The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  Guillaume was going to die in less than a second. In a heartbeat of time, the soldiers would pull their triggers, he would be riddled with lead, and he would be dead. None of this occurred to him. In fact, looking at the soldiers, and the fear in their eyes, he again felt empowered. He raised his hands - not in surrender, but in defiance. His teeth flashed in a scornful snarl.

  An incredibly loud series of reports came from the muskets as they fired at Guillaume, scaring the mob into screams, then horrified silence.

  But when the smoke cleared, Guillaume stood completely unhurt. He was, incredulously, still unafraid, a sneer of utter contempt on his face. He spat, then spoke, “Now what, jean-foutre?”

  There was a moment of total silence. No one could believe what they had just seen. Guillaume had to be the son of a god, dipped in the river Styx. If an actor attempted such a scene, he would have been derided and booed, for such a thing could not happen – it was impossible. But this was real. It had just happened. Everyone had just seen this play out before their own eyes – and Guillaume’s attitude of complete contempt for the soldiers, absent any fear whatsoever, was absolutely real.

  Out of nowhere, a woman put her hand to her heart and shouted, “Beau Brave!”

  Beautiful Brave One.

  She said it again in the silence, “Beau Brave!” Her voice carried a perfect mix of love and awe, honor and reverence. The moment, and the woman’s voice, tempered the crowd from iron to steel. Almost without a word, the mob began tearing up the stones of the street, bursting into homes to access the roofs of the buildings. It was as if silent orders were issued.

  The young Marine officer rode up behind his men, “Who fired? Who violated my orders?” The Marines reorganized to more shouts and curses.

  Guillaume thought the officer had miscalculated. If he was smart, he would have immediately charged the crowd, or removed his men completely. There had been a sea-change, a tactical epiphany. It would have been best for that particular moment to either be forgotten - or expunged. The officer performed no action to achieve either.

  Suddenly the ground exploded, as the Marines were pelted with roof tiles raining down from four stories up. From deep within the ranks of the crowd now flew cobblestones as well. They were forced to move back.

  The war had begun.

  The door behind Guillaume opened. The young, terrified maid came out. In her shaking, outstretched hand was a one livre coin.

  Guillaume took it. “I will be going now. Find a flag - preferably the three roses of Grenoble, or the dolphins of Dauphiné - and hang it on the door. You’ll be fine.”

  And, with that, he walked away.

  ***

  There was more looting, and more shooting. Tiles were thrown in abundance, regardless of next season’s rain. A few people died in the fracas, but not many. Later that evening, the Duke withdrew his troops from the city to prevent further violence, in an attempt to deescalate the situation.

  The city did not return to normal that night. It did not return to normal the next day - nor the next week. In fact, if anything, the resistance became more organized, and more cogent. The leaders of the resistance demanded that the Estates-General of Dauphiné be called, to solve the problems of the nation independent of the hated Brienne. Heroes of the people were made: Jean Joseph Mounier, Antoine Barnave - who admitted to writing the inciting pamphlet, and a mysterious man known only as Beau Brave, the heart of the mob.

  Finally, in mid-July, over a month after the beginning of the riots, order was finally established by the King’s Marshall. He found the situation so dire that he allowed the Dauphiné provincial Estates-General to convene, in an attempt to pacify the region.

  The Dauphiné Estates-General passed into law three demands: first, that the national Estates-General be immediately convoked; second, they pledged not to pay any taxes unless passed by the national Estates-General; and, third, they demanded the abolition of the lettre de cachet, warrants allowing arbitrary imprisonment on the King’s authority.

  These demands were accepted by the Throne. Brienne was sacked, and his last act as minister was to convene the national Estates-General, for the first time since 1614.

  The trouble in Grenoble in the Summer of 1788 was to be known as Journée des Tuiles - the Day of Tiles. It found itself in every history book, large or small, for it was the official start of a far larger fire.

