Knight Time for Paris

Knight Time for Paris

by Preston Shires

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Published by Athanatos Publishing Group, 2018.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover designed by Julius Broqueza.

ISBN 978-1-947844-51-3

To learn more, visit: www.prestonshires.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Dedicated to the Memory of Sylvie Pécontal

26 August 1961 — 8 February 1978

A brief yet full life, because lived for others

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About The Author

Acknowledgments

KNIGHT TIME FOR PARIS

CHAPTER 1

The finger trembled as it moved slowly across the parchment, underscoring each word of the Latin text. Renaud d’Arcel, a young, aspiring French scholar, a medievalist, shut his eyes tightly in an effort to calm down. His stomach filled with fluttering sensations; he could not believe the words he read. The ink was faint and shadowy, washed away, obscured by writing superimposed upon it, but it could be deciphered. Renaud, mechanically brushing a wisp of his unkempt brown hair from his forehead, went back over the ghostly text again, pressing harder and harder upon it with his finger as if to prevent its escape.

Indifferent to the fading evening sunlight softly bathing the wall of windows beside him, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. With his hazel eyes fixated upon a low bookshelf shouldering heavy green and red leather-bound volumes, he whispered to himself, "Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever find such earthshakingly new information in the Archives Nationales. I can’t believe no one took notice of this document before."

Though Parisian traffic bustled about the National Archives, an uncanny silence reigned over the room where Renaud found himself. He looked around to make sure no one saw him, then feverishly hand-copied the text: My good men, servants of the king, may God bless your most holy endeavor. I bid you Godspeed to reach Tunis before the day of the Blessed Virgin [August 15], and to beseech the king to return to his kingdom.

Renaud paused and with an air of innocence scanned the room once again. Another scholar, the well-known Professeur Longue, erudite member of the Commission for Historical and Scientific Studies, was passing through, always curious about the doings of his former graduate students.

"Bonjour, my friend." Professeur Longue’s deep and smooth voice blended well with his soft gray hair. Working on a new project?

A chill slithered up Renaud’s spine. There was something about the professeur that no one else could imitate, like a queasy spot of flu, so very real and yet so hard to describe in concrete terms. Renaud could never stomach him, ever since Longue had sweet talked him into supporting one of his undeserving protégées for an academic award, the prix de la chancellerie. What was more, Longue had a reputation for stealing the ideas and research of his best graduate students. Renaud bit his lower lip and concentrated on ridding himself of the contaminant. I’m writing a letter... to Mother. You know how an only son, especially a bachelor son, must keep his mother updated on events.

And in pencil, I see, said the professeur.

Renaud was stunned, caught in a lie. Well, he said awkwardly, they don’t let us use pens in here do they. It’s a rough draft.

Very much the devoted son indeed, replied the professeur dryly.

As Longue proceeded casually by, Renaud prudishly covered up his tell-tale leaf of stationary. Then, continuing with the transcription, he copied, Explain to our lord how the kingdom falls into disarray since his departure for the crusade. Present him the man I send you, he who resembles the king, and exchange him for His Majesty that you might return our lord to his rightful place. This exchange will grant you an opportunity to take to sea unhindered, and it will likewise allot the army sufficient time to finish its duty before anyone discovers anything amiss. Head for that pass in the Alps guarded by Bernard’s monastery. Though it be not the shortest route, it promises to be by far the safest.

Rising, the young scholar stuffed his copy of the text into his coat pocket and scrambled together the different parchments spread out on the table. Walking steadily, almost hypnotically, between two long rows of tables set end to end, he passed by researchers, here and there, who sat preoccupied, bowing their heads over ancient manuscripts. Reaching the end of the aisle, he turned and approached the circulation desk at the side of the room. Sweat dampened his shirt and his face grew pale: he had stumbled onto the greatest and most secret kidnapping plot of the Middle Ages... the Sire de Joinville’s scheme to have four knights abduct King Louis IX from his crusading army besieging Tunis in North Africa. Joinville’s scheme had obviously failed because, as everyone knew, King Louis died before the walls of Tunis on August 25th, 1270, but what a story nonetheless!

Renaud needed time to mull over exactly how he was going to follow up on this story. With Longue hovering around, he couldn’t think straight, so he left the National Archives reading room and headed for his favorite smoke-filled café in Pigalle.

There was something relaxing about the Bagaudae Café that instilled in him a sense of leisure and freedom, perhaps because it was the only establishment he knew of in Paris that flaunted government anti-smoking rules, and for a very good reason: the local police liked to have a cigarette with their free coffee.

