by Alex Archer
“So! You want to let go of that, or must I pry it from your iron grip?”
“Hmm? Oh. Sure.” She set the sword bag on the paper with a crisp crinkle, and rubbed her hands together. “Hand me some gloves. And focus that light, will you?”
“Your wish is my command, mon amour.”
“Watch it, Gascon. Just stick to the business at hand. All right?”
“Of course. Gloves. And light.”
Snapping the latex gloves onto her hands released the smell of powder. She then drew out the sword from the bag to place it on the white butcher’s paper. Bits of dirt and particles of the desiccated velvet that had lined the box fell onto the crinkled surface. In their excitement at the dig site, she had already handled the sword without gloves. Hopefully, it had not incurred damage.
Annja let out a huge breath and pressed a hand to her chest. Yes, her heartbeats really could pound that quickly. Here, beneath her fingertips, sat a remarkable history.
She concentrated on the weapon, leaning in to study the length of the hilt, from the flat, slightly curved pommel to the quillon, curved back to protect the hand, yet abbreviated as it swept into the decorative hilt. The blade was about three and a half feet in length, and the hilt designed for a large hand to fit comfortably about the grip.
A gorgeous sword for any cavalier to wear at his hip when out on the town and looking to show his worth or to attract a lady’s eye.
She clicked the camera on and snapped a few pictures.
“Damascened blade,” she said, drawing a gloved finger over the slightly rusted blade. The arabesques were worn to mere suggestions, but still there was no denying the quality of work. She leaned in and adjusted the camera for a close-up shot. “Blackened steel. Folded…I’m not sure.”
“Twelve or thirteen times,” Ascher tossed in. “Most seventeenth-century swords crafted for the French court were designed by Hugues de Roche. Especially the more decorative rapiers. He folded his steel a dozen times and signed them with a mark on the ricasso of the blade, just near the hilt.”
“What was the mark?”
“A simple R in a circle,” Ascher said.
Annja tilted the sword to catch the light at the base of the blade. Smoothing a finger through dust and dirt, she located a small marking. “It’s here. It’s real,” she gasped, not wanting to succumb to the tremendous feelings that threatened to make her squeal like a silly schoolgirl. Not yet. Look it over completely first. And take more pictures, she ordered herself.
“Swept hilt,” Ascher noted. “Gold.”
“Yes,” Annja agreed. “The hilt is three strands of gold, which sweep to form the suggestion of a basket. The grip is wrapped in silver, maybe, and it looks like a black cording twists around it, almost as if it was meant to fit within the channels of silver.”
“The inventory documents of Castelmore’s belongings detailed two swords,” Ascher said.
“One of black steel,” Annja confirmed, “the other gold. But they were believed sold to pay off his debts.”
“How do you suppose Charlotte-Anne got her hands on this sword?”
“Well, that’s assuming this was one of the swords remaining in Castelmore’s home after his death. Neither one was indicated as a rapier. He could have received this from the queen, then immediately handed it to his wife for safekeeping. This rapier could be entirely different from the two documented swords.”
“True. But I don’t think so,” Ascher said.
“You just don’t want to believe so.”
There was only one sure way to determine if this was the actual rapier once wielded by Charles de Castelmore d’Artagnan, gifted to him by Queen Anne as thanks for many dangerous missions, all for the king.
All for one, and one for all.
Such a noble phrase. And yet “all for one” could bear a much greater meaning.
Annja surreptitiously slid a latexed finger along the hilt, tracing the smooth gold. Now she met Ascher’s eyes. The two of them challenged without words. A lift of her brow was matched by Ascher’s grin.
“Shall we check if rumors hold truth?” he asked.
6
“When did you have the time to research this legend, Ascher? In between jumping out of buildings and swimming the Amazon?”
“Exactly. I like the quiet of the bibliothèque stacks. So still and haunted by the ghosts of centuries past. It offers a balance to my busy lifestyle.”
