“No,” said Gabriel at once, as surprised as everyone else. “He has not.”
“Peace,” Joan said gently, silencing Gabriel with a gentle touch.
“This is Georges de La Trémoille, Count of Guînes, our friend and our Grand Chamberlain,” the Dauphin said. “He was not entirely convinced by the reports of the clergy we sent to speak to you. But in your letter, you said you had things to tell us?”
Joan nodded, her eyes flitting from face to face as various members of the court pressed closer, eager to listen. Color came to her cheeks. “I do, but they are for your ears alone. Take me where only you will hear, and I shall speak what God has told me to tell you.”
“Your Majesty,” Trémoille said, “I enjoy a show as well as the next man, but if she comes from God, then surely the Almighty doesn’t care who hears her little secrets.”
“We all have secrets, Count,” Joan said, “but I care not to uncover yours. My words are simply for his ears alone. Surely the king must always know things his court does not.”
Trémoille’s flushed face reddened further, but the king smiled. “The Maid speaks truly, on this at least,” he said. “Come then. We will retire to a place where you may speak God’s words freely to us.”
The count obviously didn’t like that, but he shrugged it off. “I’ll make you a wager, Your Majesty, that I’ll be able to tell you everything she says. We know what the holy maids say. We’ve heard it all before, eh?” He looked around, and some of his companions laughed along with him, but the Dauphin did not.
Nor did Joan. Her dark brows drew together. “Gambling is a sin,” she said. “The Dauphin will not partake.”
“Well,” the Dauphin said, trying to pour oil on the waters, “only if we win.” He gestured that she should follow him, and the crowd parted for the two as he turned.
Joan did not move at once. She turned to Gabriel, and smiled gently. “With me, my witness,” she said, and wordlessly, hardly daring to breathe, Gabriel followed. The king glanced at him with his pale eyes, considered, then shrugged, paying no more heed to the boy than if he had been Joan’s shadow.
Which he is, Simon marveled. History had forgotten Gabriel Laxart. There had been only mention of his father, Durand, who had testified at Joan’s rehabilitation trial. Simon had always found it hilarious that most of those who professed belief in reincarnation always turned out to have been either Queen Elizabeth or King Arthur or some other famous personage in a previous life. In reality, all but a tiny fraction would have been peasants, living proverbial poor, nasty, brutish, and short lives and having nothing to do with anything of import. For every petty lord, there was an entire household of servants, not to mention by-blows like Gabriel.
It was not remarkable that Gabriel had been forgotten. What was remarkable was that he had been there at all.
They followed the Dauphin to a small side solar. It was a pleasant chamber, nowhere near as elaborate or gaudy as the main hall, but elegantly furnished nonetheless, with tapestries, a small table with fruit and wine, and chairs. The ceiling here was identical to that in the vast room they had just left, although the timbers fading into the shadows were undecorated. It was a room that had clearly been designed for the purpose it now served—that of providing quiet, comfortable space for private conversations.
Gabriel’s palms were sweating, and there was a brazier and candles inside the room. Yet he was suddenly chilled as he stepped inside and closed the door behind them. Vast as the hall had been, there had been hundreds of warm bodies and half a hundred torches to keep it warm. He made an effort to keep from trembling, aware that most of it was not the coolness, but his own excitement.
In contrast, Joan was the epitome of calmness, standing quietly with her hands clasped behind her back as the king sat, poured himself a goblet of dark wine, and reached for an orange. He offered nothing to either of his guests, nor did he suggest they sit. He peeled the fruit idly, glancing up at Joan expectantly. “You may speak, child,” he said, not unkindly. “What has God told you to tell us?”
Joan cocked her head and her face grew soft, her expression distant. “You have no cause to fear,” she said softly. She closed her eyes and tilted her face heavenward, as if toward the light of a radiant sun. “I am to tell you that you are truly the son of your father, Louis, and that you are the rightful heir to the throne of France. Weep no more, noble Dauphin. God has heard you, and I am sent to dry those tears.”