* * *

Traffic was frantic and competitive as ever this Monday evening. Buses outmuscled cars for a lane, taxis outmaneuvered buses, trucks blew their dark diesel exhaust into the windshields of those who trailed. Renaud left his dated smart car behind at the Rue de Rivoli parking lot, about four blocks from the Archives, retrieved a hundred euros from an ATM, and descended into the Hôtel de Ville métro: safer than battling through traffic with a steering wheel, but not by much. People pushed and shoved their way into the métro cars. Renaud found himself squeezed in between a connoisseur of garlic and the organic armpit of a man grasping the overhead handrail. Did not bother him, though, being Parisian himself. However he did periodically reach for his pocket and feel its contents to reassure himself that no one had stolen his precious note.

The métro rumbled along to Concorde station, where he changed lines in order to reach Paris’s Pigalle district, and the familiar surroundings of his youth. Emerging from the stairwell, Renaud’s eyes sparkled under the lamppost as he surveyed the streets. The rough neighborhood was slowly mutating from its daytime business activities to its nightly ones.

The quarter, or quartier, had certainly gone downhill since his childhood. Renaud’s father was a native of Pigalle, but his mother came from Paris's fashionable district, the sixteenth arrondissement. She agreed to take up residence in her husband’s old stomping grounds since real estate was a bargain. They’d lived there happily… until the untimely death of Renaud’s father. Two years later, due to an increase in crime and the degradation of the quartier, his mother sold the residence for a price she judged intéressant, and moved into a posh Parisian suburb.

At the time of their move, the ninth arrondissement, within which Pigalle was situated, contained an evenhanded mix of respectable and shady types; five years later, however, a disproportionate number of thugs had invaded the alleys and side streets. One had to give credit to the hooligans, however, for ceding the grands boulevards to the tourists. Of course it was the hooligans’ bosses, having invested heavily in the local economy of strip joints, nightclubs, and eateries, who insisted their storefronts be relatively safe havens for potential clients. Nevertheless, with the general rise in crime came a collapse of the real estate market, which proved a boon to the poorer sort, especially for those in Paris’s troubled suburbs, who now had a chance to migrate into the inner city.

The nighttime mayhem stretched from Pigalle and up into the once affluent southern half of the eighteenth arrondissement, whose heart was the domed basilica of Montmartre, the Sacré Coeur, a noble edifice that looked like it had wandered in from Byzantium and, finding westerners barbaric, snobbishly retreated to a hilltop. Renaud had grown up in its shadow and felt comfortable here, protected by it in spite of the spreading seediness.

Renaud’s unique upbringing made him a complex person that few people, including himself, fully comprehended. His mother, of course, came closest to sizing him up correctly. Having grown up in a rough-and-tumble neighborhood, he was a survivalist, he knew how to keep a low profile and avoid upsetting hoodlums. But at the same time he was a non-conformist, independent-minded, and understood how to have the appearance of giving in to the demands of others while underhandedly getting his own way. He was not the stuff heroes are made of.

Breathing in through his nostrils the Proustian scents of his childhood haunts, Renaud headed up an alleyway shortcut toward Bagaudae Café, and he was thinking of the precious document held in his pocket when three greasy youths accosted him. Money for the duke, my man, one of them said with a sadistic half-smile. That way you can come back through here alive. Renaud, startled, fumbled for his wallet. The duke, he knew, was an exemplary gang leader who controlled the drug market and a healthy number of women of ill repute. Locals lived in terror of the man. Renaud gave them what they wanted but managed to keep the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. After his wallet had been scrutinized and approved, the gangsters let him pass and, as he distanced himself, he shook his arms and hands in an effort to work out the jitters. By the time he could smell the distinctive aroma of his Pigalle café, his thoughts had left the street and returned to the paper.

Something bothered him about the Joinville plot and he could not put a finger on it. As he walked into the café, he spotted a street preacher seated near his usual table. A nice enough man who was one of the few law-abiding citizens to venture out into Pigalle’s side streets at night, and no doubt the only one toting a Bible rather than a blade or gun. I’m hardly defenseless, the minister told Renaud when questioned about his foolhardiness. I’ve got the Sword of the Lord, he explained while literally thumping his Bible. This evening Renaud did not have time for the gospel message, again, so he sat down as far away from the evangelist as he could and ordered a cup of coffee, on credit.

