by Alex Archer
Annja walked to the door and used the knocker clasped in the claws of a great-eagle plaque mounted on the door. She rapped three times and the thuds echoed within the building.
Thrusting her hands into her pockets, Annja turned back to look down the long hill they’d traversed to reach the house. The narrow, winding road barely left a gray trace through the leafy trees and tall grasses. The green landscape seemed to extend in all directions, but to the west she could see the tallest spires of Kosice proper. The city was a mix of modern and old architecture. She’d never been there before and would have relished a chance to wander around.
Still slightly hungover from the previous day, Istvan Racz stood with his hands jammed in his coat pockets and his hood up. He looked pallid and his eyes burned brightly. He’d been quiet, not talking unless someone spoke to him. Annja wondered if he was having second thoughts about continuing with her and Roux, but when the time to leave had come, the professor had gotten ready.
Roux walked over to join Annja. “Knock again.”
“Give her time. It’s a big house.”
“She knew guests were coming. She would have been ready.”
Annja realized then that Roux wasn’t being impatient. He was thinking maybe Garin or de Cerceau had reached Denisa Cierny first. Annja’s pulse picked up the pace as she reached for the door knocker again.
The door opened before she could touch the heavy brass. A tall woman in her later years stood before them.
“You are Annja Creed?” the woman asked in English with only the trace of an accent.
Annja smiled. “Yes. You’re Mrs. Cierny?”
“Yes, but please call me Denisa.” She looked over Annja’s shoulder at Roux and Racz. “And these are your friends?”
Annja made the introductions.
“Please come inside,” Denisa said. “I’m sure you must be tired after such a long trip, and it is still cold this time of year. Especially if you’re not used to it. You said you arrived from Spain?”
“Last night, yes.” Annja followed the woman into the house and felt as though she’d stepped back in time. The furniture looked like new, but it was all original from the Victorian period. The fireplace was huge and a cheery fire blazed inside, throwing out heat Annja could feel across the room. “Your house is lovely.”
Denisa looked around and smiled. “My house is lovely. I grew up here, as did several family members before me. My grandmother left me this house, and when I’m gone, I’ll leave it to one of my granddaughters who loves it as much as I do. That’s the proper way to treat a house—give it to someone in the family who loves it as much as you do. Someone who will keep it. That way the love stays within these walls.” She turned her gaze back on Annja. “But you didn’t come here to hear about the house. Come. I’ll show you the family gallery and the things we have that Father Janos Brankovic created.”
* * *
STEPPING OUT OF the house through a door off the kitchen, Denisa walked through an elegantly appointed garden to a building under tall trees. Only a few cold-weather plants and flowers were in bloom. The splotches of bright yellows and whites stood out against the dark green. A stone fence ten feet high encircled the grounds.
The gallery was a two-story squared-off building made of stone that looked as if it had been quarried from the same place as the stones that made up the main house. Here and there, pieces of mortar were missing, but it seemed to be in fine condition. The windows were smaller and had iron bars over them.
“Even with the walls, or perhaps because of the mystery those barriers created, we’ve had trouble with people breaking in over the years. Mostly they were young people who were curious and wanted to take a closer look, but there were others who attempted to take things.” Denisa produced a heavy iron key from a sweater pocket and thrust it into the large iron lock in the hardwood door. “My grandfather chased a few would-be thieves from the grounds when I was just a girl. Those remain vivid memories for me. I thought it was all very exciting.” She nodded toward the house. “I visited often. That was my room. Up there.”
After the lock clicked, she turned the knob and followed the door inside. Old musk and the smell of paint hung heavy in the still air inside the building. Annja slipped a pen flash from her backpack.
“You won’t need that.” Turning to her right, Denisa punched a short code into a cutting-edge alarm system and reached for a light switch. When she flicked the switch, bright light filled the building. “When I inherited the house, the first thing I did was get an electronic security system and install electricity. My grandfather liked to keep things as they were, but I chose to modernize and provide a constant environment. A few of the art pieces were ruined over the years from mold and a leaking roof. Finding those things always made my grandmother sad. I promised myself that would not happen while I lived.”
Staring at the huge collection of paintings, statues and pottery, Annja felt sad at those losses, too. She recognized items that had to be hundreds of years old, judging from the craftsmanship and subject matter. She couldn’t imagine the treasures that had been destroyed.
Denisa strode forward, brushing by Racz.
Annja stepped in behind the woman and followed her through a vast collection of art. Large murals covered the walls. Other pieces hung on freestanding walls. Cabinets housed pottery and carvings and objects Annja couldn’t quite grasp.
A small room occupied the back of the first floor. Denisa paused to open the door and reach inside to flip on a light.
“This room was built to house Father Brankovic’s work.” Denisa stepped inside and Annja followed.
Almost fifteen feet to a side, the space was filled with old statues and castings of various sizes. Some of the pottery pieces had been fired and stained with colorful bisques. Deep reds, emeralds and blues drew the eye to shapes of ships, people and creatures.
Denise turned a hand toward the room. “Please feel free to help yourselves. Just do be careful. All of these things are irreplaceable.”