  He did not know it, nor would he ever realize it, but Guillaume had just started the French Revolution. If it wasn’t him, it would have been another - but it was him. Inadvertently, he grasped the mob like a sword blade and quench-hardened it. He was perfect for the task. Not only was he as handsome as a hero from a painting, he was fearless, smart, and inspirationally calm. Unknowingly, he was the ultimate product of the devil’s thousand year-plan - a plotted series of events stretching into antiquity.

  The tale of the heirlooms was about to begin.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On the way back to Nantes, Jake tried to be more alert in regard to possible pursuers, who had plenty of time to catch up. There could be two groups – one from Tyran and one from The Society. He did not notice anything suspicious, and wondered if he had so easily lost his stalkers. Perhaps they did not exist at all.

  In spite of this, he had plenty of time to think.

  Jake was of two emotions regarding his quest. He was naturally apprehensive. A few more concerns had even cropped up, such as the possible threat of Monsieur Avenir, the return of L’Oublié, and the conflict between Tyran and The Society. But there was a part of him that considered himself abnormally lucky. The search had already taken him to new places - there were few people who could even dream of doing what Jake was being forced to do. It was a hollow thought, however: he could not rid himself of apprehension.

  On the long ride from Liverpool to London, he journaled his experiences for Monsieur Tyran, who – he was sure – would be satisfied with nothing less than a full account. But as Jake wrote, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate, at least on the journal. Try as he might, one fact kept playing in his mind over and over, something Monsieur Roquer had said.

  For months, Tyran had been expected at the Château Meilleur.

  Months.

  Notices are not sent months ahead of time unless the destination is very far – and the travel has definite purpose.

  It was reasonable to assume that Tyran had planned to come to France long before The Society knew it was going to rebel.

  Such a thought begged a host of other questions.

  Could Tyran have come to France specifically to find Jake? It was almost too absurd. There was no reason for Jake to be singled out for any reason, or that Tyran would know of him at all.

  Except...

  Jake thought of Isaäc’s words. He had indeed been singled out by someone powerful – who ended up to be Monsieur Tyran.

  Tyran then, more than likely, came to France for Jake.

  Could that possibly follow?

  Even if it didn’t, it had all been planned from the beginning.

  And that made absolutely no sense at all.

  When Jake found himself captured, Tyran made sure he went to trial. That meant before the avocats spoke their first words, the judges knew he was to be found guilty and sentenced, and knew also the coffers of France would be sixty-thousand francs richer once Jake was in Tyran’s service. Jake would probably have been deported, had Tyran not shown up. The trial was worth the coin for the government coffers, and – to the judges – the farce was probably not considered a particularly serious breach of ethics, considering the communal benefit.

  But what if Jake had not been captured?

  Perhaps Tyran would have done nothing more exotic than offer him a job and a large bonus. Perhaps the capture was completely unexpected - but may have benefitted Tyran by taking away Jake’s choice from any equation.

  But why? Why Jake at all?

  Tyran had worked for the Traversier
Trust, indeed he was a trusted member of the inner circle. He was recalled to Nantes during the last fateful meeting with Xavier, but was not present at the Château Meilleur.

  Why? Why was he brought all the way back to Nantes – just to miss the meeting for which he was recalled?

  Jake had a strong intuition that Tyran knew of the cross around his own neck, who gave it to his family - and why. The thought irritated him. The design on the cross, and its promise, was a mystery to Jake, at least when he became old enough to know how strange it all truly was. If Tyran knew, why would he not simply tell him. But Jake did not know this for a certainty – which was maddening. It was certainly possible that Tyran could have been utterly ignorant of his little cross and its designs until the trial.

  But most likely not. After all, he had come a long way for Jake. He might know a lot more than he let on.

  No, he certainly knew more than he let on.

  Had he come only for Jake? Were there others? What was Tyran’s network like? Were their dozens of men on his payroll – or only one?

