Even now, watching it as the others did, Simon remembered how this news had torn him apart. Jeanne, back home with her family. Perhaps… perhaps with him, and their child. Gabriel sagged against the stone wall beside which the two men spoke, and Alençon caught him.
“I—I don’t believe you,” he whispered. He didn’t want to believe it, because if he did, it almost made the pain worse. For the Assassins to have failed Joan, and for the Templars to be trying to spare her life? The world had turned upside down.
“During the trial, there was another examination to prove Jeanne was still a virgin. And she was. How in the world, with men who hated her in her cell at all times, could she have stayed that way? Because Philip told the guards that if they violated Jeanne, they would be executed!”
Gabriel rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of any of this. “But what happened? What went wrong?
“Bishop Pierre Cauchon and the prosecutor, Father Jean d’Estivet. That’s what went wrong. They were out to make names for themselves, strengthen their political positions. Cauchon wanted to become archbishop of Rouen, and he had a personal grudge against Jeanne. And d’Estivet….” Alençon spat. “He simply enjoys suffering.”
Gabriel was still reeling, but Alençon was relentless. “Philip had concerns about them. He sent Ligny to Jeanne’s cell in mid-May, two weeks before her execution, to make her an offer. Ligny would ransom her back if she would agree to never raise arms against the Burgundians or the English. But… she—”
“She thought it was a trap.”
“Yes. Philip thought everything had been decided when she agreed to never wear men’s clothes. But then… oh, Gabriel….” Alençon looked as if he was about to shatter. “Cauchon ordered the guards to take her dresses. They left her only with men’s clothing… or none.”
“That’s why she relapsed,” Gabriel whispered. Then, in a hard voice, “That’s why she’s dead.”
“Jeanne was a girl who didn’t understand what was going on with her. She wasn’t even an Assassin. The Templars knew that. She wasn’t supposed to die, Gabriel. Do you remember Jacques de Molay?”
“Wh-what? Yes….” Gabriel looked at his old friend, confused.
“He set the standard for all Templars to follow.” Alencon’s dark eyes burned with intensity. “We believe that Jeanne’s sword was once his. And that how it worked was the way de Molay wanted it to work. He was burned as a heretic. The last—the absolute last—thing he would want his Order to do is burn a girl who wielded his sword with the same good heart he had, however uninformed she might have been.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Gabriel half-demanded, half-sobbed.
“Because you need to know that the Templars tried, repeatedly, to prevent Jeanne’s death. The Order didn’t kill her—two selfish men did. Men interested not in the betterment of humanity, but only in their own desires. And that Order thinks you might be interested in helping them enact justice.”
Slowly, Gabriel lifted his head. He pressed his lips tougher in a thin line, and his face hardened.
The scene shifted. An old man sat in a chair while a servant attended to him, placing a warm cloth over his eyes before taking out a small razor and soap, laying them out on a table in preparation for shaving.
A shadow moved behind him. Gabriel slipped his arm around the servant’s neck, squeezing until the terrified servant passed out. As quietly as possible, Gabriel eased him to the floor. Then he stepped forward, picked up the blade, and placed it against the old man’s throat.
“Étienne?” asked Pierre Cauchon, the cloth still over his eyes. His voice was thin and high; no longer that of a powerful orator who had bullied a half-starved, exhausted young woman with questions for hours on end.
“Not Étienne,” Gabriel replied. “You don’t know me. I’m just a shadow. A witness to what you did to Jeanne the Maid. You’ve been spared by your masters, but now… now they’ve decided it’s time to kill this old dog.”
Simon knew how badly Gabriel desired to do this. But before he could slice open Cauchon’s throat, the elderly man spasmed and gasped, clawing at his heart, and then sprawled half-in and half out of the chair—dead.
“Gabriel was denied the satisfaction of killing Cauchon himself,” Simon continued. “But Jean d’Estivet was not so fortunate. His body was found in a sewer—his throat pierced by a slender, sharp blade. The populace called it God’s justice, for what he had done to Joan of Arc.”
