His doctors demanded he avoid roast meat. Who were they to tell a king what to do? Boiled venison was not so tasty, and he intended to savor a properly prepared roast tonight.
Charlemagne drew his sword, the blade catching the late-afternoon sun and taking on a molten cast. He couldn’t stand to see the animal suffer. One slash across the throat finished it.
“Cette épée, ma chère amie, a déjà tué,” he said. This sword, my friend, has already killed. A great many men. He spoke French to accommodate his aide, his tongue halting around the words. He much preferred the Germanic dialect of the Ripuarian Franks, or Greek or Latin, or even the exotic-sounding Arabic that he fancied. But his aide was not well versed in languages.
The two men dragged the deer back to Charlemagne’s home.
He cleaned his blade first, then bathed and dressed for dinner, wearing a linen shirt against his skin and matching breeches. Over this he wore a dark tunic trimmed with a pale silk fringe—the one bit of finery he allowed himself. He preferred to dress like a commoner, leaving all but one jeweled ring in a chest by his bed. Lastly, he put on ivory hose and comfortable shoes. He left the room, but returned to check himself in the mirror. There were guests to consider tonight, and he wanted to appear well-groomed.
Despite his years he remained good-looking, tall but not overly so, with a thick, squat neck and a nose that belonged on a bigger man’s face. His hair was white, but there was an abundance of it. He arranged the curls with his fingers, squared his shoulders, pronounced himself acceptable and went downstairs.
Among the dinner guests he was about to greet was his son Louis, whom he had recently crowned. It would be good to see him again and to speak of politics and alliances. No doubt someone would ask to hear tales from one of his great battles. Charlemagne had been engaged in one clash after another throughout nearly all his reign, usually at the front of his scara bodyguard squadrons. But sometimes alone when there was no one to bear witness.
Always with Joyeuse in hand. Mon épée. He patted the scabbard. Three decades of fighting, more than a dozen wars, and now this sword was relegated to putting a deer out of its misery.
Perhaps he would regale those gathered with that final push he’d orchestrated to conquer Saxonia and to convert the barbarians to Christianity. It was a good story, and he didn’t mind retelling it. Then he would excuse himself and retire early, as he planned to venture out again at first light. A few more days of hunting, then he would travel to Aachen, given the onset of November. He’d come to enjoy hunting animals far more than he’d ever enjoyed hunting men.
* * *
THOUGH HE WOULD WORK at it doggedly for those few days, fate would grant him only one undersize buck. Charlemagne’s plans to return to the hunt in the spring would never materialize, as he would fall ill with pleurisy.
“Joyeuse,” he said, as he took to his bed a final time. “Mon épée.”
A servant placed the sword at his side.
Charlemagne wrapped his thick fingers around the pommel. This sword, his one constant companion, gave him some measure of peace.
“Joyeuse, ma très chère amie.” He took one more breath, and died.
Chapter 2
The sword was her one constant companion. It was a yard of double-bladed steel, honed impossibly sharp. Though a priceless relic, it was not a showpiece suited to a museum. It was a dealer of death—her servant and master, good fortune and wretched curse. Once belonging to Joan of Arc, shattered and mysteriously re-formed, it had come to her...along with a destiny to wield it wisely.
The lights from the train station were diffused by the thin fog and distorted the blade so it looked like a ribbon of darkened silver. Annja swung it above her head in a flashy move meant to rattle her less-skilled opponent.
“Eh...à armes égales!” he cried.
French was one of the several languages Annja knew. Fight on equal terms, with equal weaponry.
He wielded a switchblade, which was no match for her sword. He should have fled as his two companions had moments ago, but he stood there, puffing himself up with the bravado of youth. The night and the mist hid some of his features, but Annja could tell he was probably still in his teens, given the acne scars on his face. He stank from going too long without a bath and wearing clothes tinged with the grime of Paris. His breath smelled of vodka, which meant he’d consumed a generous amount, likely adding to his courage. His hair stuck up at all angles, held in place by something that smelled vaguely sweet.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll fight you on equal terms.” With a thought, she dismissed the sword, relegating it to the otherwhere where it hung, waiting for her to summon it again.
He glanced quickly at the ground and into the shadows. Not spotting the sword, he returned his full attention to her. “Pute!” he spat.
With a clipped laugh, Annja crouched to meet his charge. He didn’t disappoint her, darting in and slashing forward, a quick jab typical of street brawlers. The tough lacked finesse, but he was burly and mean, and those traits helped compensate for his deficiencies.
She sidestepped and brought up her foot, catching his ankle. He stumbled, but managed to keep his balance. He whirled toward her, eyes narrowed.
“Espèce de pute!”
“Quite the limited vocabulary,” she taunted, again waiting for his rush.
“De merde,” he replied. “Putain de merde!”
Annja made a tsking sound and waved her finger at him.
“Livrer aux chiens!”
“No,” she said. “I’ll throw you to the dogs. Actually, the police.”
She’d come here looking for a fight. She’d needed the exercise and a distraction, from an assignment she had no interest in—a two-part segment for Chasing History’s Monsters. Her TV show’s producers were really reaching into the bottom of the barrel for legends to sensationalize. Familiar with Paris, she knew to avoid Les Halles, Le Châtelet and Gare du Nord this late at night, when the crowds had disappeared. So that’s precisely where she’d ventured. Les Halles and Le Châtelet had yielded no opponents, but Gare du Nord and its shadowy side streets had brought out this fellow and his now-absent friends.
Tourists traveling alone around the old train station were warned to keep a low profile and to avoid wearing jewelry that might entice thieves. But Annja had done the opposite. In the sequin-trimmed cocktail dress she’d worn earlier to dinner, emerald necklace dangling in the low V of the fabric, she’d trolled back and forth like a fisherman after bass.
This fellow’s fluid, if vulgar, French was tinged with some kind of accent. Probably from one of the Roma camps, she guessed. France had declared war against the illegal encampments that had sprung up around Paris, evacuating many of the immigrants living there. But pockets still persisted. Paris news agencies had been reporting on the Romany gangs preying on travelers arriving from London on the high-speed trains. Now Annja was preying on one of those gang members.
He shuffled to his right, putting his back to an old stone wall and tossing the knife into his other hand—trying to rattle her. His breath was slow and even, and his crouch was similar to the horse stance of the swordsman. Annja waited for him to make the next move, knowing full well he was weighing her with anger in his eyes.
A moment later he came at her, this time stabbing at her side, then wheeling and darting at her again. The move was unexpected, and he managed to slice her dress. Annja cursed herself for underestimating the youth. A street brawler, yes, but somewhere along the line, he’d had training. She appraised him more carefully. The sleeves of his shirt were tight around his biceps, suggesting muscles. His calves were thick, too. Certainly not the common ruffian she’d originally considered him to be. As he came forward and jabbed at her, then shuffled back, she realized his