Swordsman's Legacy. Alex Archer
had already handled the sword without gloves. Hopefully, it had not incurred damage.
Annja let out a huge breath and pressed a hand to her chest. Yes, her heartbeats really could pound that quickly. Here, beneath her fingertips, sat a remarkable history.
She concentrated on the weapon, leaning in to study the length of the hilt, from the flat, slightly curved pommel to the quillon, curved back to protect the hand, yet abbreviated as it swept into the decorative hilt. The blade was about three and a half feet in length, and the hilt designed for a large hand to fit comfortably about the grip.
A gorgeous sword for any cavalier to wear at his hip when out on the town and looking to show his worth or to attract a lady’s eye.
She clicked the camera on and snapped a few pictures.
“Damascened blade,” she said, drawing a gloved finger over the slightly rusted blade. The arabesques were worn to mere suggestions, but still there was no denying the quality of work. She leaned in and adjusted the camera for a close-up shot. “Blackened steel. Folded…I’m not sure.”
“Twelve or thirteen times,” Ascher tossed in. “Most seventeenth-century swords crafted for the French court were designed by Hugues de Roche. Especially the more decorative rapiers. He folded his steel a dozen times and signed them with a mark on the ricasso of the blade, just near the hilt.”
“What was the mark?”
“A simple R in a circle,” Ascher said.
Annja tilted the sword to catch the light at the base of the blade. Smoothing a finger through dust and dirt, she located a small marking. “It’s here. It’s real,” she gasped, not wanting to succumb to the tremendous feelings that threatened to make her squeal like a silly schoolgirl. Not yet. Look it over completely first. And take more pictures, she ordered herself.
“Swept hilt,” Ascher noted. “Gold.”
“Yes,” Annja agreed. “The hilt is three strands of gold, which sweep to form the suggestion of a basket. The grip is wrapped in silver, maybe, and it looks like a black cording twists around it, almost as if it was meant to fit within the channels of silver.”
“The inventory documents of Castelmore’s belongings detailed two swords,” Ascher said.
“One of black steel,” Annja confirmed, “the other gold. But they were believed sold to pay off his debts.”
“How do you suppose Charlotte-Anne got her hands on this sword?”
“Well, that’s assuming this was one of the swords remaining in Castelmore’s home after his death. Neither one was indicated as a rapier. He could have received this from the queen, then immediately handed it to his wife for safekeeping. This rapier could be entirely different from the two documented swords.”
“True. But I don’t think so,” Ascher said.
“You just don’t want to believe so.”
There was only one sure way to determine if this was the actual rapier once wielded by Charles de Castelmore d’Artagnan, gifted to him by Queen Anne as thanks for many dangerous missions, all for the king.
All for one, and one for all.
Such a noble phrase. And yet “all for one” could bear a much greater meaning.
Annja surreptitiously slid a latexed finger along the hilt, tracing the smooth gold. Now she met Ascher’s eyes. The two of them challenged without words. A lift of her brow was matched by Ascher’s grin.
“Shall we check if rumors hold truth?” he asked.
6
“When did you have the time to research this legend, Ascher? In between jumping out of buildings and swimming the Amazon?”
“Exactly. I like the quiet of the bibliothèque stacks. So still and haunted by the ghosts of centuries past. It offers a balance to my busy lifestyle.”
Annja felt the same whenever in a library. Rarely did she find the time lately. Her own loft back in Brooklyn had become a minilibrary. And if she waded beyond the piles of books, field notebooks and research documents, there were artifacts stacked without order. The loft wasn’t a complete disaster; she liked to consider it comfortable disarray.
Balance, yeah, that was something she should never allow to tilt too far out of whack. A good meditation session wouldn’t hurt after her long day.
“Besides Dumas’s journals, which you have read,” Ascher said, “I’ve had opportunity to pore over some of Nicolas Fouquet’s voluminous writings.”
“The royal financier who was imprisoned for embezzlement,” Annja said.
“Yes, unfortunately he is known for that small mistake.”
“And for being a pornographer, thanks to Louis XIV.”
“Falsified evidence. He merely copublished a racy little tome with Madame de Maintenon. She did the majority of writing—he edited. He really was so much more.”
Annja smirked. “And here I thought your favorite Frenchman was King Henri III.”
“The most reviled of the Valois kings—because of his homosexual tendencies—but I’m interested in them all. Do you know Fouquet also had a huge lending library that was the greatest collection of research books in all of Europe? It attracted political advocates and patronages. Fouquet intended to use it to rise in position in the government. But the king wasn’t having it. I’m not sure why Louis XIV was angry with Fouquet. This all happened before the infamous arrest after the lavish party at Vaux le Vicomte.”
Annja hadn’t known about the library. “What happened to the library after his death?” she asked.
“It was divided up and sold. Madame Fouquet managed to save his personal journals. I’m surprised I found the little I did at the Bibliothèque Nationale. The man made copies of virtually every important document he created for the royals, be it for purchases of land or certificates of patents to the nobility or coded secret missives. He was a secretive Saint-Simon, if you will.”
The duc de Saint-Simon had been an infamous chronicler of the seventeenth century, his diaries amounting to thirty published journals. Much like a modern-day entertainment program, Saint-Simon had reported all the salacious and juicy details of court life.
Annja had always wanted to get her hands on Nicolas Fouquet’s private journals, for he had been close to Charles Castelmore during his imprisonment for embezzlement. Castelmore had been forced to stay with and tend him while imprisoned as Fouquet waited the king to either call him back from exile or begin proceedings for his trial. It took well over three years, during which the musketeer had not the opportunity to command his troops or engage in martial combat. It must have been hell for d’Artagnan, she thought.
“I believe Dumas had access to the Fouquet papers, as well,” Ascher said.
“To look at you, no one would mistake you for the scholarly type,” she commented, turning her attention back to the rapier.
“Please don’t let the word get out.”
She gave a little laugh. “And here I thought you were nothing more than a treasure hunter.”
“You say the title as if it is so offensive.”
“Treasure hunters have no reverence for history, the condition of a dig site or the people who left behind the objects. Archaeology is all about learning the why, what and where. Treasure hunters could care less. They storm in, kick aside the dirt and haul away the booty.”
“I’m very meticulous before I haul away the booty.” He delivered her a charming wink. “I know how to backfill a site, returning it close to its former state.”
“Even when you’ve got gunmen breathing down your neck?” she asked.
“I