Simon paused, bracing himself for denials and attacks. But they did not come. He couldn’t read their expressions; Templars had some of the best poker faces in the world. But he was being allowed to continue.
“You will recall,” he said, “that when I began, I asked you to remember three things.” He clicked the remote. The scene reset, illustrating each item as he discussed it. “The graffiti left by de Molay, particularly the sun image and the Latin quote. The pendant that Joan wore around her neck. And how the sword reacted to her. To these, I will add two more things: Thérage’s statement that Joan’s heart refused to burn; and the information that Philip of Burgundy tried, repeatedly, to keep Joan alive, and was furious at what amounted to betrayal of the Templar Order at the hands of Joan’s two judges.”
He clicked the remote again. Another image appeared, but not an Animus memory: a simple photograph of the de Molay graffiti. “Notice the sun,” he said. “It’s now a hollow. Something was placed there and covered up… until the right person found it. Whatever it hid when Gabriel saw it has since been removed. And I believe I know what it was.”
Simon’s heart was racing. All hinged on what was about to happen. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and removed a small object wrapped in a handkerchief; an object that had been there for some time, quietly exuding calm to his racing thoughts. He placed it on the table and unwrapped it.
Murmurs rose and everyone leaned forward for a better look. It was about the size of a large grape, a perfect, glowing scarlet sphere that pulsed rhythmically. Simon watched as several members of the Inner Sanctum visibly relaxed. It wasn’t controlling them. But they could sense, and were responding to, its energy.
“This,” he said, “is what I call the Heart. It’s the heart of the sword. It’s Joan’s ‘heart’ that would not burn. It’s what makes this sword one that was rightfully wielded by Jacques de Molay and Joan of Arc, but not by Germain.”
Simon trusted the words to flow as he told the Heart’s story. Once, he informed the Inner Sanctum, it had been an intrinsic part of the Sword of Eden. De Molay had kept it separate from the sword when the weapon was not being wielded in battle, so that in case of loss or betrayal, the two Pieces of Eden would not be taken together. Somehow, some way—Simon did not know exactly—de Molay had smuggled the Heart with him into the Coudray dungeon. He had carved out a hollow in the dungeon wall, placed the Heart inside it, and covered up the hiding place with plaster doubtless also smuggled in. He had even informed those who could read Latin on how the Heart should be used: “If the heart is strong, it will not break.”
“He trusted that the right person would find the Heart—that it would call to them,” Simon continued. “That person was Joan of Arc, over a century later. The quote would have been misleading to the wrong reader. It didn’t mean, ‘If your heart is strong, it—your heart—will not break.’ It meant, ‘If your heart is strong, it—the Sword, where the Heart belongs—will not break.’ It’s ironic that Joan herself was illiterate.”
He was losing some of them—Sterns, Kilkerman, Rikkin, of course. But the others were leaning in, more curious than wary now.
“It was after her time at Chinon that Gabriel observed Joan wearing a pouch around her neck. She stayed in the Coudray Tower—and was called to find the Heart sealed away in the tower’s dungeon. I believe that, along with her family’s ring, the Heart was in that pouch. She was wearing it when she touched the sword for the first time—the sword that, until that moment, had been dormant. It was activated because the Heart—
its power source—was in close proximity. And most likely because it was wielded by someone with a high concentration of Precursor DNA.
“Thus began Joan’s incredible—some would say miraculous— string of victories; battles won by military strategy she couldn’t logically know, and by the passion and enthusiasm of those who followed her. This sword was powered not by conquest and pain, but by faith in doing the right thing. ‘If the heart is strong, it will not break.’”
Simon opened the box.
The sword was glowing—warm, beautiful, energized by its proximity to the Heart. But it was not yet complete. He reached for the pommel at the end of the sword’s hilt and began to turn it. It twisted off easily in his hands. He showed it to the rapt Templars. It was hollow—and perfectly sized to hold the glowing Heart, which Simon inserted. He replaced the pommel, then removed his hands.
