The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  There was a shuffling of chairs. The room was being made into the shape of a little Cour d'Assises by the clerks and bailiffs. Isaäc did not pay any attention to Jake. Jake did not allow himself to be affected. He was now convinced Isaäc was all tricks and traps. Instead, Jake sat in the chair that most resembled his usual spot in the defendant's box. Very quickly, everyone else did the same, except the banker, his guards and the evil-looking man. None of the four had yet moved or spoken.

  The Presiding Justice began, “We will call to order this supplemental tribunal. The purpose of this tribunal is for the facilitation of arbitration only.”

  Arbitration, thought Jake, Interesting.

  The Judge continued, “The clerks will note that all seven judges assigned to this case are present, along with Monsieur le Procureur, Monsieur l'Avocat and the defendant. Messieurs, I would inform you that we have arrived at a decision in this case. We have found the defendant guilty of high treason, sedition and rebellion against the Throne and Constitution of France. We have also arrived at a sentence, which will be public execution by guillotine.”

  Isaäc smiled, “We will appeal, of course.”

  The Prosecutor spoke, “Monsieur Crémieux, even if you appeal, the sentence will be commuted to life in prison. If you appeal again, and win again, your client will still spend years behind bars, and suffer exile afterward.”

  Isaäc narrowed his eyes, “You sound as if you are trying to convince me of something, but you have forgotten to tell me as to which course I should change.”

  The Prosecutor and the Foul Man exchanged a glance. The Foul Man spoke, “If it pleases the court, I would speak on this.” His voice was a warm honey, matching his subtle, pleasant smell, rather than his loathsome features.

  Isaäc shrugged, as if the case revolved around the sale of a used carriage, “And who might you be, Monsieur?”

  “I am Monsieur Tyran.”

  “An alias? Come now. A man’s life is at stake. Perhaps we can use our real names?”

  “I’m afraid my real name would avail you nothing. I was anonymous, and then I was not. When I was not, my name was Monsieur Tyran.”

  Jake could detect no foreign accent. The man was certainly French, probably from Marseilles. Tyran meant despot or tyrant. The name now matched his cruel face, but not his voice.

  “Well,” smiled Isaäc, “since we are all here, I suppose I have no objection to Monsieur Tyran speaking on this subject.”

  The Prosecutor turned to Monsieur Tyran, and nodded once again. Tyran stood, “What a terrible business, this rebellion,” he began, “Seventy-three brave soldiers of France killed by their own countrymen, and over three-hundred wounded. Such a tragedy.” He paused, and looked around the room, “And for the surviving rebels, eighty-two expensive trials. Such a waste of time and money - and lives. I feel I should… do something. Help, as it were. Yes, yes, indeed.”

  The Presiding Justice pursed his lips, “And how would you help, Monsieur Tyran?”

  The question came too quickly. All of this was rehearsed beforehand, Jake realized.

  Monsieur Tyran spoke, “I believe that one-hundred francs might help to pay for a trial. Let us say also, in a godly world, the family of a brave wounded soldier should receive one-hundred francs as well.”

  That sum could easily fund a middle-class family for a season.

  Monsieur Tyran rubbed his chin, “And the families of the fallen would receive two-hundred francs, I think.”

  The Presiding Justice was quick with the resulting sum, “That would be eighty-two-hundred francs for the trials, thirty-four thousand for the wounded and fourteen-thousand-six-hundred for the dead. Fifty-six-thousand-eight-hundred altogether.”

  The Weasel Banker unlocked the chest and opened it. From a seated position, no one could see what was inside of it.

  Monsieur Tyran spoke again, “Part of me wishes to upend the contents of this chest upon the stones in front of you.” His voice was different. He spoke slowly, but with an edge. “But I will spare you any coarse theatrics,” he continued, “and simply say the chest contains exactly sixty-thousand francs. Slightly more than enough. But what is three-thousand-two-hundred francs between friends?”

  “My goodness, the chest contains only slightly more than the exact amount of which you spoke,” said Isaäc, “What an amazing coincidence.”