Annja felt the same whenever in a library. Rarely did she find the time lately. Her own loft back in Brooklyn had become a minilibrary. And if she waded beyond the piles of books, field notebooks and research documents, there were artifacts stacked without order. The loft wasn’t a complete disaster; she liked to consider it comfortable disarray.
Balance, yeah, that was something she should never allow to tilt too far out of whack. A good meditation session wouldn’t hurt after her long day.
“Besides Dumas’s journals, which you have read,” Ascher said, “I’ve had opportunity to pore over some of Nicolas Fouquet’s voluminous writings.”
“The royal financier who was imprisoned for embezzlement,” Annja said.
“Yes, unfortunately he is known for that small mistake.”
“And for being a pornographer, thanks to Louis XIV.”
“Falsified evidence. He merely copublished a racy little tome with Madame de Maintenon. She did the majority of writing—he edited. He really was so much more.”
Annja smirked. “And here I thought your favorite Frenchman was King Henri III.”
“The most reviled of the Valois kings—because of his homosexual tendencies—but I’m interested in them all. Do you know Fouquet also had a huge lending library that was the greatest collection of research books in all of Europe? It attracted political advocates and patronages. Fouquet intended to use it to rise in position in the government. But the king wasn’t having it. I’m not sure why Louis XIV was angry with Fouquet. This all happened before the infamous arrest after the lavish party at Vaux le Vicomte.”
Annja hadn’t known about the library. “What happened to the library after his death?” she asked.
“It was divided up and sold. Madame Fouquet managed to save his personal journals. I’m surprised I found the little I did at the Bibliothèque Nationale. The man made copies of virtually every important document he created for the royals, be it for purchases of land or certificates of patents to the nobility or coded secret missives. He was a secretive Saint-Simon, if you will.”
The duc de Saint-Simon had been an infamous chronicler of the seventeenth century, his diaries amounting to thirty published journals. Much like a modern-day entertainment program, Saint-Simon had reported all the salacious and juicy details of court life.
Annja had always wanted to get her hands on Nicolas Fouquet’s private journals, for he had been close to Charles Castelmore during his imprisonment for embezzlement. Castelmore had been forced to stay with and tend him while imprisoned as Fouquet waited the king to either call him back from exile or begin proceedings for his trial. It took well over three years, during which the musketeer had not the opportunity to command his troops or engage in martial combat. It must have been hell for d’Artagnan, she thought.
“I believe Dumas had access to the Fouquet papers, as well,” Ascher said.
“To look at you, no one would mistake you for the scholarly type,” she commented, turning her attention back to the rapier.
“Please don’t let the word get out.”
She gave a little laugh. “And here I thought you were nothing more than a treasure hunter.”
“You say the title as if it is so offensive.”
“Treasure hunters have no reverence for history, the condition of a dig site or the people who left behind the objects. Archaeology is all about learning the why, what and where. Treasure hunters could care less. They storm in, kick aside the dirt and haul away the booty.”
“I’m very meticulous before I haul away the booty.” He deli
vered her a charming wink. “I know how to backfill a site, returning it close to its former state.”
“Even when you’ve got gunmen breathing down your neck?” she asked.
“I am very busy man, Annja. I have…had alliances.”
That statement struck Annja oddly. But she knew now she should not be surprised at anything Ascher said or did.
“Those men who tried to steal the sword,” she said. “You knew them.”
“As I’ve said, I have never seen them in my life.”
“That may be, but you were not surprised by their arrival,” she pointed out.
He drew himself up straight, but with a sudden wince, he clutched his side.
“Did you get hurt tonight, Ascher?”
“It is nothing. An old injury, as I said earlier. Just surprises me now and then. I’m usually quite fit, and can perform remarkable feats with my body. As a traceur, one uses his whole body to perform. An injury keeps me from participating.”
“The parkour?”
“Yes. A traceur is one who practices parkour. I do not like it when I am injured.”
