“As to that,” Joan said, “some of you men in the church—take me your prison, as you promised, so that I be no longer in the hands of these Englishmen.”
The cold, ugly voice of Jean d’Estivet cut through the cacophony. “Take her back to where you found her.”
“No!” The word was torn from Gabriel’s throat and he pushed forward with new determination, trying to reach her, foolishly, futilely. The last glimpse he had of Joan was her face, with an expression of slowly dawning horror upon it.
I fear nothing—except treachery.
Simon, what happened? I don’t understand what Gabriel just saw….
Simon was sweating and trembling, his heart pounding with grief and rage that both were and weren’t his own. He took a deep breath, focused on the image of Gabriel in the Memory Corridor, and tried to explain.
“They told her that she would be deemed a reformed heretic if she rejected men’s clothing and other masculine behavior. They promised she’d be put in an ecclesiastical prison and not have to have leg irons or guards in her cell. Normally in such cases, the former heretic would be released in a couple of years. Joan made a sign on the paper that she could say later was not her true signature, just in case they tricked her.”
And they did.
“Oh, they did a lot worse than that,” Simon spat. “On Sunday morning, Joan woke to find that her guards had taken her dresses and left only men’s clothes for her to wear.”
Oh, Simon… no….
“Someone had to have ordered that. My money’s on Cauchon. Joan protested that she had no choice but to put them on. On May twenty-ninth, Cauchon assembled the assessors. Thirty-nine of them thought she needed the cedula reread to her and explained better. Only three wanted to turn her over to secular justice.”
And that didn’t matter either.
“No. They had no real power. Joan’s judges were Cauchon and d’Estivet. Her priest, who was fond of her, sent someone to ask Cauchon if she could hear mass before she was burned alive. To everyone’s surprise, he said yes. Massieu—the young man who tried to help her—went to fetch a stole and a candle, so the priest could perform the rite properly. After that, Joan was turned over to the bailiff, but before he could even pronounce sentence Vidic’s ancestor grabbed her arm and took her to the pyre.”
I’m bringing you out.
“No, you’re not.”
I don’t like your stats.
“I’m telling you I want… no. I don’t want to. I… I have to. She still feels alive to me. To me, not Gabriel. That’s why I have to see this.”
Then I’ll bear witness with you.
WEDNESDAY, 30 MAY, 1431
OLD MARKETPLACE, ROUEN
So many soldiers, Gabriel thought; just for one skinny girl….
There were hundreds of them, armed and wary. Several were in full armor. Some were sprinkled throughout the crowd. Others stood between the throngs and the scaffolding, keeping those who would try to harm—or help—Joan at bay.
She stood straight even now, her slender body draped in a thin chemise. Her thick black curls were gone; they had shaved her head to shame her. Atop her bald pate they had put a tall, pointed miter on which was written Joan’s crimes: Heretic. Idolator. Apostate. The miter was too large, and had been shoved down almost completely over her eyes in order to stay on. Her face, what Gabriel could see of it, had been beaten bloody, so swollen he wondered if she could even see.
Jeanne… Jeanne… this can’t be real… this can’t be how it ends…!
As armored men shoved Joan of Arc toward the stake and the burly executioner wrapped chains around her thin body, Gabriel Laxart broke. Tears poured down his face, blurring his vision as great, wrenching sobs were torn from him.
Please, God, take me, strike me down and let her go… don’t let them do this to her…. She loved You so much, she did everything You asked….
“Hurry up and do your job!” someone called out to the executioner.
“Yes, hurry, we want to get home in time for supper!” another one shouted, and there was a wave of vicious, hungry, evil laughter.
Gabriel’s world went scarlet. He exploded into furious motion. He cried out incoherently, striking out at everyone and anyone who was in his way, pummeling his way through the crowd, trying to find the monsters who were calling for Joan to burn and scream in agony. Trying to reach the platform, to tear Joan away from it, to bear her to safety. A dozen, a hundred Assassins hidden in plain sight amongst the crowd would rise up in solidarity, avenging angels sent by God to destroy those who would harm His chosen.