  And then there was the Second Heirloom – the insane quest for the devil’s song of the Vendée. Tyran said he had heard the devil’s song first hand, meaning he had presumably fought in the Vendée – and so had Xavier, according to Roquer. Is that where they met? Did something significant happen between them? Did they hate each other; were they brothers? Was it complete coincidence, and their meeting was actually later in time, and in a different place altogether?

  Jake thought not. As he learned more, he believed that his cast of characters, and his theater sets of places, were all about to collide in a horrible, deadly accident, where the debris of Tyran’s motivation and purpose could be pulled from the wreckage.

  Tyran.

  Tyran had an almost superstitious fear of the Cross of Nantes. His words describing it were worthy of a Philistine regarding the Ark of the Covenant. He was utterly convinced it was laced with some kind of power or destiny.

  When Tyran discussed his motivations, it was always from a purely selfish perspective. He spoke of his own salvation, spreading light to counteract the infernal song – or some such equally dramatic nonsense. What else? Jake couldn’t remember. He did recall that Tyran only discussed him as a means to an end.

  And what of the devil’s song?

  Was Tyran mad? His words were moon-kissed, but Tyran did not comport himself like the lunatic who should have uttered them. Tyran appeared bellicose; appearance-minded; well-spoken, of hard words – but not insane.

  …except for the fantastic nature of the quest itself – which was, admittedly, enough. Surprisingly, The Society took him and his quest quite seriously. Perhaps their hopes blinded them. Perhaps they thought he was mad – but might find the Cross anyway in spite of it.

  Neither could Jake forget the Irishman’s story. There was a part of him that believed the old man was planted by Monsieur Tyran, because his words were so reminiscent of the details of the Crimson Heirlooms. But such a thing was impossible. The Londonderry sheriffs had been very familiar with the old drunk.

  Had Tyran come to Ireland and spoken with Aodh Dubh?

  No – of course not. Jake had barely been able to speak to him. If Tyran had tracked him down and asked him the same questions, Aodh Dubh would have certainly said something to Jake, surprised at such an agonizing coincidence. That did not happen. Aodh Dubh’s words were no planted evidence.

  Jake was forced to acknowledge that some sort of eerie, supernatural coincidence had occurred.

  Except that the supernatural did not exist.

  If a carnival gypsy had been paid to tell one’s future, it was a good bet to wager for an omen of toil and trouble, followed by great wealth and happiness. The charlatan priest did no better. Everything was then serendipitous for very good, common-sensical reasons. Snake oil salesmen had the same techniques, whether they wore top hats or collars. Jake, armed with this conviction, dismissed the priest’s words entirely.

  The supernatural did not exist, and neither then did the second heirloom.

  But Tyran believed that it did, and forced the court to put it in writing. Tyran said he had already heard the song, indeed, heard it practically everywhere – some kind of ubiquitous, nightmarish sonata.

  Why then was it so important that Jake learn the words to a song Tyran already knew?

  Jake shook his head at the inanity of having to ponder over such fairy dust.

  The girl in the painting, the Cross, the Vendée, Xavier, Seonaidh, Tyran, Nantes, Haïti - those were the branches upon which the spider had spun its web, and they were real. Eight carriages sped inexorably toward the same intersection, destined for a diabolical collision - as it had already happened decades ago. Now through his detective work he had to witness the accident second hand as best as he could, and shift through the ancient rubble for clues.

  But there was another question that had to be asked. Could Jake possibly be connected to the actors of this play? Could he somehow be instrumental in the recovery of the Cross of Nantes – and not just in his ability to travel in Haïti, which was certainly not worth sixty-thousand francs. Was he one of the coaches headed toward the intersection as well?

  As he thought of it, he realized that such a thing was impossible. His grandfather, may he rest in peace, was an American-born, very religious reformed Protestant, whom some called Puritans. His father was almost as religious, but was somehow a Catholic, a nearly impossible feat to achieve in Massachusetts. Neither his father nor grandfather had struck him as being particularly adventurous – quite the opposite. They were peaceful family men until the great tragedy of his mother’s death. Jake found it hard to believe that his grandfather had been to war, had it not been for the faded scars of his wounds. There was no chance they were somehow involved in this.

