Alex Archer - Swordsman's Legacy

All the room needed was a lazy mastiff lounging on the bearskin rug before a crackling fire to complete the look.

“I’m tired,” she said. “But I don’t feel like sleep.”

“You stole a nap in the car.”

So he’d noticed.

“Much needed, I’m sure, after your certain brilliant actions against those men with guns,” Ascher said.

“Certain brilliant actions?”

He shrugged. “Treville told d’Artagnan such actions were a requirement—”

“To become a musketeer.”

And despite her exhaustion, Annja smiled. Now she remembered what had attracted her to Ascher in the first place, and why she had enjoyed his cyber company so much. They shared common interests, such as sporting and adventure, and archaeology. And a love for Dumas’s famous story.

Resisting full collapse, Annja sat on the edge of a comfy leather ottoman. Carefully laying the sword across her lap, she then burrowed into her backpack for the cool rectangle of her digital camera. “Let’s take a closer look at the sword, okay?”

Pushing aside some books and magazines, Ascher cleared a marble table against the wall opposite the hearth. “I will lay out some clean paper and find us some gloves.”

He produced a large sheet of butcher’s paper from a drawer under the table, which he laid over the white marble. A box of disposable latex gloves was produced from a cabinet on the connecting wall. Annja realized that an archaeologist, even if only part-time, would have all the essentials.

“So why only part-time?” she asked, still clinging to the ancient, dirty velvet bag as Ascher smoothed out the crisp paper.

“What? You mean the digging? It is no more than a hobby.”

“Treasure hunter,” she teased.

“Call me what you will. But you knew before coming here my experience and education.”

“Yes, too bad you left out the part about consorting with thugs.”

“Annja.” He dug out a few surgical gloves and leaned against the table. “My real passion is teaching.”

“Fencing.” He had a little shop in Sens, but lately, struggled to make the rent. How then, could he afford this mansion? Perhaps more than the exterior was crumbling, she thought.

“Fencing is a romantic sport, oui? ”

“Yes, but it also emulates armed manslaughter.”

“Touché! Ah, but the children. They are so agile and quick to learn. It is a delight to watch them develop their skills.”

She was surprised to hear the enthusiasm in the man’s voice. It was something he’d never mentioned during their online chats. “You teach full-time?”

“I’m down to three days a week. The rent—ah, it is of no import. I have to be free, you know?” He gestured with excited fingers as he smoothed out the paper, yet took moments to punctuate his speech like an air typist. With a wince, he clutched his side, but recovered as quickly. “I live to experience adventure. Jump off of buildings. Trek across mountains. Swim in the Amazon.”

Annja lifted a brow. “I’ve had a few adventures myself.”

“I like that about you, Annja. That time on Chasing History’s Monsters that you pursued the blue flash down the hillside?”

“Not planned, I assure you.” She recalled an episode on the blue flames, which, according to Bram Stoker’s Dracula, were places where buried treasure could be found, but only on Saint George’s Eve. Legend called them flames from all the dragons Saint George sent to Hell. Annja had decided it was the oxidation of hydrogen phosphide and methane gas, though she hadn’t ventured anywhere near a swamp where that should normally occur. “But it did make for good viewing. My producer held the clip for ratings week.”

“You were on Letterman that week, as well. You should flirt more with the man.”

Annja bowed her head and tried to force up another yawn. Why couldn’t she summon one when it was needed?

“You are a very sexy woman, Annja,” Ascher said.

“Yes, well.” The compliment felt great. She didn’t hear things like that often enough. “Right now I’m feeling far from it. Tired, dirty and close to falling asleep on my feet.”

“So! You want to let go of that, or must I pry it from your iron grip?”

“Hmm? Oh. Sure.” She set the sword bag on the paper with a crisp crinkle, and rubbed her hands together. “Hand me some gloves. And focus that light, will you?”

“Your wish is my command, mon amour. ”

“Watch it, Gascon. Just stick to the business at hand. All right?”

“Of course. Gloves. And light.”

Snapping the latex gloves onto her hands released the smell of powder. She then drew out the sword from the bag to place it on the white butcher’s paper. Bits of dirt and particles of the desiccated velvet that had lined the box fell onto the crinkled surface. In their excitement at the dig site, she 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.