“Joan of Arc had the Heart around her throat when she was burned. Her executioner, unable to destroy it, threw it into the Seine. As some of you know, diving is my hobby. I went to the Seine, to where I believed the ashes had been cast.
“I’m not Joan of Arc,” he said. His voice trembled. Let it, he thought. They were in the presence of something greater than themselves, and they were all about to bear witness to something not seen for more than half a millennia. “I’m not even Gabriel Laxart. But I do have Precursor DNA. And just as Gabriel sensed the sword, buried and forgotten behind the altar, I could sense the Heart wanting to be found at the bottom of the Seine. It took me some time… but I recovered it.
“The Heart has not been in its home for centuries. Nor has the sword been held by one who understands its true nature since then.”
He looked up at his fellow Templars, hoping beyond hope that they would see, would understand, as he did. “As I said—I am no Joan of Arc. But after all I beheld, all I felt, through Gabriel’s memories—all I’ve learned about this Order that my family has honored through so many generations, and that I myself have pledged my life to serve—that you, too, have sworn your lives to—I believe that I can say that here, in this moment, my heart is strong—and very, very full.”
Simon Hathaway extended a hand, grasped the Sword of Eden, and held it up.
Light, bright and clean and purifying, suddenly filled the room. It bathed them all equally—from Rikkin to Simon to Reider to England—and suddenly Simon felt as if the burdens of a lifetime, perhaps many lifetimes, had fallen from his shoulders. And all were equally silent, staring in astonishment.
Its radiance was not as bright as that witnessed by Gabriel Laxart. Simon was, indeed, no Joan.
But he believed in what the sword stood for. And the Sword knew it.
“This is what the Templar Order should be!” Simon cried, joy and certainty surging through his blood. “A weapon when needed, and an inspiration at all times. A light for humanity when it needs it the most. This was Jacques de Molay’s goal. This was why the sword flourished at Joan’s touch. And this is why, if you deem my words lies and my acts heresy, I will gladly perish as those who held it before did: wrongly accused, and dying for something I believe in with my whole heart.”
He held the sword out, looking each member of the Templar Inner Sanctum in the eye. “This sword’s blade is keen, and its powers have been restored. It is a graceful and deadly weapon. Who among you believes so firmly in my heresy, who here thinks their heart so strong, and so unsullied, that they will strike me down with it?”
Not a single member of the Inner Sanctum of the Templar Order—eight of the highest of the high—made a movement toward the sword.
“I call for any charges against Simon Hathaway to be dropped.” Simon looked at the screen, shocked that the words had come from Otso Berg. The face of the man Simon had always thought of as a thug was almost soft with wonder.
“I second that,” said Reider. She was composed, but blinked rapidly. “Simon, you’ve done all you set out to do. If you took Templar property, it was only to make it whole again. And I agree. Some of our methods have not been in alignment with what de Molay’s sword represents.”
Not all faces were alight with understanding. Rikkin, Stearns, Gramática, and Kilkerman said nothing, but had clearly been unmoved. At last, Rikkin stirred.
“You’ve given us a lot to think about, Simon. But it’s hard to argue with success. You may proceed as you see fit with Historical Research, and you may have access to the Animus at your discretion. But now, if you don’t mind… I’d rather like my sword back.”
Chuckles around the table broke some of the sword’s spell. But not all of it. Respectfully, albeit reluctantly, Simon replaced the exquisite artifact, and handed the closed box to Rikkin.
He could not help but notice that the CEO of Abstergo Industries never once touched the sword of Jacques de Molay.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Exhausted, Simon stumbled into his flat and flung himself on the sofa. He hadn’t realized how drained he had become over the last—week? Ten days? He’d lost count. But the world was falling into rightness again—or, perhaps, truly for the first time.
The bugs in his office and home were gone. Poole was back at Temp’s, beaming after his surprise vacation to Edinburgh as “Tempest in a Teapot Employee of The Year.” Ben Clarke, the young man whom Anaya had been training as her replacement, hadn’t shown up since Simon had fled with the sword. Even the doorman at Simon’s building, who also had gone on a mysterious holiday, was back.
