Damn it all to hell.
“Come on,” he said, his voice icy with pain he couldn’t show. “Let’s see how an angel falls.”
SATURDAY, 21 AUGUST, 1429
COMPIÈGNE
“I had thought when he was crowned we would see more from him, not less,” grumbled Alençon.
“Every day we wait to attack Paris makes it that much harder to take,” Joan agreed. “The soldiers have had victory after victory. This hesitation by the king will only sow worry in their hearts, which ought to be filled with the spirit of God and love of France.”
She, Alençon, Gabriel, and Fleur were attending the pleasure of His Majesty, King Charles VII of France, in Compiègne’s royal residence. They had been there for several days while the king was in close council with his advisors. Sometimes, Joan and Alençon were invited to participate in these meetings, but not always, and not today. Gabriel had a strong feeling that there were things that Trémoille, who had always spoken against Joan, was making sure the Maid did not learn.
Instead of sending his eager army to Paris, whose citizens were by all accounts shaking in their shoes at the thought of attack, Charles had dawdled, traveling from city to city and enjoying great hospitality as he accepted pledges of loyalty.
“He wants peace, Jeanne,” Fleur said gently. “He is weary of bloodshed.”
“I am weary of it, too!” Joan replied. “Have I not wept over fallen soldiers, both English and French? As for peace, did I not send twice to the Duke of Burgundy urging such a thing? France needs to be whole again, but she must have her rightful king recognized!” She shook her head in disgust. “The king should have told me right away about his truce with Burgundy. Fourteen days of peace—more like fourteen days for the duke to reinforce the walls of Paris!”
Alençon and Gabriel exchanged glances. Joan, with her own innate blood and the Sword of Eden always at her side, was undefeatable in the field. Her sheer force of will and intensity was no good to France—or the Assassins—when she was closed out of negotiations and forbidden to lead inspired men into battle against the enemy.
“Well,” Alençon said, speaking to Joan but looking at Gabriel, “I am tired of sitting and eating and drinking. Let us change out of these formal things and into our armor and train for a bit.”
Joan brightened at once. “Yes!” she agreed. “Maybe we can even teach Fleur how to use a sword!” Fleur laughed. The more time he spent with the fair-haired girl, the more Gabriel had come to respect her quiet calmness, so different from Joan’s passion about everything. She was good for Joan, but she would never be able to wield a sword alongside the Maid.
Gabriel had spoken with her once, when she despaired about how useless she felt. “I owe all I am to Joan,” Fleur had said, “and to you, for being my champion with her. Without the two of you….” She looked away. “I don’t even want to think about what I—”
“Then don’t,” Gabriel had said. “You’re with us. You don’t ever have to go back to that life, and you don’t have to do anything to be ‘worthy’. You just… are. Just for being Fleur. Just… just love God, and love Joan, and that will be enough. She looks at you, and she can see, every day, that she has changed someone’s life for the better. I know that means a lot to her. Especially now,” he had added. “Not everyone remembers to thank her for what she’s done for them.”
“I think maybe God could teach Fleur to use a sword, but I am just a mortal man,” Alençon laughed. His gaze on Gabriel, he addressed Joan. “I have something fun to teach you, Jeanne. Gabriel already knows it and so do I. It may prove useful to you at some point. I have no doubt you will learn it well—it requires, shall we say, a certain leap of faith.”
Gabriel grinned.
“My good duke, while I will train with you today—tomorrow or the next day, equip your men, and those of the other captains. By my standard, I want to so see Paris from closer than I have ever seen it!”
THURSDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER, 1429
Gabriel had witnessed much since he left Vaucouleurs, which for most of his life had been the example of a fortress city. He had seen Orléans, and had helped take Jargeau.
But Paris dwarfed them all.
