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The dry, chalky scent of limestone-infused earth wafted up from the table. A dusting brush sat upon a piece of terra-cotta pottery. Not worth salvage, the shard, but no find is ever overlooked on a dig. All bits and pieces of size are cataloged in field notebooks. Nearby one lay open upon the table.
And there, beneath a wrinkled white cloth, that she now saw to be a pillowcase, sat the shape of a sword.
Peeling back the cloth, Annja slid her fingers over the dull metal blade, crusted with dirt and probably rusted or eroded for its rough texture. The camp light did not illuminate the table well with her body blocking the light source. The hilt, perhaps blued steel, did not shine. Common for a sixteenth-century weapon—but for all the dirt she could not be positive.
D’Artagnan’s sword should be seventeenth century.
“Bring it here, quickly!” the gunman said.
Tucking the pillowcase about the hilt, Annja then took it in a firm grip. She stood there, waiting to feel the infusion of power, that triumphant surge of knowing that always came with claiming the talisman, medallion or sacred cup the hero quested for. It had to be there. It wasn’t right without it.
It didn’t happen. In fact…
“This is—” she started.
“A fine specimen,” Ascher broke in. “Handle it carefully, Annja.”
The hilt was not gold, Annja realized.
Right. A fine specimen, indeed.
Walking forward, the sword held out before her, Annja reached Ascher’s side and glanced to him. Perspiration sparkled on the bridge of his nose. And yet, she didn’t feel the nervousness he displayed.
The sword was torn from her grip.
“Careful with it!” the teenager said, which ended with an abrupt tone. One of the gunmen kept the foursome under watch.
Annja felt her body relax, her shoulders falling until one nestled against Ascher’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch at the contact. Despite appearances, his posture and breathing seemed equally relaxed as hers. Almost…content. To be watching the grail be stolen away?
The gunman near her tucked away his Glock. He then grabbed the sword, rather roughly for an artifact, and gestured with it toward the back of the tent. “Back by the table. All of you!”
The foursome, Annja, Ascher, Jay and the man who had not been allowed an introduction, shuffled backward, hands up. The other gunman returned with a red gas can and began to soak the edges of the tent.
Annja shook out her hands, her fingers aching to grip a weapon, a sure defense against all that was wrong.
She did not want to reveal her secret to the three witnesses. Ascher, she wasn’t even sure whose side he was on. The risk wasn’t worth the payoff—yet.
The tent lighted to a blaze and the gunmen took off.
“Allez!” Ascher shouted. “Let’s get out of here!”
“If we flatten the tent we can smother the flames,” Jay said.
“Get out, Annja!” Ascher shoved her, and she stumbled toward the tent opening.
She did not stick around and wait for a second warning. Though intuition whispered that the sword wasn’t the sword, she wasn’t about to let it get away until she knew the truth.
Dashing over the two-foot-high border of flame eating the canvas tent, and into the clean night air, Annja did a scan of the surroundings. The night had quickly grown dark; there wasn’t a moon in sight. A Jeep was parked on the other side of the marked dig. Had they driven across the field and around the forest?
The thugs would return the same direction they had come. Their only escape was the waiting SUV.
Taking off at a sprint, Annja vacated the blazing campsite and entered the dark confines of the trees. It wasn’t exactly a forest, more a strip of birch and maple, probably edging an arable block that was once an old medieval plot.
Her suspicions about the sword the thugs had taken off with felt right. And Ascher’s silent but effective eye signals had further confirmed her doubt about its authenticity.
But that didn’t mean the bad guys were going to get off scot-free.
Generally thugs were just that—big loping oafs with muscle. They usually answered to someone. And Annja wanted that someone’s name.
Branches snapped under her rushing steps, but she didn’t worry for stealth. Already she could hear her prey ahead, plodding through the undergrowth and cursing the darkness. The forest opened onto the field. A hundred yards ahead, the SUV’s parking lights beamed over Annja’s rental car.
Annja reached out to her right, exhaled a cleansing breath, and focused her will to that untouchable otherwhere that served her wishes. With her inhale, she felt the weight of Joan’s sword fit to her grip.
This sword belonged to her. She had claimed it when she’d fit the final missing piece to the other pieces her mentor Roux had collected, quite literally, over the centuries. It answered no one’s bidding but her own. And it had become her life.
