by Alex Archer
“Evidence she wished to be rid of, for some might have placed her to having an affair with Mazarin.”
“And what better way to do that than give them away. This sword was a gift for heroic deeds such as defeating the Spanish at Lille while the king marched his troops to help, or heading the vanguard at La Rochelle, while the king dallied at Fontenay.”
“Yes!” Ascher’s excitement vibrated between them, bouncing against Annja’s chest and throat. “Let’s have a look.”
“We can’t yet,” she said, poking the map with the tip of the tweezers. It was rolled so tightly, that she could not think to unroll it and risk it crumbling to flakes. “We’ll need…”
“Humidity. We can relax the parchment by steaming it. I’ll boil some water.”
“We should wait,” Annja said.
A panicky look deflated Ascher’s joy. “Why?”
“We need a good six to eight hours for the humidification process.”
“I know—I’ve done it before. Ah, you are tired? You can rest while I begin.”
She ran a hand over her scalp, wishing for a good solid eight hours of sleep. Heck, she’d take four. The sun had yet to rise. She should be sleeping. Normal people were sleeping right now. Couldn’t she manage one day as one of them?
But to be truthful, normal wasn’t interesting to Annja.
Ascher possessed unbounded energy. But she did not trust him with the process on his own. There were many things that could go wrong if he did not have the proper equipment. One could not simply boil water and steam the roll open. A humidity chamber had to be created and the parchment had to be protected from droplets with a sheet of Gore-Tex.
“Maybe if I had some coffee,” she muttered.
“I can do that. Be right back.”
THE PHONE RANG in the kitchen and Ascher picked it up on the first tone. He barely said, “Hello,” when the voice on the other end began to berate.
“You know the new kidney is not completely developed. You risk your very life by refusing to hand over the sword today.”
“You got the sword, I just—”
“I know my swords, Vallois. This is sixteenth century,” Lambert said.
“Perhaps the queen gifted her musketeer with a family heirloom?”
“It does not ingratiate you to me to lie. You have the real thing?”
“Yes,” Ascher gasped, hating himself, but seeing no other option.
“I’ll send a man round to retrieve it. Again. Will you cooperate and hand it over?”
“Of course.” Now that they’d discovered the map within, he had no need for d’Artagnan’s rapier. Annja would be disappointed but he had no choice. “Give me an hour to get rid of the woman.”
“Who is she?”
Ascher tightened his jaw. He hadn’t intended to get Annja involved like this. He’d merely wanted a worm to dangle before her to get her to come to him. Things going as they were, he highly doubted he’d have the time to romance her as originally planned.
“Just a friend. A fellow archaeologist. She doesn’t know what’s going on. And I’ll be sure she is gone.”
“You had better, Vallois. That map is too valuable to risk losing.”
The phone clicked off and Ascher stood there clinging to the receiver. The constant ache high on the left side of his torso would not allow him to forget he was playing with his very life.
And yet, what Lambert had said: That map is too valuable….
This was the first time he’d heard anything about the map from Lambert. Ascher had always assumed he knew only about the sword and was perhaps a zealous collector.
But if he expected to find a map, that meant Lambert was on a much bigger treasure hunt.
“Time for a change of plan,” Ascher muttered.
7
Seventeenth century
“He refuses to talk about this, and I find that most disagreeable. It is as if he hides something.”
King Louis XIV paced the drawing room before the damask chaise that had just arrived from Venice. The wooden crates used to pack it sat in shambles on the floor. Discarded in billowing piles, soft Venetian cloth once wrapped about the chaise dotted the floor in turquoise blobs.
Cardinal Mazarin found the chaise most comfortable, though Louis complained it was overstuffed. If any were overstuffed, Mazarin thought, it was the French. Italian craftsmanship was exquisite.
“I insist we have Fouquet investigated,” Louis declared. “Why do you shake your head, Eminence?”
“Forgive me, Your Highness. Any valued asset gone missing is a grievous thing. I do not wish to discount the gravity of this dilemma. But these were the queen’s jewels. Perhaps she has a perfectly rational reason for moving them from the usual storage place.”
“You think she still has them? She had better.”
“Have you spoken to her? Asked her? Expressed your concerns?”
Louis shrugged, reverting to a childish wallow. “Might you speak to her in my stead?”
Mazarin nodded, finding the room was only getter warmer. Why the king persisted upon this small detail astounded him. The king had his own cache of jewels. Was not his mother allowed the same? Some privacy to her belongings?
Well, the cardinal knew the answer to that one. All correspondence with Anne was written in code for the very reason that nothing in this court was ever secret. Nothing.
Though he had managed to hide their affair for the short time it had occurred. Cheers to Anne for finding a sensible means to be rid of the jewels. They could be traced back to an Italian jeweler. He’d not been thinking properly at the time. His heart had been in the fore.
“I will, Your Highness,” the cardinal said.
Present day
LEAVING THE TIGHTLY ROLLED parchment on the table and placing the pommel to one side so it wouldn’t accidentally roll to the floor, Annja then slipped off the latex gloves with a snap and wandered out to find the kitchen.