The walls were gargantuan, the largest certainly in France, perhaps in all of western Europe. They soared twenty-five feet in the air, with even higher towers every four hundred feet or so. There were six gates into the city, and the French army opted to concentrate the assault on the Saint-Denis Gate and—in particular—the imposing Saint-Honoré Gate, which was sixty feet by twenty-five feet. The gates had gun ports, murder holes, and arrow slits from which soldiers could attack the invaders, and a portcullis and drawbridge that could keep them out. Finally, boulevards had been erected in front of the gates as well.
By now, after so many victories, the process was becoming familiar to Gabriel. Joan, mounted and carrying her standard, rode up to the Saint-Honoré Gate and offered to accept Paris’s surrender. She was greeted with refusal and jeers. Gabriel noticed that she kept the sword in its scabbard, her attention focused mainly on the white standard she so loved.
He and the Assassins knew how powerful the sword was, but Joan seemed to not fully appreciate exactly what it could do. Still, she had it, and he had faith in it—and in her.
The French army had learned what worked at Jargeau. They began with concentrating fire on the two chosen gates and the wall between them. The Parisians gladly returned fire. The noise was ceaseless and deafening. Carts and wagons, bundles of sticks, anything and everything was thrown into the moat around the city.
The Duke of Alençon was not fighting alongside them. No one truly expected to capture Paris in a day, and Alençon and some of his men were preparing for tomorrow’s assault by constructing a bridge across the Seine. Gabriel understood the need for this, and he was glad that de Rais and de Gaucourt were present at the walls of Paris, but wondered if more troops might yet turn the tide today.
The ground exploded near Gabriel, pattering him with dirt and blood. A small group of soldiers, fresh from the Paris garrisons and full of energy and anger, swarmed down upon him and a small cluster of Joan’s men. Gabriel was barely able to get his sword up in time to block a blow from an older, heavier knight. The clash of steel jarred him to the bone, but he relaxed, letting his body take over as de Metz and Alençon had taught him. To the other man’s astonishment, his blade slid harmlessly down Gabriel’s, then with a seemingly effortless twist, Gabriel turned his sword. The knight’s weapon went flying. He had no chance to even raise his shield before Gabriel’s blade bit deep into his neck.
Gabriel turned, searching for his next foe. All at once there was a flurry of white, and then Joan was there. Her sword was raised, and she was defending herself against what looked to be a seasoned Burgundian. She leaped off her horse, which danced away, and engaged the enemy as if she had been born with a weapon in her hand.
It was but the work of a moment. The Sword of Eden gleamed as it struck the shield of her enemy. The heavy wood splintered into tiny slivers. It looked like it had simply exploded in its wielder’s hand. Joan’s sword crackled, striking terror and helplessness into the enemy but sending calmness and certainty through Gabriel and others who followed the Maid. The Burgundian dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands covering his head as he cried out in stunned disbelief at what he had just seen.
Joan pointed her radiant sword at the Parisian as he trembled before her. She had won without so much as scratching her enemy.
So that’s what they meant when they said she fought defensively, Simon realized.
Pieces of Eden were about power. The Precursors weren’t exactly the nicest of beings, and most of what they had left behind were definitely weapons. This particular Sword of Eden, which had belonged to Jacques de Molay and Joan of Arc and who knew how many others, was most certainly a weapon as well. But it was different. It was being used to kill, yes; inspiring the French troops to fight while instilling fear and defeatism in the Englis
h led to a great many deaths indeed. It was, after all, a sword, not a chalice, or an orb, or even a benevolent Shroud of Eden.
And yet… and yet. It didn’t inspire bloodlust—it inspired hope, that in this case manifested as battle fervor. Simon could see, in a way that Gabriel could not, that the sword was working with Joan, not for her. It was as if the combination of the brightness of her Precursor DNA and the sword were stronger together rather than separately. She had not spent years training with a weapon, and yet she was using it not just well, but perfectly; to disable and defeat the foe in a way that aligned with Joan’s essential nature. The more he learned about the sword, the more it confounded him. If Simon could find out how to reactivate it—
“Yield, in the name of God!” Joan demanded, and the soldier did, sobbing with fear. Joan gestured to a pair of her men, who took the prisoner back behind French lines. “Take his sword,” Joan said, and Simon realized he was looking at the third and final sword known to have belonged to Joan of Arc: the sword taken from a Burgundian she had captured herself.