Drawn by the beauty around her, Annja wandered the aisles and stared at the pieces. “We’re actually most interested in the castings Father Brankovic did of the Virgin Mary. Are you familiar with those?”
“Of course. They are among Father Brankovic’s first works.” Denisa walked to the far end of the room and opened a cabinet mounted on the wall.
When the doors were open, six castings of the Virgin Mary with her head covered and dressed in robes were revealed. She looked fragile and innocent and so calm. The castings ran from one foot tall to three feet. All of the poses were similar, and they were all rendered from material so dark that they looked almost black.
“Since you came here looking for these,” Denisa said, “I’m sure you’ve heard the legend of how Father Brankovic came to create these.”
Annja nodded. “During the execution of György Dózsa, monks attending his death claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary in his ear.”
“Strange to think something like that happened, isn’t it? Yet there are several other stories that tell of appearances by the Virgin Mary.”
“They’re called Marian appearances. Usually she’s only seen by one or two people, and the appearance is named after the town where the sighting took place. The Roman Catholic Church gets involved at that point because they have to verify the sighting through the Holy Office.”
“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith,” Denisa said. “It was established to protect Catholic doctrine. When Father Brankovic heard the story of the monks seeing the Virgin Mary in Dózsa’s ear, he made notes of their description and made these castings. Unfortunately, he died before the church ruled on the authenticity of the appearance. The task of creating the statue of the Virgin Mary passed to another artist. I have read his journals. He was so hopeful he would get to make the statue.”
“Any o
f these would have been beautiful.”
“I always thought so.”
“May I see the journals?”
“Of course.” Denisa led Annja to a large desk area that sat below a shelf containing several thick books. She looked at the spines, made a selection and brought the book down to the desk. “Those entries should be in this volume. Father Brankovic was very creative. In addition to the sculptures and pottery you see here, which is only a small amount of the things he made, he also sketched and wrote constantly. He made these books himself.”
Reverently, Annja opened the book and looked through the pages. Frustration chafed at her when she saw they were written in Slovak, not Latin as she’d hoped. Annja didn’t read any of the Slav languages well enough to get through the entries more than to establish dates.
“You don’t read Slovak, do you?” Denisa asked.
“No.” Annja hated feeling helpless. She glanced at Roux, who nodded, indicating that he did. She wasn’t surprised. Give me five hundred years and I’d know a lot of languages, too, she thought.
“Then allow me.” Denisa switched on a desk lamp over the pages and began reading in a strong voice.
33
“‘I did not expect to like György Dózsa when I met him,’” Denisa read, trailing an immaculate finger down the lines of neat script without actually touching the page. “‘From all accounts I had of the man, he was a dangerous and bloodthirsty criminal, a man who had raised up a rebellion among peasants who struck out at their masters.
“‘However, I have been a man of God for twenty-three years and I have come to know that people are often viewed differently by their peers. Jealousies often preside and take over an historian’s quill in the throes of writing what will become truth. I have read histories that were merely airy words and a waste of paper.
“‘General Dózsa was a fit warrior in his middle years, a man of fierce temperament and resounding courage. I could expect nothing else. Pope Leo X had chosen the general because of his resolve and keen tactician’s mind. If he had been properly outfitted and had gotten to march his troops against the Ottoman Turks, I have no doubts that he would have given a good accounting of himself. The Christian Crusade against our enemies would have advanced.
“‘Instead, the general rotted in his cell and awaited the ugly end that he met on that fiery iron throne. I listened to his screams of horror at seeing his brother and his men slain before him, all the while begging his captors to spare the lives of those soldiers. I prayed for General Dózsa’s soul, and that his torture might make a quick end of him. Alas, that was not to be so. The general lingered for a long time. The scent of his charred flesh filled my nostrils and still I cannot cleanse my mind of that memory.
“‘After General Dózsa died and his body was being prepared, I was surprised when the young monks claimed to see the Virgin Mary in his ear. I agonized over such a thing, that they might see then when I—who had spent time with General Dózsa for days beforehand—was not so blessed.
“‘One more curious incident happened after General Dózsa’s death. Two men rode into town the next day and asked after the general. They found themselves in trouble with the noblemen quickly, and were swiftly jailed. I visited them, as I do to all unfortunates that God chooses to send before me.
“‘Neither of those men were talkative, but I gathered they were fighting men themselves. One was in his advanced years, but the other was much younger, a dark taciturn man whom I believed to be of Frankish origins who spoke only to the older man.
“‘The older man asked me about General Dózsa and told me that he himself had served King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary as a member of the Black Legion. He said that King Corvinus had, on his deathbed, given him a task to find the lost treasure of the Merovingian kings, and now that General Dózsa was dead, the trail they had been following had also expired. He told me that they had learned of a captain who guarded the king’s great library and was himself an indefatigable reader. That tale had brought them seeking General Dózsa.