“It’s been a trying day. Maybe a heating pad?”
“Perhaps.”
Ascher pressed his palms to the white paper and leaned in, his shoulder brushing her arm. Annja could hear his breath catch—he was in pain.
Compassion didn’t come easily for her. She wasn’t a hugger, nor did she often feel inclined to ask anyone “How are you?”
She’d give him some space. He’d take a moment if he needed it.
Tension strummed through her, but it was divided between excitement and the nervousness of being close to a man she had thought to know better than she apparently did. A man she had initially thought to trust.
“Enough small talk,” Ascher said in a whispery tone. “I am well. Are you going to check to see if it is in there?”
“You’re giving me the honor?” she asked, surprised.
“But of course.”
Tilting her head, she peered into Ascher’s eyes. When fencing, it was critical to maintain eye contact with the opponent. The enemy’s next move always first showed in his eyes. But she saw nothing to clue her to defense. And when had she started calling him an enemy?
His mouth slightly parted, Ascher waited expectantly. A shadow of a soul patch dabbed his chin, and lower, a pale white scar curled out of view under his jaw. The adventures that drew him appealed to Annja perhaps more than he did.
Annja let out a breath and placed both palms to the paper, before the rapier. “Can I trust you, Monsieur Vallois?”
He propped an elbow on the marble table. Mischief now danced in his pale blue eyes. A dangerous mischief. While it threatened, it also intrigued. Adventure or not, Annja wasn’t completely oblivious to the opposite sex.
“How can we know when to trust anyone?” he asked.
“That’s not the answer I was hoping for.”
“I can ask the same of you, Annja Creed. Can I trust you?”
“You invited me here. I’m just along for the ride. Amusement-park ride, as it may be. Just tell me before we do this—who wants the sword?”
Huffing out a sigh, he pressed his chin into his palm and eyed her straight on. He was hiding something, and Annja could sense his need to blurt it out. Men always kept their feelings bottled up. Yet their secrets often simmered just beneath the surface, easily excavated with adept care.
Kind of like you, eh, Annja?
“Annja, believe me when I say I have always intended to hand the sword over to France if and when it was found.”
“But now…?”
“I have been forced to look differently upon this discovery. The people who want the rapier,” he stated slowly, his vision now directed at the tabletop, “have ensured, by use of devious means, that I will hand it over. But it is merely the sword they want, not anything that we may find inside it.”
“You intend to hand this valuable artifact over to a collector?” Annja asked.
“Collector or weapons enthusiast? I don’t know what he is, or why he wants it. All I know is I’ve but one kidney remaining, and haven’t the desire to lose the other.”
Annja straightened. He’d lost a kidney? What was he talking about?
Ascher drew up the back of his shirt to reveal muscular and tanned flesh. A long red scar, where his left kidney should be, looked angry and new.
“Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?” He tugged down the shirt. “But it is not a lie, Annja. I did not want to deceive you, but the truth is so humiliating.”
Not sure what to say to his confession, she made the conclusion that whoever Ascher was dealing with was not the friendly sort. And this so-called treasure hunt just took a dangerous curve downhill.
“Someone injured you so grievously that you lost a kidney. For a sword?”
He nodded. “It was insurance that I would comply. I value the one I have remaining.”
“But—” Incredible, yet the scar did appear new. He could have injured himself doing any number of things, mountain climbing, bike racing or whitewater rapids. But Annja sensed he spoke the truth.
Even so, she thought. “I can’t allow you to hand d’Artagnan’s rapier over to a private collector,” she said.
“Then we will come to arms over that.” He tapped the table. The butcher paper crackled. “It is my favor to you, Annja, to warn you in advance of my intentions.”
“Fair enough.” So what would she do? Grab the sword and run?
Not without first looking for the real treasure.
“Let’s do this, then,” she said.
Placing the gloved fingers of her left hand about the hilt, a test wiggle concluded the pommel was firmly attached. Wincing and closing her eyes as she torqued her grip, she tried the pommel again. Fine particles of dirt sifted to the paper. The dry aroma of limestone lifted in tendrils.