The orange fell from Charles’s suddenly nerveless fingers, rolling about on the rushes. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “I have prayed,” he whispered, more to himself than them. “I have prayed….”
“You are to be bold, but merciful,” Joan continued, “for you have God and all His angels on your side. Do not harm those who have not harmed you. Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.”
Simon was blindsided.
Joan opened her eyes, and her soft smile suddenly melted into a sharp intake of breath. Her radiance increased and she dropped to her knees as she stared upward at something over the king’s head. Gabriel followed her gaze. His mouth opened and his own legs gave way.
Radiant in the shadows, glowing golden as the sun, its face hidden by a hood, was an angel.
“I see it,” Gabriel whispered. “Jeanne, I can see it, too!”
At the words, the Dauphin lifted his head. He craned his neck, but by his perplexed expression Gabriel could tell the king beheld nothing in the shadows. As Gabriel watched, the figure raised its hands, holding them out. It brought the thumbs and little fingers together to form a circle. With the other three fingers held stiffly, and the golden radiance surrounding them, it looked like—
“A crown!” Joan cried. The figure nodded its cowled head, then lifted the clasped hands to its head. “God has sent an angel with a golden crown, my Dauphin! The treasures of both Heaven and earth are to be granted to you!”
A voice whispered in the stillness, “This is the sign. The Maid will make you king.”
The Dauphin gasped. He had heard the whisper, even if he could not see the angel. He reached up to the rafters, but even as Gabriel watched, the angel drew in on itself and retreated, its glow abruptly disappearing.
There was silence in the small chamber, interrupted only by the sound of rapt, nervous breathing. Gabriel turned to Joan, whose face, like the Dauphin’s, doubtless like his own, wore an expression of startled joy.
Charles had seen nothing. Gabriel had seen an angel. Who knew what Joan had seen?
Simon Hathaway had seen an Assassin Mentor.
CHAPTER
TEN
Simon shook his head, as if in disbelief at what he had seen, keeping his eyes glued on the radiant golden figure. After its shocking announcement, it moved nimbly along the rafters, retreating into the shadows and disappearing from view.
“It’s gone,” he whispered. Gabriel might have thought the angel had simply returned to Heaven, but Simon was doing his best to spot a hidden passageway. Historians had already discovered more than one such in Chinon, and Simon was willing to bet that was but the tip of the proverbial iceberg. He’d have loved to have found a new one.
The Dauphin was laughing and lifting Joan up, taking her by the arm and surging toward the door. Flinging it open, he cried, “God is with us, my friends, and has sent us the Maid of prophecy!”
Joan paused to turn back to look at Gabriel, her blue eyes brimming with tears of joy. Simon found himself reaching for her outstretched hand. His fingers closed on misty gray air as the world reshaped itself. He felt a sudden pang, but dismissed it. There were too many other things to focus on, and here, in the Memory Corridor, he could speak freely.
“I assume you saw that?” he asked Victoria.
I did—and heard it, too. It’s got to be an Assassin.
“Definitely, with that kind of dexterity. And especially given the precise choice of words.”
“Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent,” Victoria quoted. T
he first tenet of the Assassin’s Creed.
“I’d go so far as to wager it’s the Mentor. Who better to want to know what the Maid would have to say to the Dauphin in private? And that was damned quick thinking, too. This makes perfect sense, Victoria! This… this vision, this angel with a crown… Joan spoke about it differently at her trial. It’s as if she didn’t consider it really one of her Voices. It’s been a point of contention among scholars as to whether she made the whole thing up to appease her interrogators, but if it’s an actual person she saw and not an angel, of course she wouldn’t see it in the same way. It appears that Assassins, and possibly Templars—most likely any of the rare individuals who have Precursor DNA—are able to understand that she’s something special, to be helped—or blocked, as the case may be. Maybe it’s something like the Assassins’ so-called Eagle Vision. I think we should stick close to de Metz. He’s an Assassin, and he seems to be genuinely devoted to Joan. Can you find their next interaction?”
One moment… yes, I’ve got it. It’s right after Joan is whisked off to get settled into Coudray.