Exhaustion clung to her shoulders and pressed upon her temples. She needed more than a short nap in a car. But elation could carry her a bit longer. More than a few times in her life she’d uncovered artifacts or legends that had been thought only myth. She’d never lose the giddy feeling each time that happened.
It really existed. A piece of fiction come to life.
The citrus scent of Earl Grey tea seasoned the air as she found her way into the dimly lit kitchen designed with masculine black marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.
“I didn’t know Frenchmen drank tea,” she commented as she slid onto a chrome stool and propped her elbows on the counter.
Ascher shot upright from his bent position over an open drawer. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to surprise you. Did someone call? I thought I heard a phone ring.”
“Wrong number.”
“Ah. Pretty early for a crank call. What time is it?”
“Three a.m.”
She started to calculate how long she had been awake, almost twenty-four hours, then stopped.
“So.” Ascher set out a teacup. The delicate white porcelain looked frail against the masculine black countertop. “D’Artagnan’s sword, or rather, rapier. We’ve done it.”
“You’ve done it. I was the one skeptical about the Chalon site,” Annja said.
“Yes. You are right. It was all my doing.” Pleased with his triumph, Ascher’s shoulders straightened and his cocky smile reappeared.
Annja could claim nothing more than observing the entire operation, though she had chased after the bad guys—and let them get away with an artifact.
“You encounter men with guns a lot on your digs? You seem pretty blasé about the fact any one of us could have been killed,” she said.
Only then did she remember the abrasion on her shoulder. She fingered the rough skin absently.
“No, it is not often men with guns try to take away my dig finds. Maybe someone saw my post online?”
“You didn’
t post about the Chalon site publicly. So how did the men who took your kidney find you?”
“Listen, Annja, I don’t know them. They were likely pot-hunters. You know they are rampant, stalking dig sites and stealing the artifacts for their own gain. I once worked a site in Ireland where two of the hired hands were just that. They played along like students until we uncovered a cache of silver beads and plating. They slipped out at night with the booty.”
“Speaking of booty. What about the treasure?” she prompted. “If we find that?”
“I’ve a small fencing salle in dire need of fixing up. You are hurt?” he prompted at sight of her touching her shoulder.
“Just a burn. A bullet skimmed my flesh. Didn’t even bleed.” She brushed over her shoulder. A red abrasion marked it. Such luck.
“A fencing studio?” she wondered. “You intend to keep the rewards for yourself? What about the found-treasure laws? And if there’s family?”
“There are no descendants to Charles Castelmore’s line,” he said.
“How do you know there are no relatives? His brother’s children?” Annja asked.
“You claim to be an authority on the musketeer’s history, and yet, you are not aware of the family tree?”
“There was a family tree published in a book mid-twentieth century—”
“Yes, and why do you not believe it, eh?” Holding up one finger in a sign to remain patient, Ascher then left Annja in the kitchen. She heard him walk down the hallway, and contemplated following him, but the sight of the teapot redirected her intentions.
Pouring a cup, she sipped as Ascher reappeared with a small, dusty gray book, sans cover jacket.
“I have that volume,” she said as she tilted her head to read the spine. “D’Artagnan: The Ultimate Musketeer, by Hall and Sanders. Published in the sixties.”
“Have you read it?” he asked.
“Of course. It’s the one with the family tree on the end papers. You collect books printed in English?”
“If it’s about d’Artagnan I do.” Ascher laid the book on the counter before her. He opened the front cover. The olive-green end papers featured a family tree of the Batz-Castelmore line.
Annja nodded. “I’ve seen it. It is incomplete.”
With a heavy sigh, Ascher then paged through the book until he came to what he was looking for. He pointed out a specific paragraph, said, “Have you a disagreement with this?”
Annja read the paragraph. It stated Charles de Batz-Castelmore’s bloodline had indeed been extinguished when both his male grandchildren died, without progeny.
“Just because it’s written doesn’t make it historically accurate. Scholars have disproven historical texts throughout the centuries. And d’Artagnan did have a sister who survived his death, as well as Paul, his brother, who lived to the amazing age of ninety-four. No matter, we still can’t keep found treasure,” she said, finishing on a yawn.
“You should lie down, Annja. I will get a blanket for you to rest. I’ve a private guest room upstairs. The sun will rise in a few hours, and then we will attempt to unroll the map, oui?”
Ascher left her again and called back he was getting a blanket.
“Sure,” she said, but absently, she wasn’t even aware of her mouth moving. The bergamot steam from the fragrant tea should waken her senses but she wasn’t feeling it.
She shrugged a palm up her arm, feeling fatigue plunge upon her like a mallet. It had been a long day, but well worth it.
The sudden loss of light startled her to alertness.
The piercing scream of an alarm bit into the back of Annja’s neck.
An alarm? Had someone broken into the house? But who—?
Instantly, she knew. The gunmen. They must have followed them from the dig site.
The sword dupe must have been discovered. And if someone had been cruel enough to rip out Ascher’s kidney in warning, then they likely wouldn’t stop until they held the real prize in their hands.
The rapier was in danger.
