Peter and the Sword of Mercy (10 page)

The four waited. It was late in the day, nearly six o’clock. The choir, having finished its rehearsal, went silent; the unearthly beauty of the boys’ voices was replaced by the more distant sounds of motor cars and the clopping of horse hooves. Several dozen of the listeners, apparently parents, started toward the cathedral’s entrance to collect their children.

“Now,” the Skeleton rasped.

He and the three others moved forward quickly, joining the mass of parents. They passed the uniformed men and entered the cathedral. It was an awe-inspiring space, the ceiling sixty feet over their heads, an amber light flooding in through a row of high windows. Every sound echoed, so the footsteps and voices of the parents and children merged into a thunderous roar.

Unnoticed by the throng, the four hooded figures moved up the east aisle, using the wide columns to screen themselves. Scarlet was now leading the way. She led them to an odd, freestanding set of stone steps leading to a massive stone chair.

“The throne of Charlemagne,” she whispered.

The Skeleton pulled back his hood a bit and studied the throne with his solitary yellow eye. “We will see if the curator told the truth,” he rasped.

Scarlet nodded, suppressing a shudder as she remembered what the Skeleton had done to the curator to make him talk.

“Which way?” said the Skeleton.

“Follow me,” said Scarlet. She led the group to an unmarked door. “Here.”

The Skeleton raised his scarred stump of a hand and, without knocking, opened the door. He went inside, the others following. They found themselves in a small windowless room, dimly lit by an oil lamp. The only furniture was a simple desk, behind which sat an elderly priest in a black robe. He looked up, his face reflecting mild annoyance at the intrusion but no fear or shock, even at the sight of the Skeleton’s disfigured face.

“Good day,” the priest said calmly, in German.

The Skeleton ignored the pleasantry. “Where is it?” he said, also in German.

“What is it you seek?” said the priest.

The Skeleton moved close, leaning over the desk so the priest could smell the foul breath escaping from the lipless hole of his mouth.

“You know what we seek,” he said.

“I do not,” said the priest.

“We shall see,” rasped the Skeleton. He moved around the desk so that he was standing behind the priest. As he did, Scarlet moved in front of the desk.

“Long ago,” she said, “Charlemagne, uniter of Europe, faced death in the Palatine Chapel. He was saved by a miracle.”

“A myth,” said the priest. “A fairy tale.” Behind him, the Skeleton moved closer. The priest felt his presence but did not turn, keeping his eyes on Scarlet.

“It is no myth,” she said. “There was a miracle, and a part of that miracle was never found. We have reason to believe it is still here. We seek to recover it, and to make it part of the whole again.”

“I know the story,” said the priest. “But you must believe me. It is only a story.”

The Skeleton put the claw that was his right hand on the priest’s neck. The priest flinched.

“I don’t believe you,” rasped the Skeleton.

“It will be much easier for you if you tell us,” Scarlet said softly.

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” said the priest.

The Skeleton’s claw-hand moved, ever so slightly. The priest screamed as his body was racked with searing pain, starting at his neck but suddenly everywhere at once. It lasted for several eternal seconds. Then the Skeleton’s hand lifted, and the priest slumped forward, gasping. Slowly, he raised his head. When he spoke, his eyes were on Scarlet, but his words were directed to the Skeleton.

“I will tell you nothing,” he gasped.

The Skeleton’s hand went to the priest’s neck again. The priest closed his eyes. His lips began to move. He spoke in Latin, praying.

The Skeleton began to move his hand. Then, suddenly, he lifted it.

“We are wasting time,” he said. “Pain will not work on this one. He is strong.”

“The strength is not mine,” the priest said softly. “It is the strength of my faith.”

“Yes,” said the Skeleton, thoughtfully. “Your church is more important to you than your life.” He said to Scarlet, “We will take him to the chapel. See that the way is clear.”

Scarlet left, returning a few minutes later. “It’s empty,” she said.

“Bring him,” said the Skeleton, following Scarlet out the door. The two men took the priest’s arms and half carried him out the door. Scarlet let them into the cathedral’s central nave, and from there through a series of passages into the Palatine Chapel, its stained-glass windows lit by the fading evening sun. The only other illumination came from a bank of candles.

The two men shoved the priest forward. He stumbled to his knees on the chapel floor. The Skeleton stood over him. “We know that you would sacrifice your life to protect the secret,” he said. “The question is, would you sacrifice your church?”

