Peter and the Sword of Mercy (2 page)
Read Peter and the Sword of Mercy Online
Authors: Dave Barry,Ridley Pearson
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HAPTER
66:
“He seems to want more”
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70:
The Tunnel in the Tunnel
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72:
The Woman Looking Back
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73:
Like Some Strange Comet
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75:
The Sword from the Sky
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The Palatine Chapel, Aachen, Germany, A.D. 811
C
HARLEMAGNE, CONQUEROR OF EUROPE
, knelt before the stone altar. He was seventy, but with his reddish beard and full head of hair, he looked much younger. His lanky frame still held much of the strength that had made him a feared warrior.
Although usually surrounded by his knights, he chose to pray alone. He prayed for the peace to continue. And, as always, he prayed for forgiveness for his son, now forty, but still a boy in his father’s eyes—a foolish boy. He had killed the son of Ogier the Dane, who had been one of Charlemagne’s most trusted knights. Charlemagne regretted that any man should lose a son, but especially a man who had served him so well.
Charlemagne bowed his head, his lips moving as he recited the Scripture.
He sensed something behind him. Instantly, with an instinct honed in battle, he ducked his head and hurled himself sideways. A sword cleaved the air where his neck had been and struck an iron candle stand, slicing it cleanly in two as though it were a stick of kindling.
As Charlemagne scrambled to his feet, the burning candles fell onto the linen altar cloth, setting it ablaze. In the glare of the flames, Charlemagne recognized his attacker: it was Ogier the Dane, and the sword he held, known as Curtana, had been a gift from Charlemagne himself. Its blade—some said it had been forged from magical metal—had a distinctive notch six inches from the tip, a notch created forty years earlier, when Charlemagne and the Dane had been young men, and the best of friends. …
Charlemagne did not want this fight. If he could have stopped it with an apology, he would have done so. But the look in his former friend’s eyes told him that words would be useless. Ogier wanted blood. Blood for blood.
Charlemagne drew his sword, known as Joyeuse. Both men grunted as they swung their weapons, the blades glinting in the firelight, the clash of metal echoing off the chapel’s stone walls.
The two old knights, breathing heavily, circled each other warily in the swirling smoke, each looking for an opening. Ogier swung his sword, just missing Charlemagne’s jaw but slicing off a piece of the king’s beard.
Ogier swung again and Charlemagne jumped back, holding out Joyeuse to block the strike. The swords clanged together. Charlemagne stumbled backward, tripping on a prayer rug that had bunched beneath his feet. He fell to the stone floor, sprawled on his back, helpless. Ogier began to raise his sword, preparing to strike the fallen king. As he did, Charlemagne saw a brilliant light. He thought at first it was firelight reflecting from Ogier’s blade, but in the next instant, the light, dancing in the swirling smoke, seemed to form itself into…Could it be?
An angel.
Charlemagne stared, transfixed, at the face smiling at him, shimmering through the smoke with unearthly beauty. Charlemagne smiled back at the angel; if this was death, he welcomed it. Ogier, disconcerted by the man’s smile, paused. Then, with a grunt, he swung Curtana down toward the head of his former king. As he did, Charlemagne reached toward the angel, using the right hand in which he still held Joyeuse.
The two blades met. Charlemagne lost his grip. Joyeuse tumbled to the stone floor. The king was now unarmed; Ogier’s next blow would surely be fatal. Holding Curtana in both hands, the Dane raised it for a stabbing, downward thrust. And then he stopped, staring at its blade.
Curtana had lost its tip, broken off at the notch that Charlemagne had put into the blade all those years before.
The sword was blunt now, useless for stabbing. The tip, a piece six inches long, lay on the floor by Charlemagne’s shoulder.
Ogier, panting, stared at his sword—the sword that had served him faithfully for decades, in fight after fight. Then he looked at Charlemagne.
“It is not your day to die,” he said. “Curtana does not want to kill you.”
He laid the sword on the stone floor at Charlemagne’s feet.
“It was your sword at the start,” he said. “Now it is yours again.”
Charlemagne looked at the sword, then back at his old friend.
“You must go,” he said. “Before my knights pursue you. Go, and live in peace.”
Ogier nodded. “And you,” he said.
Charlemagne looked down at the sword’s broken tip. He picked it up, seeing light reflected in its smooth surface. He looked up, hoping to see the angel again, but saw only smoke drifting in the glow of the fire.
The angel was gone. So was Ogier.
Only Curtana remained.
HE
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Osborne House, Isle of Wight, England, January 22, 1901
Q
UEEN VICTORIA LAY DYING.
At eighty-one years old, she had reigned over the vast British empire for sixty-three years and seven months, longer than any other British monarch. She had assumed the throne as a teenager, in an age of sailing ships and horse-drawn carriages; she was leaving a world that knew telephones, electric lights, and motorcars.
The queen lay on a large four-posted bed, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. Close by stood her physician, Sir James Reid, and the white-haired Bishop of Winchester, who murmured a prayer. Gathered around were members of the royal family, including the queen’s son, Crown Prince Albert Edward; upon her death, he would become king. The only sounds in the room, aside from the archbishop’s soft voice, were the ticking of a clock and the whispers of some of the smaller children, too young to feel the sorrow of the moment.
Almost everyone stood near the queen’s bed. The lone exception was a tall, extraordinarily thin man, standing alone in a gloomy corner of the room. The man’s gaze appeared to be focused on the crown prince. There was no way to know for certain, because the man wore eyeglasses with wire rims and lenses tinted a dark shade, almost black. He always wore these glasses, even at night. This was one of a number of strange things about him.
People avoided the tall man.
The archbishop finished his prayer. Sir James stepped forward and bent over his patient. The room went utterly silent now, save for the ticking of the clock.
At exactly 6:30 in the evening, Sir James stood and solemnly raised his hand. The onlookers immediately understood the meaning of this gesture.
Queen Victoria was dead.
Some gasped; some moaned; others simply bowed their heads. The archbishop began the benediction.
From inside the cluster of mourners, one of the younger children, a girl of five, peered around her mother’s dress at the tall man in the corner. She had been keeping an eye on him. Like most children who found themselves in his presence, she felt afraid of him, though if pressed she could not have said why.