I’ll pay tomorrow, Dédé. I donated my last hundred to the duke. Dédé smiled sympathetically.

When the coffee presented itself, Renaud dropped several sugar cubes into the thick brew and stirred slowly. Through the cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling, he peered out the window at the three gang members, gleefully checking out their newly acquired credit cards. Their parting words echoed through Renaud’s mind: You can come back through here alive.

That’s it! he blurted out.

The people sitting around him, immersed in lively conversation, took no notice of his outburst.

There is no trace of those knights ever returning, Renaud said in a lower but more authoritative voice, as if addressing a student. This always worked better in the café than in a classroom, where he first had to get students to quit texting their friends before driving home a teaching point. They must have indeed gone on the mission, so what happened to them? Were they killed in their attempt? But, then why didn’t the botched kidnapping get recorded? Why didn’t Joinville ever get censured? What happened?

Dédé tossed the bill on the table for Renaud’s IOU signature, but then retracted it. It’s on the house, forget it.

Thanks, I almost feel like a policeman.

Dédé chuckled. And if I give you a badge you can go get your hundred euros back, eh?

It would have to be a pretty big badge, and bullet proof.

Yeah, I hear ya. Don’t know what this country’s comin’ to. Just a few years ago it was safe to walk the streets in the dead of night in clothes made of euros, now you take your life into your hands just to set out the garbage in broad daylight. Dédé walked off to wipe down a table.

Once the traffic thinned out, Renaud retraced his steps to the National Archives, retrieved his smart car, and drove it to a parking garage not far from his apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement. When he reached the front door to his building, he unfurled his shirttails, unbuttoned his shirt, and unzipped a thin fanny pack. Inside it were his real wallet, cell phone, and apartment key. Should have stuffed the hundred-euros in here, he grumbled as he buzzed for the concierge to open up.

His lodgings sat comfortably on the third floor of a monumental nineteenth-century structure. As Renaud wound around the wide spiral stone staircase, his investigative mind again inquired into the botched thirteenth-century kidnapping. The knights, he concluded in a whisper, must have made it to Tunis, learned of the king’s death and then headed back toward France. A bit strange, though, that there’s no mention of this wild scheme anywhere. One would think the knights or their families, if not Joinville himself, would have left some trace of it. Joinville seemed to write about everything, whether it made him look good or bad. Perhaps the knights died in Tunisia of the plague; perhaps their ship went down in the Mediterranean; perhaps they got caught in a deadly snowstorm in the Alps.

The concierge, a good stout woman who sensibly kept her gray hair bound up in a bun, maintained a suspicious eye on him from the bottom of the stairwell until he disappeared from her sight.

Renaud turned the skeleton key sharply, opened the door, and entered into a large dining-slash-living room. In addition to the usual furniture one might find in such a room, there was a walnut buffet with a bust of Louis IX seated proudly upon it. There was also an open rolltop desk pushed up against a wall decorated with paisley wallpaper, upon which was a map of medieval Europe. Matching the desk was a 1950s style chair on coasters with a leather-bound cushion and a back of oaken slats. The presence of the antique desk made Renaud feel like his father, who had spent hours seated at it, writing articles and composing advertisements, was still with him.

Renaud paced around the living room, glancing repeatedly at the map of medieval Europe. Finally he came to a halt before the bust and looked the king in the eyes. Perhaps the only way to begin, Your Majesty, is to follow the route of the four knights. Renaud wheeled around and walked over to the map. The knights most likely took the same route down to Tunis as the one they expected to take on the way back. Isn’t that logical? he asked as he glanced over his shoulder at an impassive King Louis. They went down through the Alps to set up their return route. Making reservations as it were. Then they slipped into a boat at Genoa and made for Tunis. The bust looked on, enigmatically.

Renaud sat down at his father’s desk to plan a trip. I’m going to Tunis, he said looking back again at the king. First stop, Saint Bernard’s monastery, Switzerland. I’m leaving you in charge. It would be a splendid way for a bachelor historian to spend the Grandes Vacances.

* * *

Renaud wanted his research done before autumn’s rentrée des classes. So it was on a mellow summer day after a week’s worth of preparation that he bounded onto the autoroute in his little car, pausing for only one night in a Swiss hotel at Lausanne, in order to be refreshed the following morning, when he reached Saint Bernard’s.

Most of the monastery’s important medieval documents had been scattered throughout Europe to populate archives and museums. A mere handful of clergy made the hospice, now more properly called a hostel, their home and place of service, which for tourists served as a spiritual retreat.