“‘I had to struggle to keep calm, because I knew of the story. General Dózsa had entrusted it to me, telling me that one of the Black Legion captains had read of the tale of the lost treasure in a book in King Corvinus’s library before it was scattered. King Corvinus had only late in his life discovered the tale and had intended to follow up on the possibility that such a treasure existed.
“‘When General Dózsa had told me the story and given me the possible location of the treasure, I must admit that I had at first thought it was just a tale a man told to make himself appear more important than he is. That was, however, at odds with the man I believed the general to be. He was important. He was just a man undone by the vagaries of fate. So I know of the Merovingian treasure.
“‘I have, in recent days, wondered why I did not tell those men what I knew of the treasure. I have examined myself for weaknesses and failings, and I have asked myself if I was giving in to greed. Now I believe I was merely keeping General Dózsa’s secret because he had entrusted it to me, and I should not just hand it out to anyone. I was being careful.
“‘So I left the jail that night and kept my secret. Rather, I kept the general’s secret. On the morrow, I decided to talk further with the prisoners and rethink my decision. I thought maybe I was being too cautious and that I was being given a sign to give up my uneasy burden.
“‘That assessment was taken out of my hands, though, because when I returned to the jail, the two men were gone. Like desperate thieves, they had stolen their freedom from the iron bars and taken their leave. Four guards lay dead in their wake and orders were given for them to be hunted down and killed.
“‘I could not follow them, for I knew not where they were bound, nor did I wish to suffer their unkind fates. I never learned their names.’”
* * *
“THE OLDER MAN,” Istvan Racz spoke up, interrupting Denisa’s reading, “was Vilmos Racz, one of my ancestors. He’s the one who handed down the stories of the Merovingian treasures in my family.”
The professor seemed hypnotized and didn’t look well. Perspiration dotted his cheeks and his eyes looked too bright.
“Are you all right?” Annja asked.
“I’m fine.” Racz turned away. “Fatigue is catching up with me, I suppose. These past few days...” He shook his head. “And now this.” He looked at her. “Do you realize how close we are to finding that treasure? After all these years. But it’s still just out of reach. It’s maddening.”
Racz walked away and sat in a chair, putting his hands together to support his chin as he worked on breathing.
Annja returned her attention to Denisa. “Is there any further mention of the Merovingian treasure?”
Denisa stared at her. “Do you think it actually exists?”
Before Annja could respond, Racz spoke up in a stern voice. “Of course it’s real. My family has spent centuries looking for it. And to know...to know that Vilmos was so very close to finding it...” The professor left the rest of his thought unspoken, or perhaps he couldn’t think that far.
For a moment, silence filled the room.
“There is more, but it’s all confusing.” Denisa turned a page to reveal an inked illustration of two men sitting on the floor of what had to be a jail cell. One of them looked to be in his sixties, worn and lean with a scraggly beard. The other was young, bearded and too familiar looking in worn clothing, but Brankovic had managed to capture that rebellious gleam in his eye.
“Wait.” Annja stayed the woman’s hand. “Are these the two men Brankovic talked to that night in the jail?”
“Yes. There are a lot of drawings he did from memory. I have seen some of the places he traveled to. Buildings still stand in a few of those places, and you can see how skilled he was.”
“Oh, yeah.” Annja waved Roux over to join her and
pointed to the picture. “I think we know why Garin is so heavily invested in the outcome of this hunt.”
Roux stood silent for a moment, taking in the image, then nodded. “That would explain it.”
Dark and taciturn, defiance gleaming in his gaze, Garin Braden looked out from the manuscript page.
Temesvár
Kingdom of Hungary
July 1514
WAKING INSTANTLY AT Vilmos Racz’s touch on his shoulder, Garin opened his eyes and saw only darkness around him. He shifted his gaze and picked up the wan light of a torch in a sconce hanging on the wall down the passageway from the cell where he and his friend were being held.
“Are you with me?” Vilmos asked. He crouched only a few feet away, and the torchlight flickered along his profile.
The years since the time they’d served in the Black Legion under Matthias Corvinus had been hard on Vilmos. He’d aged and been reduced to a much frailer version of himself. Seeing him as he now was, it was difficult to believe he’d once been a feared commander of warriors, a man to be reckoned with when he had a sword in hand.
Now he was old and vulnerable. But he was still driven.
“Of course, my friend.” During the twenty years they’d served together and searched for the Merovingian treasure, Garin hadn’t aged. On occasion Vilmos had mentioned this, remarking on Garin’s good fortune to have his health for so long.
Garin had merely acknowledged the compliment but hadn’t commented on it. He’d liked serving with Vilmos. Being in the Black Legion, fighting and traveling around the Kingdom of Hungary, had suited him. After he’d separated from Roux, he’d been lost, wandering from place to place and living however he could. He’d gathered fortunes only to see them slip between his fingers because he hadn’t been disciplined.
Vilmos had seen greatness in him, the old man said, and he’d worked hard to bring that greatness out of Garin. He’d taught him to be a good warrior, then a good leader and commander and to properly manage his financial affairs. Now, even after the disbanding of the Black Legion and the death of Matthias Corvinus, there were lands and a fortune that awaited him.