But it did not happen.
There was no divine fury. There were no Assassins. There was only fire; Hell’s punishment inflicted on the most heavenly woman Gabriel had ever known.
I can’t take this, Simon thought. I can’t bear it.
Heat bathed his face. Smoke filled his mouth as he kept screaming. Hands reached for his arms, pulling him back, shoving him to the ground. Before he went down, he saw Joan’s priest lifting a crucifix for her to fix her eyes upon, to distract her, if even a tiny amount, from the unspeakable agony of fire licking her body and turning her to ashes.
A mailed fist filled Gabriel’s vision. The last thing he heard before the world went horribly, mercifully black was Joan’s voice—high, frightened but determined, not even sounding like her voice—crying out a single word: “Jesus!”
Simon?
His face was wet, he realized, and he had trouble breathing. “Victoria?” he said, and his voice trembled. “Did I black out?”
No, but you wouldn’t answer me for a moment.
There were simply no words for how he felt. Broken, lost, devastated, furious… all of them together couldn’t even scratch the surface. He swallowed and breathed deeply, willing his mind to control his body’s shaking. “I need something from you.”
Of course. I’ll get you out right away.
“No! No, not that, not yet. I need to go forward in Gabriel’s life.”
Absolutely not. After what we both just saw, I think—
“I need this, Victoria.” The words gushed from him, like blood from an open wound. “I need to know he’s going to be all right. I want to see the mother of his child, I want to know if he lives to see Joan’s retrial. To see her vindicated. I want to know—if he’s ever happy again.”
What if he isn’t all right, Simon? Ever? What if he never knows his child? What if he drinks or fights himself to death, or takes a Leap of Faith he knows he won’t survive?
Simon winced at the ugliness of the portrait she painted.
“Then I’ll know. And I’ll deal with that.” Somehow.
Victoria swore in French. He understood almost all of it. Then, at last, she said, All right.
An hour later, she lifted the helmet from his sweat-soaked head. And in her eyes, Simon saw the same grim, furious determination that he knew had to be reflected in his own expression.
“You know what we need to do,” he said as she helped him out of the straps with hands that trembled.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I do.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
The three met in the Hyde Park in the early afternoon, each arriving from a different tube stop. Simon’s senses were on high alert as he walked past families with children energetically stomping fallen leaves as they shrieked with laughter, determined individuals whose brisk stride indicated this was their workout for the day, and couples old and young simply enjoying a clear, bright day. The sky was blue, the leaves were at their peak shades of gold and red, and the indescribable but unmistakable crisp fragrance of autumn hung in the air. The Joy of Life fountain where Simon had instructed them to meet him burbled and splashed.
Simon was moved by none of it. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Joan. All he could hear were the taunts of the English.
And all he could smell was fire.
Simon had no idea why he had picked this particular spot. He enjoyed
a more classic style of art, and while this fountain was not offensively modern, it still quite contemporary. As he gazed at the two figurines in the center, holding hands and appearing to dance above the flowing streams of water, the four smaller shapes of children darting and playing around them, he thought of Joan. It was such a simple emotion, joy; at least he knew she had tasted it in her brief life.
After a few moments of contemplation he was joined by Anaya, and then Victoria. They could speak without fear of eavesdroppers; the splash of the water would drown out their voices. Simon said quietly to Anaya, “Victoria and I learned about something that will quite probably turn the Templar Order on its head.”
Anaya inhaled swiftly. “What Rikkin was trying to prevent you away from finding out?”
“I’m absolutely certain of it.”
“Simon the whistle blower,” Anaya said. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“This isn’t about turning against what the Templar Order stands for,” Simon replied. “It’s about reaffirming what it truly means to be a Templar—what it’s supposed to have meant all along.”
“Can you tell me?”