  Monsieur Tyran continued, as if the sarcasm eluded him, “I tell you true, Monsieur l'Avocat, that the remarkable coincidences pertaining to your client will only now begin to come to light.”

  “I am sure I don’t understand.”

  “You said yourself that Monsieur Loring is in France because of a little Cross of Nantes around his neck. A little cross begetting him a tiny treasure - something to this effect. Yes?”

  “Yes,” drawled Isaäc.

  “The year engraved upon Monsieur Loring’s cross is 1805.”

  “Yes, the year Napoleon proclaimed himself emperor, if I am not mistaken.”

  “You are not. But 1805 was also the very year the Cross of Nantes went missing for the second and last time.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I am no expert on the Cross of Nantes.”

  “But I am, Monsieur. It went missing for the first time in 1754. Miraculously, it made its way back to the Traversier family during the Revolution, and was lost again in 1805.”

  “You sound preeminently educated on the subject. I will take your word for it.”

  “Messieurs,” continued Tyran, “I have found a unique document regarding the Cross of Nantes, recorded during the first time it went missing. The Cross, you see, appeared in Saint-Domingue in 1763, in the last months of the war that engulfed the entire world - on the neck of a young woman, no less. It is the only record of the Cross between 1754 and 1788. There are no mentions of this woman at all, in any record I am able to find. No record of her at all - except in the aforementioned, newly-discovered documents.”

  “Then your search has ended by necessity, Monsieur Tyran, for the people of Saint-Domingue have murdered all the Europeans on their island, and would not take kindly to more. They do not even deign to use the name of Saint-Domingue, rather they call themselves the nation of Haïti,” Isaäc said gently.

  “No, Monsieur Crémieux, you are wrong.”

  “Am I? I thought this was common knowledge.”

  “The people of Saint-Domingue killed all of the French on their island. Not all Europeans. I assure you there are still pockets of whites left on the island. Germans, I know for certain. I believe there are Poles, as well.”

  “Let us speak plainly, Monsieur. Are you actively searching for the Cross of Nantes?” laughed Isaäc.

  “I am.”

  “Mon Dieu! Monsieur Tyran, I do not mean to be insulting, but not a year has gone by when someone hasn’t found new evidence regarding the Cross, and gone off on some sangréal quest to find it. Frankly, if it was possible to find this thing, it would have been found already. No, I’m afraid the directors of the Traversier Trust will be determining their own salaries for the foreseeable future.”

  Monsieur Tyran slightly raised his voice, and the tone became softly angry, even deadly. “Do I appear casual in my pursuit, Monsieur? Do I seem... poorly-funded?”

  Jake felt danger from this man.

  Isaäc laughed gaily, “Monsieur Tyran, you mistake my meaning. I am simply confused. What is it that you wish? We dance from subject to subject, but there is no common melody to the tune. The theme alludes me, sir.”

  “What do I wish? I wish him,” and the Foul Man, Monsieur Tyran, pointed at Jake, who felt for all the world as if he had just been marked by the devil himself.

  “My client?” said Isaäc, happily shocked.

  “Indeed, Monsieur. And at the risk of sounding mad, I will say this: I would have him search for the two Crimson Heirlooms, and the Cross is but the first. There is a magic to the Cross of Nantes, a magic that becomes even more apparent with the study of its history. If it makes you feel more co
mfortable, say providence surrounds it. Call it cursed, call it holy, call it what you may. But make no mistake, the Cross has claimed Monsieur Loring. It is his destiny to search for it.”

  “I see. You have some strong thoughts on this subject, Monsieur,” Isaäc said, with perhaps more humor than was suitable.

  Tyran ignored his tone once again, “It is no coincidence that he speaks French, but is not French. It is no coincidence he can search for the mystery woman of Saint-Domingue, and not be killed or hurt because of his very nature. It is no coincidence he wears a little cross stamped 1805, nor is it coincidence that your client has two choices before him now: to serve me, or to serve the sentence of the Throne.”

  Isaäc nodded sagely, “For how long? For how long would he serve you?”

  “For five years, or until I find the Cross. And he will not starve on his journey, I assure you.”

  “And how does the court feel about this?”