She curled her fingers around the familiar hilt. Wielding the well-balanced weapon expertly, Annja swept it through the air before her in a half circle and then to en garde position.
One of the thugs sat on the ground, huffing, both palms to the grass. Obviously he’d tripped.
“Get up! The entire forest will soon be ablaze!” The other man beat the air in frustration with the stolen sword.
“Now boys, that’s no way to handle a valued artifact,” she announced.
Both looked to the woman who stood at the edge of the forest, medieval sword wielded boldly and determination glinting in her eyes.
4
Knowing both thugs carried guns, Annja dashed across the grassy meadow, cutting their distance, and the range for an easy shot, to a minimum.
The one standing reacted by defensively stabbing the stolen sword at her.
Annja took the bait. But she didn’t connect her blade to the ancient blade. Instead, she delivered a thrust to the air just over the opponent’s shoulder and slapped her elbow against the very tip of his blade, which bounced it out of threatening position.
The man on the ground thrust out his right arm. Annja knew a gun would be in his hand. She swept her blade across his forearm, slicing through his leather jacket. The gun dropped. Blood spattered her wrist as she did a one-foot reel, swinging forward to grab the gun and spinning up into a twirl to land on the other side of the grounded thug.
A cold jab poked her neck. The man with the sword smiled, and charged again. He’d actually poked her with the thing! Yet a slap to her neck did not find blood, only a sore spot.
“You’re going to destroy what you believe to be a valuable artifact?” she challenged, and bent to avoid another inexpert swing of the rusted weapon. “You must have come after it for a reason. Why risk damaging it now?”
That question appeared to give the idiot some thought. Tossing the sword to his left hand, his right then went for his gun, tucked in the front of his waistband.
Aware that the man on the ground groped for her ankle, Annja kicked, landing her heel aside his head. He fell unconscious.
Instinctively diving to the ground, Annja’s palm hit the grass as a bullet skimmed her shoulder. It burned, but didn’t go deep. Rolling to her side, she pushed upright. Her weapon was not designed for choreographed fencing moves. Nor was she. Annja jammed her sword into the thigh of the gunman. The thug took the hit with surprising sanguinity. He grunted, but appeared to swallow back a curse. The Glock found aim with her head.
A dry branch cracked under her boot as she stepped to the side and bent, charging forward. The pistol retort echoed in the sky.
Crown of her head barreling into the gunman’s gut, Annja put her weight into the move, and kicked from the ground. They both went down. Thinking she’d land with her palms, Annja willed away the sword. Her fingers slid across dried leaves and grass.
She spied the gun but it was a grasp away. Cocking out an elbow, she jammed it into whatever she could, landing on the tender curves of an ear. It was a choice shot. The gunman growled and dropped his head, rolling toward her.
Again willing the sword into her grip, Annja swung out and with the heavy hilt, clocked the man at the back of his head above his ear. He dropped, out for the count.
Scrambling forward, she grabbed the second gun. Another Glock—the clip was full. Stuffing the first at the back of her waistband, she then stood and held the second on both downed thugs.
“Annja!” Ascher appeared, scrambling out from the trees. “What the hell?”
“I’m fine.” She walked toward Ascher, who clutched his left side.
As for her sword, she always seemed to release it without thought. It was safe, wherever it was that it went when she did not need it. That made it very handy when the need to be discreet presented itself. There’d be no long black Highlander coats for this chick.
“How did you do this?” He looked over her carnage. “They both had guns.”
“I charmed them,” she offered, and then smiled because if he knew the truth, he’d never believe it. “You got some rope back at camp?”
“Yes, but—they’re getting back up.”
Annja spun, but instead of leaping forward to swing her sword after the thugs, she couldn’t move. Ascher gripped her by the shoulders, and she could do nothing but watch as the lead thug grabbed the stolen sword from the ground.
“Let them go,” Ascher said. “You have the sword!” he yelled to the thugs. “Now leave us be.”
“I am not going to let this happen.” Annja twisted from Ascher’s grip.
In less than a breath he’d positioned his body before her, his chest up against hers. A bulldog guarding its territory.
“It’s not the sword,” he hissed. “Let them go.”