Victoria and Simon exchanged glances. “There are a few things I’m still piecing together. I’d like to protect both of you as much as possible. I wouldn’t involve you at all if I didn’t think this was absolutely critical.” He paused and turned Anaya to face him. “I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that this could change everything.”
“In what way?”
“In the best way possible.”
“Provided we live through it,” Victoria said wryly.
“There are things Templars should be willing to die for,” Simon said. “This is one of them. Even so, if this goes wrong—I want you to know as little as possible.”
“I was a field agent, Simon. I was ready to die every day I went to work. But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” She smiled at him and poked him in the chest. “You can be a stuffed shirt, Simon Hathaway, but you have more integrity than anyone I’ve ever known. I believe you, and I trust you. If you feel this is something that will help the Order, I’m with you. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
He found himself reaching for her hand. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Thank you.” He released her hand and straightened. “Both of you. Right then. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Simon filled the day with busywork—responding to e-mails, making a list of desired hires for his department, returning phone calls… and making preparations. He took Victoria out for a late dinner, where they were able to speak quietly and solidify the plan.
It was after ten when Simon and Victoria returned to the Animus Room. “Do you really need to leave tomorrow?” Simon said. “We’ve spent so much time in the fifteenth century, I’ve not had much of a chance to show you London’s twenty-first.”
Victoria slid into the seat behind the monitor and began typing. “I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry too. At least I got to have a lot of tea!”
Okay, this is good—I can see everything, came Anaya’s voice in Simon’s ear. Victoria, too, had an earbud that enabled to hear Anaya. Just follow my directions.
“Since I’ve not heard back from Morgenstern, I’ll resend the simulation involving the de Molay graffiti before I go. And then I think we’re all done.” Anaya had explained last night that if she could be remotely “hands on” at the Animus processing computer, she could have Victoria isolate all data from a certain time stamp forward. Not only would Victoria be able to send it send it undetected to Anaya’s computer—Cryptology had been mentioned to misdirect those listening in—but she would also be able to make a copy… and delete the original simulations. Simon continued making the sort of small talk people who are wrapping up time together would, all the while paying close attention to Anaya’s instructions.
“Well, that’s it,” Victoria said as she casually pressed a key. Simon’s heart lurched. They had just passed the point of no return; they had just deleted Simon’s most recent session in the Animus.
Victoria rose. “I know you’re not much of a hugger,” she said, “but I will miss you, Simon.” He embraced her with real affection, desperately hoping she’d be as unscathed as possible by what he was about to do. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything. I couldn’t have asked for a better companion on this adventure.”
Her hand slipped the small device into his pocket. The last simulation.
Simon opened the box that held the sword and picked it up, admiring it. Victoria gazed at it too. “I think Mr. Rikkin will be very pleased with what you’ve learned about it,” she said. At least, Simon thought, if anyone’s listening, that might make them pause before they shoot me.
With seeming casualness, he replaced the sword in its box, but took care to lay it down on the blue velvet so that it rested on its opposite side, hiding the bug he’d placed. “I’ll keep this in Historical Research until it’s time to make my presentation.”
They parted at the lift, Simon heading up to his office, Victoria down to the parking garage. He was on his own. Anaya would not be able to intervene. It was one thing for her to keep an eye out for him; Simon refused to let her become involved more deeply than she already had been. Hacking into the Animus would he bad enough, if it were discovered. Hacking into the building’s security systems would be… Simon didn’t even want to think about that. Still, her voice in his ear was oddly comforting.
Okay, at this hour there aren’t many people in the building.
Earlier, Simon had casually moved a coat tree over one of the cameras—just enough to create a blind spot. Now he went to his computer, clicked, and the strains of Pachelbel’s Canon filled the room. Taking a pair of scissors from the desk, he opened the sword box and carefully cut the velvet lining away from the box’s sides. He covered the sword with the fabric and withdrew a roll of duct tape from a bag—one of several purchases he had made earlier on the way back from Hyde Park. The music concealed most of the tell-tale sound of tape being unwound as he wrapped strips securely about the sword. Then, awkwardly, Simon rose and awkwardly strapped the sword to his body with the silver tape. It wasn’t comfortable, but it should work.