Joan’s standard had fallen during the brief conflict. She picked it up, sheathing her unbloodied sword, and strode boldly forward to the walls of Paris.
“People of Paris!” she shouted. “It grieves both God and me to see so much French blood shed! Surrender, and we will take no more lives! Do not, and so many will die who do not need to!”
“Paris will never yield to a whore!” came an angry shout, and a heartbeat later, Gabriel stared in horror at the crossbow bolt that had suddenly appeared in Joan’s thigh.
For a moment, Joan still stood, rooted in place, holding her standard, then she stumbled. Her visor was up and she had gone sickly pale. She blinked, clinging to the standard as if for support, but Gabriel was moving, diving for her, shielding her with his own body as a cry of excitement went up and more of the Parisians began to fire their deadly bolts. He rushed her off the field, shouting for aid. De Rais had left off his own attack and hastened to them. His eyes went dark with fear as he reached to help Gabriel.
“Take care of her,” he said to Gabriel. “I’ll send some men with you. Get her back to La Chapelle.”
Joan, who had begun to sag in their arms, lifted her head. “No! Keep fighting! This is nothing, like at Orléans….” But then her head lolled and she became so much weight.
“Go!” de Rais screamed. “Go!”
Gabriel went.
De Rais and de Gaucourt returned to La Chappelle a few hours later. Jean d’Aulon, Joan’s steward, had immediately tended to her wounds. Fleur and Gabriel had assisted him, the former camp follower displaying a calmness in the face of such ugliness that Gabriel, whose gut twisted every time Joan was wounded, could only marvel at.
As soon as her eyelids fluttered open, Joan smiled and said, “My Shadow and my Flower. Where is my duke? How goes the battle?”
Fleur and Gabriel exchanged glances. “Jeanne,” Gabriel said, “We retreated for the night. We will begin again tomorrow. Alençon’s bridge—”
“Is destroyed,” came an angry voice as Alençon himself entered the tent. “By the order of our own king. I have just come from tearing it down with my own hands. There will be no battle tomorrow, Jeanne. Those sitting in the council of the court have won out over those of us performing exploits in the field. We are to retreat.”
“What do you mean?” cried Joan, struggling to sit up. Fleur pushed her back down; Jeanne was still so weak from blood loss that the other girl could do so easily.
“There will be no further attack on Paris,” Alençon continued with barely restrained rage. He looked over at her armor, still bloody; at the standard, stained with mud, propped up against it. Suddenly he grew very still.
“Jeanne,” he said, his voice unnaturally calm, “where is your sword?”
“My sword?” Horror spread over her face. “My sword! I had it when I was shot—I don’t remember….”
Alençon and Gabriel stared at each other. Then, as one, with no further word, they put on their armor, mounted their horses and rode back to the gates of Paris.
The mists of the Memory Corridor closed about them.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Wait, what? Why are you bringing me out?”
Because there are no more instances of Gabriel seeing the sword, Simon. Their search was futile. I’m sorry.
“Well. There you have it,” Simon said. His voice sounded cruel and angry in his own ears. “Not with a bang, but a whimper. The sword wasn’t broken, or damaged. Not taken, not won, just… lost. Some glorified pig-keeper doubtless picked it up as a souvenir. Or else the Templars got it straight away.”
Simon—
“The sword is gone, bargains have been made, and Charles refuses to support Joan’s military endeavors. And then she—this was where it went wrong. Now we know. Game over.”
What do you mean?
Simon stared with mingled grief and fury at the image of the young man he had grown to know so well. How different Gabriel looked now. His skin, once tan from working in the open air on his father’s farm, had grown pale from too much time being covered in armor or inside at councils… or, in recent months, simply waiting to be told what to do. He looked harder, his face less open, less kind. But there was still fierce devotion to Joan in his heart, Simon knew. And he suspected that would never change. Somehow, though, Gabriel would have to do something that Simon thought next to impossible: move on from Joan of Arc. Long enough, at least, to sire a child, so that one day, Simon Hathaway could be strapped in the Animus observing his long-ago ancestor with a depth of empathy he hadn’t known he possessed.