The famous Saint Bernard dogs, who once led the canon priests over the treacherous alpine landscape to locate and succor lost or stranded travelers, were no longer officially trained here, but Renaud noted that they had not been totally forgotten. A half dozen of them were plodding about outside a kennel, and before he reached the backdoor of the hostel, where he hoped to find the abbot or some such without the distraction of tourists, they noisily converged on him. He rapped high on the door with his knuckles.

No need to knock, said a priest opening the door. The dogs’ barking tells us we’ve got company. The portly canon, tonsured only by age, raised his hand ever so slightly and the dogs went silent. In medieval garb, he would have made a convincing Friar Tuck.

Renaud gave his name and the priest introduced himself as Father Alexis.

I’m working on a new book in medieval history, explained Renaud, and I would like to consult some of your documents. I know from the register at the National Archives that the monastery still holds a few.

Did you write in advance? Normally we expect to be forewarned so we can authenticate credentials.

I apologize, I didn’t. Although I did send an email.

Email?

Renaud studied the man’s sober clothing and felt a bit gauche having suggested that holy men would while away their day in the digital world. I do have hard copies. Renaud dug into his fanny pack and produced his identity card and credentials.

The priest studied these closely, then reached into his own shirt pocket and produced a smartphone. Yes, you did send an email, but it appears it went into my junk file. He googled Renaud’s name and found a convincing blurb about him from the Université Paris-Sorbonne. He stared at the young scholar. Come on in, if you must, said the canon finally. We’ll discuss this over an aperitif. Anything is a good excuse for a glass or two of pastis. And if you choose to sup with us, that will provide an excuse for a shot of cognac.

Renaud, conceding these excuses to be sound, entered.

Over a glass of licorice-scented pastis, Renaud imparted as much of his investigation to Father Alexis as he dared. In the documents, he concluded, I hope to find trace of an expedition of knights that may have come through here in the thirteenth-century. I’m not talking about the manuscripts that you have accessible online or the documents in your little museum, I’m familiar with those. Renaud swirled his glass gently, gazing down at the rotating pale yellow liquid thoughtfully. He was hedging that there were more parchments available, unknown to the public, so he put on his poker face and said, I’m talking about those you have in storage.

His host, silent and motionless to this point, now rubbed his hands together. He raised his head smartly and said somewhat condescendingly, Nothing extraordinary happened here back then. The manuscripts we have in storage are rather drab for that time period. Mostly fragmentary copies of Scripture and the Rule of Saint Augustine. A set of annals rejected by the archives is the best you’ll discover in there. And as I recall they only record the visits of abbots and bishops. Oh, I suppose there’s mention of odd weather-related phenomena, such as lightning hitting a nearby tree two days before a certain abbot dies, and of course the occasional comet isn’t neglected, all understood as signs from the Lord. And may well have been, mind you. But I really think you ought to be looking at the documents that have been requested and received from the monastery by museums, libraries, and such. Those are the truly important ones, don’t you think? He sat up in his chair and looked down upon Renaud to encourage him to take his leave.

If Renaud had been, up to this point, unsure of what smugness was, he now had a full definition of it seated across from him. Gathering up his courage, he let it be known that he would insist on seeing the annals in storage as soon as possible, lightning or not.

After supper, Father Alexis grudgingly led Renaud to the storeroom, located on the ground floor behind an aged oak door, tightly shut with rusty hinges. Opening it, Alexis flicked on a light, revealing a room crowded with a disparate collection of tables, each laden with files, books, and manuscripts.

Renaud cleared space on one of the tables and opened a slim metal toolbox. He withdrew a pair of cotton gloves, put them on, and began sifting through the manuscripts, stacking them like cards according to suit, roughly arranging them in chronological order.

Father Alexis hovered a short distance away for several minutes. Finally, he mumbled something about an errand and wandered off.

After an hour or so, the young scholar paused, took a step back and with a thoughtful eye scanned the documents carefully. By this time Alexis had returned and now stood in the doorway, looking on disapprovingly.

Father Alexis, said Renaud without turning his head to look at the clergyman, there’s something uncanny here.

Oh?

Why, yes. You say archivists have already been through these, choosing which ones to send out, which ones to make public?

Yes, long ago.

They weren’t very particular about how they left them. As if... Renaud paused and rubbed his nose while he pondered.

As if? repeated Father Alexis with a huff of irritation.