  The Prosecutor nearly whispered, “The sentence of death would be immediately commuted to five years of penal service under the honorable orders of Monsieur Tyran. After the sentence, there would be no further punishment.”

  “No exile?”

  “No exile. As long as Monsieur Tyran’s generous offer of compensation for the Fatherland’s troubles remain, the Throne’s offer will stand for your client.”

  Isaäc turned to Monsieur Tyran with a gay smile, “And how long does your offer stand, Monsieur.”

  “You say yes or no before you leave this room.”

  “I suppose then, I have only one more question.”

  “I am listening.”

  “What is the second Crimson Heirloom? You said there were two, yes? We are not just searching for the Cross?”

  Monsieur Tyran looked pensive, even distracted, then nearly whispered, “I will tell you this, and nothing more - I saw the devil dance and heard his song. If you only knew the horror of the sight, as I do, your sleep would be haunted forevermore. I witnessed the very moment the dark demon was let loose from the cage of hell - when he became free to roam the earth. He is still here, and will be - from that fell moment, until the day of judgment itself. He cannot be sent back, Monsieur. He is here, now, everywhere, in this room - I can hear him sing that infernal song when the sun goes down and the night is still.” Tyran calmed, and continued, “Some little light I would have shine in the darkness, in which we now find ourselves. I seek salvation and forgiveness - and nothing more, nothing else, truth be told. The Crimson Heirlooms are but a means to this end. I cannot be more honest.”

  Jake forced himself to show no emotion, but his mind reeled:

  Monsieur Tyran is insane.

  He didn’t need Crimson Heirlooms. He needed one of Guilleret’s straightjackets. He was as mad as an outhouse rat.

  Isaäc smiled, and spoke gently, “You would make a good advocate, Monsieur. You have spoken a great deal, and have not answered my question.”

  Monsieur Tyran’s eyes flashed, and he spoke quickly, “The second Crimson Heirloom are the words of the devil’s song, as he danced across the blood-drenched hills of the Vendée Militaire.”

  The Vendée Militaire was a place, named after the Vendée River, which was little more than a stream. It was composed of parts of several regions of France which rebelled against the True Revolution. Jake knew nothing else of it.

  Isaäc spoke quickly as well, all business, “The second Crimson Heirloom is - are, rather - lyrics, then. The lyrics to this song. To be clear and concise, the devil’s song of the Vendée Militaire. I am assuming we can call it that, there being only one such song. I think it is important we establish that. Yes?”

  “Yes,” replied Tyran, “There is only one such song, it cannot be mistaken.”

  Isaäc, calm as sabbath morning, turned back to the Prosecutor, “So the official sentence, the official ruling of the Throne, will be five years of honorable penal service, to be carried out under the orders of Monsieur Tyran, with no further punishment. And, of course, automatic commutation of the remainder of the sentence, if the Crimson Heirlooms are found sooner than anticipated.”

  “That is correct, Monsieur l'Avocat.”

  Isaäc turned to Jake, “Well, what do you think, Monsieur Loring. A pewter cross has brought you here. Now a gold one beckons to take you away.”

  Jake knew Monsieur Tyran was completely insane. Most likely, he was dangerous and violent. But what choice did he have? He turned to Tyran, and cleared his throat, “For better or worse, Monsieur, I am yours to command.”

  Monsieur Tyran did not smile either, “For sixty-thousand francs, you had better be.”

  Xavier, 1784

  Chapter 12

  For Xavier, it was the day of a short but extraordinarily important journey. He was developing his first contact on the left-bank of the Loire. Through an exchange of letters that had lasted several weeks, a meeting had been arranged for later this day in the afternoon. The left-bank was dark territory, its own animal, so to speak. His father wrote of it.

  The land between the Loire and the Vendée rivers might as well be another country. This area, delineated by its customs and not by its political borders, encompasses parts of Brittany, Poitou, and Anjou. It is rolling hills, bocage, marshland, and forest. It is clannish, traditional if not backwards, and distrustful of outsiders. It is also far more fertile than the right-bank, and the farmers and drovers are not only relatively well-off, but also known as trustworthy and loyal. I could not penetrate this land, and did not make proper use of its resources. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I needed an ambassador. In any case, it is unknown territory to most of the other merchants in Nantes, so I did not suffer by comparison.