The kitchen was small and in the center of the house. Darkness unhampered by windows disoriented Annja. The hallway was about ten paces to the left, she knew.
Stepping around the last bar stool, she slunk forward. Sliding her palms across the chair rail that dashed waist level along the wall, she found the main hallway that led to the front door. The den had been to the left of the entrance. Narrow decorative windows hugged the front doors, but no light shone through for it was still dark outside.
The alarm chirped loudly. Annja wondered if it was connected to a security office somewhere in Sens. Would the police soon arrive? That could either be a good thing or not so good. You see, Officers, we have this map—which we were going to follow to a treasure without reporting it to the state of France…
That was Ascher’s plan. But not hers.
Annja arrived at an open doorway. The den. The pervading scent of earth lured her to the cool marble table. Paper crinkled at her touch. The rapier blade was cool beneath her palm. She grabbed it—no time for gloves—then carefully felt around for the pommel and the map. She didn’t feel anything. A cursory check of the sword proved the pommel had been screwed back on. She was sure she’d left it off, setting it against the map to protect it from rolling to the floor.
A twist easily removed the pommel. Blindly poking about inside the grip, she did not feel anything.
Rushing toward the doorway in the foyer, Annja saw a shadow move outside.
“You think so, huh? Not on my watch,” she muttered.
She pulled open the front door. There were no yard lights. But there, to her right, footsteps crunched across the pebbled gravel driveway.
Transferring d’Artagnan’s rapier to her left hand, she then willed Joan’s sword into her right. Annja got a strange thrill to note she held swords that had once belonged to two remarkable historical figures. Who would have thought the two would ever combine forces?
With a sure grip about the hilts, she rushed out and ran after the dark figure.
The night had cooled considerably. Stars sprinkled the sky, yet the moonless dark made everything appear as gray shadows and unedged ghosts.
She got close enough to the intruder to hear breathing and called out, “Stop!”
The shuffling of gravel ceased. Annja could make out the silhouette of a person standing about twenty paces from her. Dressed all in black, he was probably wearing a mask for the lack of definition to the face. To her left stood a building, which might have been a sort of barn.
A brief glint rising before the intruder’s shoulder set off Annja’s instincts.
Lunging, she slashed low, aiming for wrist or hip, but the powerful sword merely cut air. The thief had dodged into black on black. Footsteps were no longer audible. There must be a stretch of grass along the gravel. Yet Annja knew he—or she?—had not left the area.
The sound of steel hissing through the night alerted her two seconds before the cool kiss of a blade struck the outside of her elbow. Not a cutting blow, but it did electrify her funny bone.
The thief had come armed with his own sword? Or had he stolen one from Ascher’s collection?
Bending forward and low to avoid the next sweep of blade, Annja, balancing awkwardly with d’Artagnan’s rapier thrust out behind her, moved in to strike the black silhouette, yet missed again.
A great sweep of her opponent’s blade whooshed past her face, but it was too far away to do any harm. Did the night steal the thief’s prowess, or did they not intend to harm? Anyone could have made that strike, even in the dark.
“The property you stole belongs to France,” Annja tried. She lunged and her blade connected.
Her opponent grunted, but in a manner that clued her he’d not taken grievous harm.
A tremendous creaking alerted Annja to something outside the immediate duel range. A whoosh and the feeling of impending danger made her dodge to the left. Something struck her cheek with quick, lashing strokes.
Annja staggered.
She brushed the back of a fisted hand across her stinging cheek. The crash of a wooden pallet landed but a foot from where she stood. Startled off balance, Annja went to her knees. Dry hay shards rained about her. She spit out a stray bit of straw.
The nondescript building she hadn’t been able to physically see must be a barn. A pallet of hay had been dangling overhead from the pulley system, in wait of storage in the loft. The thief had cut the rope.
Annja spit more hay from her mouth. She snapped out her right hand in frustration, literally throwing Joan’s sword back into the otherwhere.
“Luck is not with me this evening.”
The map was gone. Along with a bit of her pride at such an easy defeat.
Annja slashed through the air with d’Artagnan’s rapier. The musketeer’s presence hadn’t helped the medieval warrior to succeed. He and Joan would have never made a good pair, anyway.
She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Was this a futile quest for a mere artifact? She could only make conjectures to what the map was worth. Anyone who knew about it would take a chance to get their hands on it. But very few did know about it. Or so she suspected.
Unless a certain treasure hunter had been babbling about his find online. Or if he was working with someone who had a bead on his only remaining kidney.
Said treasure hunter was strangely missing at the moment. Where is Vallois? she wondered.
Shaking her shoulders and brushing them with her free hand to remove the loose hay, Annja then transferred the rapier to her right hand and stalked back into the house.
There was more to this. Annja felt it in her very bones.
And now the most valuable piece of evidence had been stolen.
HIS MEN WORKED all hours of the clock. They had no concept of night and day and when a man should be sleeping or even eating, for that matter. They were machines. They slept when there was opportunity, and if there was not, they did not.
Jacques Lambert now paced before the two men he had sent to retrieve the sword from Ascher Vallois.