“We’re done here, aren’t we?” he continued. “I’d like to get out of this contraption, please.”
A moment, then he felt the helmet being lifted off. Victoria regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and worry as she helped him with the straps. He stepped off the platform as soon as he was free.
“Simon, can you tell me what’s going on?” Victoria asked, calmly, in the voice of the professional therapist.
How ironic, Simon thought. Why don’t you tell me, Victoria? For a moment, he gazed at the sword on its bed of crushed velvet. At last he spoke.
“Rikkin wanted to find out if we could activate the sword. We’ve observed what it does, at least in Joan’s hands. We’ve seen it do things Pieces of Eden have never done. It’s almost grown along with Joan, or conversely, taught her. But I’ve failed. I still don’t know how to fix it, and now it’s gone. We have a couple more days, but we’ve learned all we can about it.”
He whirled on her, narrowing his eyes as he almost spat, “Therefore—game over. All done. Finished.”
Victoria pressed her lips together and looked away for a moment, as if making a decision. When she returned her gaze to him, something about her had changed.
“Rikkin gave you a week,” she said. “It’s five P.M. on day five. We’re not done. As far as I am concerned, we can do whatever you want. If you want to quit, we quit. If you want to go through each battle minute by minute, hoping to discover something new about the sword, we do that. And if you want to continue to bear witness to Joan as she lose her influence, her friends, and her life… I will be right there with you.”
Simon blinked. This was not what he had expected, not from someone who was spying on him and reporting to—
He almost said something right then. Then he realized that, doubtless, if there were any place in London where there would be recording devices of all varieties, it would be here, in the Animus Room.
So he sighed, removing his spectacles and rubbing his eyes as if tired. “I’m sorry. How about a brisk walk in the autumn air to clear our heads? Well, mine at least.”
“Let’s go get our coats.”
Ten minutes later, they were strolling past a Boots chemist with a display of fragrances and grooming products and a sign announcing “Gifts for Him & Her” when Simon came to a halt. They’d not been followed, as best he coul
d tell.
“All right, Simon,” Victoria said. “What is going on?”
He looked down at her, right into her eyes, and demanded, “Why are you colluding with Rikkin against me?”
His heart sank as she leaned against the shop’s brick wall, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets.
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” she said. “I’m glad you found out, actually. But it’s not collusion, not really.”
“Oh, I see, well that makes it all right then. Dammit, Victoria, I trusted you!”
“I know. I’m so sorry. Please… let me explain. Can we go somewhere? This… might take a while.”
They found a secondhand bookstore and wandered down rows filled with old paperbacks and coffee-table books. In the rear of the store, surrounded by cookbooks and mysteries, Simon listened as Victoria told him about the phone call from Rikkin, and the immediate overnight journey to London. Rikkin had said he’d reached out to her because he was concerned about the well-being of an Inner Sanctum member. He wanted someone who’d already seen what the Bleeding Effect could do, and who would be able to spot it before Simon suffered any damage.
That did make sense. Simon nodded as he pretended to thumb through an old Hercule Poirot novel.
Rikkin wanted her to come to him straight away with any suspicions of instability, Victoria said, and she had promised.
“So I was your patient,” Simon said. “Not your colleague. Not your friend.”
She winced at the words, but didn’t deny them. “Yes. Although… I thought we had become friends.” When he didn’t reply, she continued. She had emphasized her high opinion of Simon’s approach, and pointed out the odds that they would encounter a Mentor. And she had asked for more time.
She had initiated contact with Rikkin a second time. “He began pushing me for more concrete information on the sword,” she said. “He explained he wanted this taken care of before he left for Spain. I… it was around then that I started to feel uncomfortable about what I was doing. But Rikkin is our boss. And we’re Templars, and sometimes that means not telling all we know.”
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