Simon had telephoned Victoria immediately after the meeting had ended and was relieved to hear that neither she nor Anaya had come under scrutiny in his absence. “I think they were waiting to find out what had happened to me,” Simon told Victoria. They were chatting on his burner phone; Simon thought that perhaps some of the habits he’d picked up ought to be kept.
“I think so too,” she said. “But nothing out of the ordinary has gone on. I’m back in the Aerie, and I have to say, I’ve missed it. But I wouldn’t trade our joint Animus adventure for anything.”
“Neither would I.” He paused. “I… really can’t thank you enough, Victoria. You had my back the entire time, even when I thought you didn’t. It’s been a while since I’ve had a really good friend. You haven’t heard the last of me.”
She knew all he didn’t say, and her voice was full of affection when she replied, “I certainly hope not! Perhaps you can come see what we’re doing here. These young people I’m working with are quite remarkable.”
“Not Joan and Gabriel-level remarkable,” Simon said. He realized he was smiling.
“No one is Joan and Gabriel-level remarkable,” she said. “But do come visit.”
“I will,” he said, and meant it.
“Oh, and one more thing—how in the world did you escape?”
He chuckled. “I took a Leap of Faith right into the awning of Bella Cibo. It’s coming out of my paycheck, I’m told.”
He’d been in touch with Anaya during his absence in France; she’d been the one to somehow scrounge enough false documentation for him to complete his journey to Rouen and return unhindered, so he knew she was safe. He hadn’t talked to her since he’d gotten back, and felt vaguely uncomfortable doing so now. Although Captain America had been mysteriously “let go”, he knew Anaya still planned to take the job at Abstergo Entertainment—which had proven to be a genuine offer, rather to their surprise.
Weary as he was, Simon was restless. Before he knew it, he found himself driving back to Abstergo. His security card had been upgraded, as Rikkin had promised, and he was able to access the Animus with no difficulty.
It felt strange, being in this place after midnight, without Victoria. And he knew that he really shouldn’t be entering the Animus alone. But by this point, he was comfortable with his own strength of will, and familiar enough with the technical aspect of the process, that he felt could go back one final time without being monitored
He set up the Animus, keyed in the criteria, and managed to strap himself in. He rec
alled Victoria’s comment: If you’d be willing to risk severe injury, you might be able to leave the last back strap undone and get in by yourself. It was true enough. With luck, the simulation wouldn’t be an overly physical one. If it was, well, Simon knew how to desynch. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it would be better than the alternative.
Once again, mist swirled around him. Simon braced himself for what it would reveal.
15 MAY, 1443
BUREY-EN-VAUX
Gabriel leaned against the archway of his father’s house, gazing up at a brilliant full moon. He had returned home shortly after his frustrating encounter with the late Bishop Cauchon. He had been eager to take that life; it had been justified a thousand times over. But God—or the devil—had come for Cauchon before Gabriel had been able to slit the man’s throat. He had taken it as a sign, and when he met with Alençon, it had been for the last time.
The Templars had invited him to join their ranks, but Gabriel found that all he wanted to do was return to his father, stepmother, and their child. The fire for revenge, kindled at the same moment as Joan’s pyre, had guttered, even as that awful flame had eventually done. He was soul-sick, and feared healing would never come.
And so, he had bidden Alençon farewell, and had vowed to take no part in either side of the Assassin/Templar conflict. He had returned to Burey-en-Vaux on Christmas Eve last year; thirteen years to the day when Joan of Arc had arrived at Rouen. He had found quiet with his family, and Joan’s, but no peace; no healing.
Tonight, Gabriel had awoken around midnight, his heart pierced with pain as he remembered going outside in the early summer night and being surprised by Joan. Fifteen years ago, he thought; he was in his thirties, now. Twelve since she had burned. Everyone told him it would get easier, that he would grow used to the idea of her death. It didn’t. He hadn’t. He never would.
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