The Skeleton walked over and plucked one of the candles. He returned to the priest, wax droplets spattering the stone floor. He looked up at the ceiling.

“How well do you think those cross ties and braces would burn?” he asked. “And if they did, how long do you think the walls would last?”

The priest only shook his head.

“Coben,” rasped the Skeleton.

One of the two large men, the more wiry of the two, stepped forward quickly. The Skeleton handed him the candle. Coben took it and disappeared through an arch, his footfalls echoing.

“Please,” said the priest, softly. “This chapel has stood for more than a thousand years.”

‘“To everything there is a season,’” the Skeleton said. “Perhaps the chapel has outlived its purpose.”

Coben reappeared at the second level of the chapel. He had shed his robe. Placing the burning candle between his teeth, he jumped for the chapel’s central chandelier, a magnificent ring of gleaming, golden metal fifteen feet across. He caught it, barely, and managed to hang on as the chandelier swung on its chain. Somehow he also managed to keep the candle burning.

The priest gasped as the man, with amazing agility for his size, began climbing the chain.

“Please,” the priest said. “It is a house of God.”

“It is a means to an end,” rasped the Skeleton.

The priest watched, horrified, as Coben reached the timbers supporting the chains. He looked down, holding the candle near the wood, waiting for orders.

“You can’t,” the priest whispered.

“I will,” said the Skeleton, “unless you tell me where the tip is.”

He gestured to Coben, who moved the candle so that the flame licked the wood.

“No!” shouted the priest. With a groan, he bowed his head and whispered, “I’ll tell you.”

The Skeleton, gesturing at Coben to pull the candle away, leaned close to the kneeling priest. The priest looked up. “The bishop’s miter,” he whispered, crossing himself.

“Riddles?” the Skeleton said. “You dare to speak in riddles?” He looked up at Coben. “Burn it!”

“No!” said the priest. “It is not a riddle.” Struggling to his feet, he pointed toward the stained glass. “The bishop’s miter,” he repeated.

“What is he talking about?” rasped the Skeleton.

Scarlet walked quickly toward the window indicated by the priest. The sun’s light was almost gone, but she could still clearly see the scene depicted in the window—a bishop wearing his vestments, including a miter, the tall pointed hat.

“Look at the miter,” she said, as the Skeleton came alongside her. “It’s opaque. It’s not glass.”

“Not glass,” the Skeleton rasped. “It looks like …”

“Metal,” said Scarlet. “It’s metal.”

And it was shaped like the tip of a sword.

T
HE
C
AB

M
OLLY STOOD ON HER FRONT PORCH
, umbrella in hand, frowning at the driving rain. She had planned to walk to her father’s house in Kensington Park Gardens, but that was now out of the question: her umbrella would be useless in the gusting wind. There was a District Line station not far from her father’s house, but after her disturbing experience, she had no intention of taking the Underground.

That left her with one choice: a hackney carriage. Molly sighed. It wouldn’t be easy to find a cab in this weather, when everyone else wanted one, too. She stepped to the edge of the porch and, squinting against the rain, peered down the street. To her surprise, she saw a carriage coming her way. She started to raise her arm, but the driver, his face obscured by a heavy scarf, was already guiding his horse to the curb in front of her.

Molly quickly descended the porch steps and gave the address to the driver, who nodded wordlessly. She climbed into the carriage. The driver twitched the reins, and as the soggy, steaming horse began trudging forward, Molly turned to look back through the cab’s rear window at her house. She caught sight of a face pressed against a third-floor window, and realized it was Wendy, watching from her bedroom. Molly waved, but couldn’t tell if Wendy saw her. As the house receded behind her, Molly turned away, her mind on the task ahead.

Wendy thought she saw her mother wave, but she wasn’t sure. Just in case, she waved back. Her hand then returned to fondling the locket her mother had given her that morning. It was a simple golden orb that her mother had worn as long as Wendy could remember.

“But why?” Wendy had asked, when her mother had put it around her neck. It felt oddly warm against her skin.

“I just want you to have it,” said her mother. “In case you ever need it.”

“How do you mean,
need
it?” said Wendy.

“Just keep it with you,” said her mother.

Wendy held it now, feeling its warmth, as she watched the cab carry her mother away. A few houses down, the cab passed a policeman, who appeared to be watching it intently. He nodded at the driver, who nodded back. Wendy wondered, as the cab disappeared into the rain, if the two men knew each other.