“They were going to kill us. Or at least try. Are the others all right?”
“They are fine.”
She took a step to the left. Ascher matched her. Taller than her, and bulked with muscle, his physique didn’t give her concern. The idea of simply allowing those men to walk off with the sword—any sword—felt like defeat.
“Come back to camp,” he said, his shoulders dropping and his tone settling to a softer plea.
The SUV revved and pealed across the gravel, heading back the way it had come from.
“There’s more to this than a simple treasure hunt, isn’t there?” she asked.
Ascher rolled his head and shrugged his shoulders in an aggressive move. Then he sighed and walked toward the forest. He left her to follow.
Annja sucked in the corner of her bottom lip. She could walk across the field, hop in her car and be done with this treasure hunt masquerade.
Or she could turn around and hound the deceitful Gascon for the truth.
Seventeenth century
N ICOLAS F OUQUET LOOKED UP from the list of expenditures Cardinal Mazarin had handed him.
“Where is it?”
The king marched into his office, red heels clicking and garish blue silk rosettes bouncing at shoulders, hips and toes.
“Your Highness.” Mazarin turned on the chair where he sat before Nicolas’s desk. He didn’t offer a bow. Instead he held out his hand, for the king to kiss his ring. Louis did. “What troubles you this day?”
“Where are the jewels?” Louis rubbed his fist against his stomach, which was a common habit of anxiety. “My mother’s private stash. Some are missing. Have they been stolen?”
“And how are you aware of these so-called missing jewels?” Nicolas asked, but immediately cursed himself for being so bold. Mazarin may have had the king’s respect, but he yet strived for that elusive confidence.
“Surely—” Mazarin sent a cruel glance toward Nicolas to reprimand “—she must have handed them to the royal jeweler for cleaning?”
“No.” Louis paced between the bookshelf where Nicolas kept his legal volumes and the window that overlooked the Tuileries. “I check our coffers every Sunday. Today there are many pieces missing. She is not wearing them. There are some items she has never worn. I cannot understand that.”
The king looked imploringly at his financier and the cardinal. So young yet, and with an entire nation depending on his guidance.
Nicolas cleared his throat. But when Louis beseeched him silently, he looked down and merely shook his head. He couldn’t reveal that he had seen the map. He valued Queen Anne’s trust immensely.
“They were given to her by a lover,” Louis suddenly said in a very quiet voice. “Or so I suspect as much.”
The cardinal chuckled. “You cannot spite your mother a lover.”
Mazarin rose, but instead of going to the king’s side, he walked in the opposite direction, toward the wall of legal books. Tracing a finger along their leather spines, the cardinal said nothing more.
Nicolas knew why the silence. Queen Anne and Mazarin were very close. And her son, the king, could never imagine such an alliance right beneath his very nose. Which was why Nicolas valued Anne’s trust more than the king’s. For the time.
“She has a lover?” Louis prompted.
Mazarin answered with a guilty silence and splay of his liver-spotted hands.
When the king looked to Nicolas, the financier swallowed back the urge to confess the intrigues he knew, in hopes of gaining the king’s confidence, and merely shrugged. “Possible,” he said.
“If she has a lover—” Louis paced as he spoke, head down in thought “—those jewels may have been gifts.”
“Should not the queen be allowed to accept gifts?” Mazarin posed. “Surely they were mere trinkets?”
Much more than trinkets, Nicolas knew. For he kept detailed records of the royal assets. Though Anne had shown him the jewels, she had insisted he not tally their value.
“It matters not the size of the bauble, or the conditions in which the trinkets were received.” Louis fisted his hips, a petulant child. “All monies within the royal palace are the king’s property. The queen cannot give away an asset without giving away mine. I will have them back.”
Louis marched to the door, but swung back to admonish them with a pointing finger. “I will discover the truth of this matter, messieurs. With or without your assistance.”
The king did not close the door. For long minutes his heels echoed out jaunty clicks as he strode the marble hallway toward the west wing.
Finally, Mazarin heaved out a sigh. He rapped Nicolas’s desk with his beringed knuckles. “Quite the intrigue, eh?”
Nicolas could not be sure if the cardinal could know the complete details behind the missing jewels—that the queen had hidden them, and had plans to then give them away.
To hide her indiscretions.
