your eyes are all that are left of your former glory, Abaddon.”

The dark angel howled and clawed the air with both hands as well as the hooked horns on the middle joints of his leathery wings. He was held in place in the cylindrical crystal prison by heavy golden chains on his wrists and his ankles. The cell was illuminated only by the presence of the glowing one. His heavy feet stamped on the shining surface sending shimmering tones through the structure. And his leathery wings rattled against the gleaming red and yellow scales of his thighs and back.

“And his feet like unto fine brass, as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters. Ahhh, waters, waters. A cool drink of water would be soothing just now. Don’t you agree? Your beautiful voice is raspy with vengeance and corrupted by sin.”

Again, the imprisoned demon shrieked and railed and tore at the chains that held him firmly in place. He threw back his hideous head and howled in pain and frustration.

His tormentor waited until the fit subsided before continuing. As he spoke, he moved about the perimeter of the small enclosure. The demon struggled to keep him in view, straining his neck against the spiked collar.