As if someone intentionally scrambled them. It makes it nearly impossible to establish a timeline.

Alexis shifted uneasily and said, I’ve got things to attend to; you’ll have to sort them out yourself. He left abruptly, this time pulling the door shut behind him.

CHAPTER 2

Renaud spent the next couple of days analyzing the documents. Most of the centuries were represented, some better than others. After the eighteenth century, letters, annals, scriptural commentaries, and especially official documents could be found for every year. Before that time period, however, there were gaps between entries. And, when he checked with his laptop to see if this were typical of other Saint Bernard manuscripts held elsewhere, he found it was not.

Next, he began to carefully read through the texts. He started with the beginning of the thirteenth century, so as to get a feel for the authors’ handwriting, style, abbreviations, and vocabulary use, before working up to the year he was really interested in, 1270.

By the end of the week, Renaud went to visit Alexis over a glass of pastis. Father Alexis, there is something troubling me about your records.

I told you, replied the canon dryly, it would have been best to work in the museums and libraries.

No, here is where I need to be. I feel that the document I’m searching for is within reach, but, for some reason, I can’t locate it. Someone has been meticulously editing your collection.

Editing? said Alexis curiously. Whatever for?

I thought maybe you could help me on this. You see, I’ve established a chronological order for the thirteenth-century documents. From time to time, however, entries appear to be missing in the annals, or else the chronicler suddenly decided that parchment was cheap and amused himself by skipping a few lines, but I have my doubts. Now I can access the technology to take a closer look at those annals and see what’s been deleted, because that’s what I suspect has been going on. But first, before going to all that trouble, I thought it might be easier if you just told me.

Alexis smacked his lips and breathed deeply. He rose from his chair, clearly disturbed. Finally he returned to his seat and said, with much effort, My son, I suppose you’ll find out why things have been erased in the end. So, I’ll save you the trouble of piecing it together. On one condition, however . . .that you keep this your secret.

Will I get to see what I’m after then?

Perhaps, if they’re still in good shape.

Your secret, then, is mine.

Alexis leaned forward in his chair, putting his forearms on his knees and folding his hands thoughtfully. There was a tradition before the eighteenth century to delete any entries made during the year that concerned lost persons whom the dogs and brothers failed to save.

A sort of cover-up?

No, the intent was quite different. The entries were copied on a separate document then erased from or, actually, scrapped off the original. The copy was slid into the anchorite’s cell. Alexis turned away, it pained him to reveal the monastery’s secret; he felt like he was betraying and violating the anchorites’ admirable piety.

As a medievalist, Renaud was familiar with anchorites, religious sorts who chose a life locked away from civilization. They listened to the requests of pilgrims and solicited God’s assistance for them. In the French Alps, they created a charterhouse in the Chartreuse Mountains in the eleventh century. One of their members, Alexis explained, ventured out on his own until he reached Saint Bernard, and there he began his solitary ministry in what was then the cellar of the monastery. While his successors carried on the sober work of prayer, the original charterhouse developed a fantastic cordial known as Chartreuse. The liqueur gained in popularity, but the anchorite calling lost its appeal.

Perhaps, Renaud considered as he thought about the slump in pilgrimages after the Middle Ages, repenting is not as easy as just drowning one’s sorrows.

The last anchorite on record, resumed Alexis, lived in the late fifteenth century. When he died there was a requiem mass said over his chamber, which became his tomb since no one else desired to take up the calling. But the practice of disposing of the entries in the anchorite cell continued on for some years out of habit.

This cell, where is it?

Directly below the storeroom. It has never been violated since it became a tomb.

You cannot hide the manuscripts forever.

Alexis finally nodded and said with a sigh, You’ll be the first to see them.

* * *

In the storeroom Alexis pushed away the table upon which Renaud had organized the parchments and pointed down at a thick slab dished out on either end and with iron rings anchored into the shallow cavities. Faithful sentinels of the anchorite’s tomb, the rings still clung tightly to the stone. Alexis recited a short prayer before he and Renaud pried one of the rings up with a crowbar and then slid ropes through it. Pulling on one end together, the great slab jolted upward and aside, exposing a gaping darkness. The musty dampness rising up caused Renaud to cough as he peered down into the chamber with his flashlight. Then, taking up his metal box and exchanging his flashlight for a lamp, he descended into the silent pit and found at the foot of the steps a dusty skeleton stretched out upon the pavers, a cross upon its sternum.

Renaud could hear the priest muttering another prayer above the