MONDAY, 7 MARCH, 1429
The mists began to shift once again, revealing the Château du Milieu courtyard. It looked utterly different by day; just as impressive, but far less mysterious than it had appeared when Gabriel, Joan, and their group had entered the previous night. Gabriel’s attention was not on his surroundings, but on Jean de Metz bearing down on him, sword raised and shouting a battle cry. All that stood between Gabriel and the weapon was his own sword, his shield, and a harness of leather armor.
Winter sunlight glinted off steel. Gabriel barely managed to get his shield up in time to block de Metz’s strike. The solid blow on the leather shield jarred Gabriel’s arm all the way up to the shoulder, and he let out a gasp. He lifted his own sword to strike a blow in return. The blades clashed and de Metz brought his face in to Gabriel’s, his mouth curled in a snarl. Gabriel grunted, twisting his weapon as he had been instructed, to but no avail. De Metz leaped back, then charged again, feinting for Gabriel’s legs. As the boy desperately tried to turn his shield to prevent being cut off at the knees, de Metz’s blade clanged against Gabriel’s, and the sword went flying.
Gabriel’s cheeks burned. De Metz laughed, but good-naturedly. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it. If she can, you can.”
He gestured to where Joan was sparring with de Poulengy. They had tried to find armor suited to her smaller, shorter frame, but she was swimming in it, and her helm was so comically oversized it completely swallowed her head. The sword had to have been harder to lift for her than it had been for him, but nevertheless, Gabriel realized that she was managing to bring it up in time to block de Poulengy’s blows, and was even forcing the squire back.
“Well,” Gabriel said, “God obviously wants her to learn quickly.”
One of the pages stepped forward with a jug of watered wine and some cups. Gabriel drank deeply, and noticed that the boy kept stealing glances at Joan.
“It is strange to see a woman fighting, I know,” Gabriel told the boy. “But Jeanne is special.”
The boy nodded, then said, “It is good she is from God, else after last night, some would say she is a witch.”
Gabriel’s blood seemed to grow cold as it pulsed through his body and he crossed himself. “Never say that about the Maid!” he snapped, and immediately felt remorse as the boy cringed away from him. “What could be evil about inspiring the true king to claim the throne that is his right?”
The boy blanched. He looked at de Metz and Gabriel and said, “You have not heard?” As they shook their heads, the page said, “Last night, Antoine Moreau was found drowned.”
For a moment, Gabriel couldn’t place the name. But de Metz did. “The Giant? The one who spoke with Jeanne?”
The boy nodded, his gaze wandering back inexorably to Joan as she sparred. “They say that she told him he would die. And an hour after she arrived… they found his body floating in the Vienne river.”
A chill ran along Simon’s skin. He remembered reading the testimony about this, but had thought it exaggeration if not outright fabrication. It was turning out that very little regarding the Maid was complete fiction.
“I’m so sorry,” came a soft voice. How Joan had managed to approach them so silently, Gabriel didn’t know, but here she stood, helm in one hand, her flushed face soft with sorrow. “I did not bring his death, my young friend. But I could see its shadow on his face. I truly hope Moreau did make peace with God before He took him.”
The page looked down, nodding, and stepped away to pour for the others who were also out training. De Poulengy and the other squires helped de Metz and Gabriel out of their armor and offered thick, warm cloaks, which Gabriel gratefully accepted. De Metz looked at him for a moment, then said, “Walk with me, Gabriel.”
Gabriel obeyed, falling into step beside de Metz. Quietly, after they had left most of the noise of the training behind and had entered the garden area, de Metz spoke.
“Tell me about what happened last night.”
Startled, Gabriel looked around quickly. They stood beneath the shelter of a few trees whose trunks and branches provided a moderate, if not complete, barrier between them and the goings-on in the courtyard.
“What passed in that room is between those of us who heard it,” he said. Immediately he could have bitten his tongue off. He hoped de Metz wouldn’t catch the slip, but that was futile.
“Heard what?” The nobleman stepped forward. “Gabriel… did you hear Jeanne’s Voices?” De Metz had always struck Gabriel as being laconic and unruffled, but now he looked stunned—and intense.