  In this land, we see the young men go off to fight the wars of France, their drovers walking the cattle to the cities, and the teamsters bringing their crops to market. Then all go back home, to live a life that is utterly mysterious to us all.

  Xavier had pulled all of the resources he was able to reasonably access, by water or road, out of the right-bank of the Loire. Prices were tightly controlled, and buyers for farmers’ goods had already been prearranged for the greater part. He was scavenging for table scraps, and working around established harvests. He now needed more, his own prearrangements, to evolve to the next step of his plan.

  He had found someone who could be a worthy ambassador for the left-bank, with whom he was meeting today. He had to be sharp, but that very morning, of all the mornings fate could have chosen, Madame was in one of her moods. The servants, the few who were still employed, made it a point to stay out of her way.

  Monsieur Fidèle, the new maître d’hôtel, had even found the courage to speak to Xavier regarding her behavior, “Monsieur, Madame DuBois told me Madame hasn’t been this bad since 1754. And we all know what happened then,” and then more pointedly, “And what she said, Monsieur.”

  Madame DuBois was the curmudgeonly chef de cuisine, employed for decades. She was a tome of Traversier history.

  Xavier sighed. He was not a superstitious man. Traversier was not a house given to spiritual hysteria of any sort. His mother, however, had broken the mold. Sometimes she had spells - she became convinced her intuitions and obsessions were foretellings of the future. Xavier found this to be embarrassing, and somewhat shameful. Unfortunately, during her worst spell, in the year 1754 in question, she had been absolutely right in her premonitions. Those who knew of this ancient, accidental bullseye had a kind of religious respect for her when she went mad. Everyone, that is, except Xavier.

  She was his mother, however, and he promptly went to see her. She was pacing in her room, with a frantic, crazy look in her eyes.

  “Mother, are you quite well?”

  “Where did you say you were going this morning?”

  “To Anjou.”

  “Yes, yes. Where in Anjou?”

  “Specifically? Just outside of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil.”

  “Last night, I wrote this.” She handed him a crumpled piece of paper. Xav
ier sighed.

  “And this is?”

  “Open it!” she said, with imperious command.

  Xavier smoothed out the paper. Upon it was scrawled DROWNED. He made no outward sign of his irritation. “You think I am going to drown?”

  “No,” she said quietly and pensively.

  “Then I don’t know what this means.”

  “Saint Florent le Vieil,” she said in such a tone that he thought she would trail off into catatonia. But soon, with rising excitement, she spoke again, “Saint Florent le Vieil was the brother of Saint Florent le Jeune. They were Roman soldiers who converted to Christianity, and were sentenced to death. They were both to be drowned in the Enns river, with stones tied around their neck.”

  Xavier was back to silently cursing again. He nodded interestedly, to keep her calm.

  She continued, “But an angel appeared to Florent, and asked him to rejoin Saint Martin in Tours, which he did, leaving his brother to the torments of martyrdom. Saint Martin himself ordained him, and he then performed several miracles. In Candes, a child had been at the bottom of the river for three days. He prayed, and the child awoke, and returned to the bank. Florent died on Mount Glonne, the highest point of the town of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, where the abbey now stands.”

  “And how do you know this, Madame?” asked Xavier, now unable to hide his irritation.

  “Nantes has only one use for Catholicism. It is used to scare young girls into chastity and obedience. I assure you, in my youth, I was both chaste, obedient and knowledgeable of my saints. Especially the patron saints of the towns of Brittany, and those on the banks of the Loire, be they of Anjou, Touraine, or anywhere else.”

  “Well, I am not going to Saint-Florent-le-Vieil, I am going somewhere near it. To be precise, to the château of Charles-Melchior Artus, the Marquis de Bonchamps. It is called the Château de la Baronnière, and I assure you it has nothing to do with drowning.”

  She stopped pacing and sat down. “Sit with me.”

  Xavier sat down, and she put a hand on his thigh.