His long overcoat and a thick scarf should conceal the sword. The only metal detectors were located downstairs at the main doors. Victoria would be waiting at the parking garage in a blind spot Anaya had scouted out earlier. He’d climb into the boot of the car and—
Simon, you need to go.
“Hmm?” he murmured quietly, hoping no one would hear him over the music.
I’ve got eyes on all three stairways, Anaya continued. People are coming in on all ground level entrances. They’re plainclothes, but they have that look to them, and I think they’re armed. There’s activity at the parking garage exits, too.
“I bet they’re searching cars. Tell Victoria to go ahead and get out.” Victoria had the second copy of the simulation. Hopefully Security would be looking for a person, not a small data chip. “Now how do I get out of here?”
I’m hacking the security systems.
“Don’t!” he said, too loudly, then more quietly, “We can’t risk you. For—for lots of reasons.”
They’ve got every exit of the building covered, and they just now took the elevators offline. Groups of four are climbing up every stairwell. Simon, they know your last position, you’ve got to go!
Go where? Simon stood frozen in the doorway of his office while precious seconds ticked away. They were moving up the stairs even as he stood here, up toward his floor and—
Up.
Yes. “They’re expecting me to try to come down the stairs,” he said. “So I’m going up.”
Up? Unless you’ve got a helicopter stashed up there that I don’t know about—
“No, no, it’s all right, I know what I’m doing.” It was a lie. Simon Hathaway had no idea what he was doing. But Gabriel Laxart did.
Up.
; Simon darted down the hall, eased open the stairwell door as quietly as he could, and listened. He could hear them, closer than he thought, which meant they would hear him, too. The ship of secrecy had sailed. Simon sprang forward and felt an immense wave of gratitude for his long legs and the hours each week spent at the gym. He took the stairs two, three at a time, like a hunted fox who hears the baying of the hounds behind him.
Adrenaline spurted through his veins and he thought of Gabriel’s training, of his battles, of how the boy had been able to run in armor, even spring onto his horse if need be—
—Hands here, push, up and over the railing—
—and keep going. “Anaya, how many floors to the roof?”
To the—damn you, Simon, six more. Her voice caught. She thought he wasn’t going to make it. Simon didn’t say anything to comfort her. He wasn’t sure himself.
“Simon Hathaway!” came a voice. Simon didn’t slow. If they were yelling at him, they were squandering their breath and he wasn’t. “You are in possession of Abstergo property! Hand it over and submit to judgment!”
Two more steps at a time, up and over the railing, up onto the next floor. They were making a serious clatter now, not caring who heard them. The first shot rang out, startlingly loud, echoing in the space. Simon’s heart surged in shock and he increased his pace.
There are three main exit routes in the building, Anaya was saying, a calm voice in his ear. He barely heard her, his ears filled only with the sound of pursuing feet, his hammering heart, and his increasingly ragged breathing. They’re in the two that go clear up to the roof. The ones in the second stairwell are two floors below you and your friends.
That was the worst of it. In the end, his hunters were likely Templars of an Operations team similar to Berg’s. They should be friends, or at least comrades in arms.
But they weren’t. They were enemies. They raced up the next flight of steps. This time, Simon wasn’t running. Instead, he leaped over the railing at the leader, his overcoat held out in front of him. Temporarily blinded and caught off-balance, he went down, slamming into the Templar agent a few steps behind him. Simon leaped clear of the two entangled men and drew the sword. He’d never held it as he did now, but Gabriel understood how a hand curled over the hilt of a sword, and Simon brought the weapon swinging down in a graceful arc. It struck the third agent hard across the torso. The gun clattered to the steps and fell far below.
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