“I’ve already said too much.”
“Not enough, I think. Tell me.”
“Jean, you know—”
“It will help me keep her safe, Gabriel,” de Metz replied, an uncharacteristic urgency creeping into his voice. “I know how you feel about her, and I know you would do anything to make sure she comes to no harm. I must know what you heard. What… you saw.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened. He had said nothing of his vision—the vision that only he and Joan had beheld.
“You pledged fealty to her,” he reminded the older man, “and I believe you when you say you think this will keep her safer. But I made her a promise, Jean. You understand that.”
Jean sighed and nodded. “Yes, I do. I do understand.” His eyes flickered over Gabriel’s shoulder and he smiled. “Jeanne!” he said.
Gabriel’s heart, as always, surged happily as he whirled. He saw only the imperfect curtain of branches and tree trunks, and then the world went black.
The son of a bitch knocked me out! Simon thought, shocked.
After a few seconds, the scene changed subtly. Simon could still see only blackness, but Gabriel’s blinking lashes brushed against fabric. He lay on cold, hard stone, and his head hurt fiercely. Without thinking, Gabriel attempted to touch it and discovered he was bound hand and foot. The air smelled differently than it had outside; stale, slightly tinged with the scents of leather and sweat. “He’s awake,” came a voice both Simon and Gabriel recognized.
Gabriel exploded into a flurry of struggling motion. “Damn you, de Metz!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
“Quiet, Gabriel,” de Metz said. Infuriatingly, he sounded more amused than alarmed. Gabriel’s heart slammed against his ribs, fueled with anger and, yes, fear.
“You swore fealty to her!” he spat.
“You did?” The other voice was a whisper that somehow managed to convey a certain elegance.
“I—yes, we’ll discuss that later,” de Metz said. “Gabriel, I’m sorry for the necessity that forces my hand.”
“Like hell you are. What are you, assassins?”
Silence. Then, a burst of muffled laughter.
“Why are you laughing? If you’re here to kill Jeanne—”
“No, my boy.” The second voice, still a whisper. Simon realized that the speaker was trying to conceal his identity in eve
ry way possible. The lightless room, the whispering, all was carefully calculated to keep Gabriel ignorant. “Killing the Maid is the last thing any of us want.”
“Fine, then let me loose,” Gabriel retorted, and started to struggle again.
“Be still and listen, and we may do so,” said the second speaker. Simon was trying to gather everything he could about the man. A nobleman, most likely; a person of superior rank to de Metz. A soldier.
The Mentor? wondered Simon.
“There are things you do not yet know, Gabriel Laxart,” the whisper continued. “Things you must know, if you want to be able to keep the Maid safe.”
“You know I want that, more than anything,” Gabriel said, “except for her to fulfill her charges from God.”
“Ah yes,” came the whisper, “from God.”
“Gabriel,” and it was de Metz speaking in normal tones, “when you look at Jeanne, do you sometimes see her… glow with light?”
Gabriel licked his dry lips. “Y-yes,” he said. “I do. Sometimes the glow comes upon her, and… and she looks like an angel to me. But I had never seen—”
He bit down hard on his lower lip.
“You had never seen an angel until last night,” finished the whispering voice. “We know what you heard, when you and Jeanne spoke to the Dauphin. We know what you saw. Who you saw. We know what Jeanne said to the Dauphin. Those words are precious to us. They are words we will never violate.
“You are not guilty of anything, Gabriel Laxart. And we stay our blades from the flesh of the innocent.”
It’s the Mentor! Simon thought, jubilant.
Questions, pleas, demands—words crowded each other out so that Gabriel found he couldn’t even speak. Finally, all he could manage was, “I’m listening.”
“This war—the war between England and France—has lasted for almost a century,” de Metz said. “But another war has raged since before time was reckoned. A war that is not about land, or countries, or kingdoms, or even faiths. A war not about men, but about mankind itself—and whether it should be free to carve its own destiny, or be dominated by those who would control humanity and bend it to serve themselves.”
Assassin's Creed: Heresy Page 9