“Is it moving?” Ascher wondered enthusiastically.
“I don’t know. I think I’m just twisting off the debris. But…maybe. It’s giving.”
“Really? Don’t break it,” he said.
“Break it? What do you care? You’ve probably already alerted Monsieur Kidney Stealer to come pick up his prize. Have you?”
Ascher shrugged. “I don’t contact them—they contact me.”
“I think…yes, it is moving.”
“Let me see.” Ascher leaned in as Annja twisted the pommel loose and carefully removed it from the hilt.
Holding the round piece upon her palm, Annja flicked away particles of dirt. Interesting how the sword, though encased in a wooden box and velvet bag, had become encrusted with so much soil. Of course, the box had been split down the center. Centuries of dirt had sifted through.
The pommel was the size of a silver-dollar piece in circumference. It was convex, and heavy to counterbalance the weight of the blade. Both sides of the piece were impressed with a design.
“The coat of arms,” she blurted out, recognizing the design on the pommel.
“The Batz-Castelmore coat of arms?”
“Yes,” she said, elation lightening her tone. “Two castles and the eagle. The queen went to great lengths in having this gift handcrafted and personalized specifically for d’Artagnan.”
“Do you think they were lovers?” he asked.
“What?” Drawn back to reality by that conversational detour, Annja eyed Ascher’s enthusiastic smirk. “Lovers?”
A waggle of his brows preceded a shrug. “Anything is possible.”
True. There was no documentation that would lead anyone to believe the real Charles Castelmore had an affair with the queen of France, yet novelists and filmmakers had alluded to it over the years. And Annja couldn’t deny it a salacious fantasy that she could consider placing to her favorite musketeer.
Only problem was, Dumas had placed d’Artagnan in the story earlier than actual history, which had made him closer to the queen’s age. In reality, Annja wasn’t sure of the age difference, but a guess had to place t
he musketeer and the queen at least thirty years apart, the queen being older.
She set down the pommel on the white butcher paper. A few digital pictures were needed.
Ascher tilted the end of the hilt toward her, revealing the open inner chamber. The inside was no wider than a man’s thumb. She took a few more pictures.
“Annja, you must do the honor,” he said.
This was it. As usual when on the verge of what she felt to be a fortuitous historical discovery, Annja grew intensely calm and almost zen. Now was no time for frantic excitement. The joy came in careful exploration of what was once only a mystery or legend.
She bent to look down. There was something inside the hollow hilt of the seventeenth-century rapier.
“Careful,” Ascher coached.
“It’s a rolled paper. Do you have a—?” Bent-tip tweezers slapped onto her palm before she could finish the request. “Thanks.”
She knew the slightest jolt could damage the centuries-old paper. If she tugged too hard or clasped the tweezers too tightly, she risked tearing the parchment.
Annja drew in a breath through her nose, and went for it. A roll, about four inches long and tightly coiled, slid out easily.
Ascher redirected an overhead lamp to focus on the roll that she set before the rapier blade. The roll wobbled, then stopped. The twosome exhaled in unison.
“Do you think it is?” she whispered.
“The map!” Ascher said. “To the real treasure.”
“Yes,” she answered, surprise softening to agreement. A relieved exhale unraveled the tightness in her core she hadn’t been aware of until now.
“Rumor tells the map will lead to a treasure,” Ascher whispered. “A treasure the queen wanted d’Artagnan to have in thanks for all he had done to serve France and its king.”
“Right. But it wasn’t for chasing after missing diamonds for her collar, as Dumas wrote,” Annja said. “Though there may have been a morsel of truth to that.”
“That was pure fiction! There is no historical record of the diamond studs,” Ascher said.
“Yes, but never say never, eh? It is alluded that the treasure might have been a collection of jewels the queen had received over the years from her lovers,” Annja replied.