Alex Archer - Swordsman's Legacy

“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.

And so he but nodded, and watched as the cardinal sauntered out of his office.

It was interesting to Nicolas, now that he considered the recipient of the treasure cache of jewels. A musketeer. And what was that silly little phrase the musketeers spoke as a literal statement of faith?

All for the king.

Yes. Interesting, then, that a very particular musketeer should be taking from the mouth of the very man he had pledged to serve faithfully.

Actually, it was rather amusing.

It neared midnight, and exhilaration overwhelmed Annja’s exhaustion. The tent lay flattened, its perimeter burned and the canvas smoking. The center remained intact thanks to Jay’s fast actions to snuff the flames.

A flashlight had been retrieved from the Jeep’s glove box, and Annja could now make out faces. The teenager’s face was blackened with ash, and his short blond hair stuck out in tufts. His slouchy jeans and fancy sneakers led Annja to believe he was a charmer. Or maybe it was the wink he tossed her way.

“Now what?” Jay asked Ascher, but he danced his look up and down Annja.

Boys and their blatant hormones. Annja looked away to conceal her smile.

“Formal introductions,” Ascher said as he slung an arm across Annja’s shoulder. “Jay and Peyton Nash, I introduce you to the one and only Annja Creed.”

“Chasing History’s Monsters,” Jay said in weird fan-boy wonder. “I never miss an episode. Your stories are fascinating, Miss Creed.”

“Thank you, Jay. Glad to know you appreciate the history and research.”

“Oh, yeah, the research,” he muttered, but it wasn’t very convincing.

“A pleasure.” Peyton Nash leaned forward and offered a hand, which Annja took as opportunity to slip from Ascher’s too comfortable embrace. She returned the proffered shake. Good, firm clasp. And a keen sense of decorum. She liked the man. “Jay’s my little brother. We’ve had the ill luck of digging out holes with Vallois on more than a few occasions. I suppose that is our fault. He calls, we come running.”

“I guess that makes you a winner,” Jay said to Ascher.

Ascher shook his head subtly, but from the corner of her eye Annja caught the move. “A winner? What does that mean?” she asked.

“I do not know what he is talking about,” Ascher pleaded with a shrug.

Peyton, the elder brother, shook his head, but could not hide a grin in the glare of the flashlight.

“Did you make a bet that you could get me here?” she tried. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine after his attempts at online flirtation. “Was that the only reason you invited me to the dig?”

Jay answered, “Yes.”

Ascher spit out a resounding “No.”

“I may have put forth a friendly wager,” Ascher then offered quickly, “but only after inviting you here.”

“Because you were guaranteed you would win,” she said.

“No, because I wanted you to see the sword.”

“You didn’t have the sword when you called me last night. Or that’s what you said. You had some sword. The one the thugs got away with looked sixteenth century from what I saw,” she said.

“Found it after but three dips of the shovel into the ground,” Peyton explained. “Nice find, but quite damaged by the elements.”

No surprise. France was covered with lost weapons and armor and spoils of war. Most of it was found by farmers, who took the rusted artifacts home and hung them over their fireplaces or tossed them in the truck beds filled with an assortment of odd finds including stripped tires, chipped pots and the occasional silver coin.

“Do you even have the real one?” Annja prompted. “If this was a ruse to get me here—”

“Annja, settle. You saw the coat of arms on the piece I showed you in Chalon. Do you doubt your own knowledge?” Ascher asked.

She’d left the wood piece in the rental car. It had been the Batz-Castelmore coat of arms. Of course, anyone could have easily forged it. Especially someone with ulterior motives to trick her here.

“Who were those thugs?” she asked Ascher. “You weren’t surprised we were followed.”

Peyton took this moment to conveniently slip back and stroll around to join his brother at the edge of the dig site, leaving Annja facing Ascher in a tense stare-down.

It may be three men to one woman, but Annja’s testosterone raged enough for all of them.

“I can honestly say I have never seen them before,” Ascher said.

“They acted as though you had intended to give them the sword all along,” she said.

Ascher shrugged. “You know how the cyber community can be. If you are an expert hacker, you can find out any number of things.”

“Your lack of concern disturbs me.”

Annja tugged out the pistol still tucked at the back of her waistband. With no intention to use it for anything more than a sly threat, she didn’t thread her finger through the trigger, but did snap up her arm against her shoulder—barrel pointing to the sky—and made it clear she wasn’t about to back down.

“Trust me, Annja.” Ascher splayed his hands before him. “I have no intent to deceive you, now or when I called you this morning. I want to share this discovery of d’Artagnan’s sword with you. It is as much yours as it is mine.”

“If it does exist, it belongs to neither of us,” she stated.

“I understand that. All historical artifacts belong to France. But I mean the find, the joy of discovery. It is ours to share.”