  His mother’s death.

  The thought of her brought pain, but he forced himself to remember. Her maiden name was Svajone Smilte Shaulis. She was thin as a pine, white-haired, pink-scalped and had blue eyes. She smiled a lot more than her parents, who were grimly German in outlook. They had all come from Klaipeda, a little town in Lithuania, when his mother was but a girl.

  “What was it like, Mommy?” he remembered asking.

  “Little, painted, wooded and flat, right on the gentle waves. The Baltic Sea was Poseidon’s little princess, you see, and she slept on the sand, with her hair of reeds and grasses spread over the dunes,” she replied with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. What a beautiful way to describe a place, Jake had thought. The only thing she had in common with his father was mutual love and Catholicism. Her parents spoke mostly Lithuanian, which Jake knew but few words, or Polish, of which he knew none. There was no chance his mother, or anyone else on her side, was the spark behind his current conflagration.

  Jake’s mind suddenly switched to another track altogether.

  What if there was a lie, something incorrect, in the information he believed to be true? What if there was a false lead that, when removed, revealed all?

  Perhaps he truly was the center of it all. Maybe, when all was revealed, his involvement made perfect sense; that there could be no search for the heirlooms without him.

  Maybe the Cross belonged to him – and maybe the devil’s song as well.

  Jake rifled through the oilskins containing his important papers. He found his copy of the court’s decision in his case. He looked over it carefully. To his surprise, there was nothing in the decision detailing who would get the Cross once it was found. Jake’s responsibility started and ended with the search.

  Tyran needed a better lawyer than himself. Isaäc had magnificently outmaneuvered him without his knowledge. Unbelievably, and legally-speaking, the Cross was still anyone’s for the taking.

  ***

  In London, Jake had to switch coach lines to get to Dover. Footmen took his luggage to the new coach, which was leaving in two hours. Jake decided to ask a nearby policeman where he could eat a gentleman’s meal.

&nbs
p; A middle-aged, well-dressed woman appeared in his path and moved toward him. Jake altered his direction, and she did as well. She wasn’t looking at him and appeared unaware of the path of her meander. Jake altered his course again – and she did as well. Jake sighed. She was then proved well-aware of her course.

  A pickpocket.

  Jake put his hand over his wallet and watch, and changed course once again. The woman predictably did the same and they collided. Unpredictably, her purse upended and its contents scattered over the ground.

  “Pardon me, Madame.”

  “It is no problem. I am so clumsy, Monsieur.”

  A thick French accent.

  Jake checked his belongings. They were all there. He bent down to help the woman with her things. The policeman crossed to them.

  “Good afternoon. What do we have here?”

  The woman looked a bit nervous.

  Jake spoke, “We have collided, sir. I have checked all of my belongings, and nothing has fallen to the ground. Unfortunately, Madame was not so lucky.”

  Madame, belongings back in her purse, stood. So did Jake. The policeman had not moved, wary of some kind of mischief.

  The woman’s eyes swiveled upwards and met Jake’s. She held up a folded letter with his name on it. “I believe you dropped this, Monsieur.”

  Jake had never seen the note before. “So I did. Thank you.”

  “Are we sure you both have everything?” asked the policeman.

  Jake and the woman spoke over each other, assuring him all was right.

  The constable nodded and walked away. Jake’s eyes followed the woman as she darted off.

  He did not follow.

  ***

  Jake rented a private cabin on the ferry to Calais. Only then could he afford to open and read the note.

  Dear Jake,

  Why haven’t you written me? I am in such a state. Please write me, for certain certainly! Why why why?

  It continued in that manner, inane and superficial, page after page, until the end. It was signed, “Brigitte”. The name meant nothing, which meant it had to be a missive from The Society, which was what he suspected upon receiving it.