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“You asked if I had finished Windimar’s training. It was indeed I who finished it, which is not uncommon, as I’ve said. Samson too completed a certain knight’s training, when that knight pledged himself to the Order upon their first meeting in France. You can guess who that certain knight was.”
He waited patiently for my Kropp mind to grasp what he was saying.
“Mogart?”
“Yes, Mogart was Samson’s squire, and more. Samson named him his heir.”
My Kropp mind couldn’t get a grip on that one. “So why did Mogart turn on him?”
His dark eyes glittered beneath his shaggy eyebrows, the same way they had about a lifetime ago in the halls of Samson Towers.
“Have you not wondered, Alfred, more than once, why your name was the code to unlocking the secret chamber beneath Samson’s desk? Have you not wondered why, at the most desperate hour, Samson ordered me to return to America to find you? Have you never wondered why Samson hired Farrell Kropp, an underskilled mechanic, to be the night watchman at Samson Towers? Two years ago, Bernard Samson discovered he had another heir, a true heir, and he wanted to make sure his son was taken care of until he came of age and could be brought into his full inheritance as a Knight of the Order.”
“Uncle Farrell was Bernard Samson’s son? Wouldn’t that make me his . . .” I tried to figure it out. “Grandnephew or something?”
“Alfred, Bernard Samson was your father.”
I stared at him for a long time. “I don’t understand, Bennacio.”
“Sixteen years ago, the man you know as Bernard Samson fell in love with a woman he met on a business trip. A business trip to Salina, Ohio, Alfred. That woman’s name was Annabelle Kropp.”
I was slowly shaking my head. Even though it was larger than average, it wasn’t big enough to hold what he was telling me.
“Samson did not wish to expel Mogart from the Order. In many ways, Mogart was the best of us: intrepid, clever; with sword and lance he had no equal. But Mogart wanted more than to be a mere knight like the rest of us. He desired Samson’s place. But when you were born, he could not have it.”
“Oh, great. This is just great, Bennacio. Now that’s my fault too?”
“It is no one’s fault, Alfred. It is merely a fact. You are the last in the line of Lancelot, the greatest knight who ever lived.”
I didn’t know what to say. Of all the things that had happened to me since my mother died, this was probably the weirdest—and the worst.
“You’re just making this up to get me to take this stupid vow or oath or whatever it is. I’m not his . . . He’s not my father . . .”
I couldn’t go on and Bennacio didn’t make me. He sat very still while I cried.
“Why did he leave my mom?” I finally made myself ask.
“So as not to endanger her—or you.”
“That didn’t work out too well, did it?”
“Not all good intentions do.”
“I still don’t believe it.”
“As with the angels, Alfred, that hardly matters.”
I looked down and saw the sword across my lap.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Bennacio? Why did you wait till now to tell me?”
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”
Bennacio whispered, “Speak the words now, Alfred Kropp. Speak, son of my captain, heir to Lancelot. ‘I, Alfred Kropp, swear in the name of the Archangel Michael, my guardian and protector, that I will sacrifice my life in defense of the Sword of Righteousness, and that by my life or my death, I shall defend it against the agents of darkness.’ ”
I repeated the words, and in the silence that followed, waited for some heroic valor to swell my breast. I didn’t feel anything except a little sick to my stomach.
Bennacio smiled, patted my shoulder again, and placed the sword back into its box.
