acted as if the attack was to be expected. Could he have hired the man to take out Ian, whom he hadn’t wanted there in the first place?
“No.” He had only found out about Ian just before the dive.
“Something not right with that guy.”
She focused again on René d’Anjou. He headed to Naples in 1438 and later returned to France amid further political turmoil and controversy.
D’Anjou had also been a painter and a poet. He set up court at Aix-en-Provence, although she guessed that René must have interacted with Leonardo on his own turf in Italy. D’Anjou had died in 1480. Leonardo had been born in 1452. Annja knew Leonardo had traveled with his father to Florence and had received an apprenticeship when he was fourteen. Possibly, René d’Anjou had met Leonardo between 1470 and 1480, which was around the time Leonardo’s father had been employed under d’Anjou.
And if Roux had said he’d met Leonardo at the end of the 1480s, that made sense to her and would fit the timeline of when d’Anjou had supposedly gifted Leonardo with the Lorraine cross.
“Amazing.”
Annja experienced the same adrenaline rush she felt when uncovering a valuable historical treasure. The thrill of the find, or knowing that with further research a discovery could be made, was something she never tired of.
And now, before her, was the idea of a significant connection of three incredible historical figures: René d’Anjou, Leonardo da Vinci, and Joan of Arc.
She was deeply involved, too, more so than on a usual archaeological dig, because she was inexplicably tied to Joan herself. And Roux had known all three?
Thinking of him, she dialed Roux’s number. She wanted to check when he planned to arrive. Voice mail. She didn’t leave a message, didn’t want to reveal her irritation. He’d get a real kick out of that.
Finishing off the panino, Annja then scanned through the local television news stations. Nothing of interest. The night had grown long while she’d been hunting for information. She’d save the check on Scout’s story for the morning.
Stripping off her clothes and pulling her long chestnut hair out from the tangled ponytail, she padded into the bathroom and made good use of the hot water for the next twenty minutes.
* * *
Milan, 1488
“Y OU SAID ...” Roux leaned forward across the table, knowing he could not possibly have heard the artist correctly. The tavern was noisy, and the hissing back-and-forth sweep of a sword blade across a whetstone nearby didn’t help matters. “Something about a sword piece?”
“Indeed. From Jeanne d’Arc’s sword. The one she wielded in the siege on Paris,” Leonardo explained. “Though it’s malformed. Melted, I believe. I was to understand they had burned her ashes twice to be sure nothing remained. The English army didn’t want to leave anything that could be sifted from the ashes and later passed on. Obviously they missed the sword.”
Roux rubbed his chin, thinking back to that moment when the flames had wrecked Joan’s life forever. And his. The sword had been held aside, along with the few items of clothing she’d worn while imprisoned. How the sword had made it out into the crowd, and then had been broken before all, was beyond him.
It felt surreal to place himself back at that heinous event. He’d never felt helpless before that moment and never had since. But the sense of anguish returned now, made him uncomfortable.
Leonardo was unaware of his distress. And he wished to keep it that way.
“If you guarded Jeanne— She was burned in 1431, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That was sixty-seven years ago. You must have been quite young. You’ve certainly aged well.”
“I’ve been living well,” Roux boasted, smiling.
“Ha!” Leonardo cried and took a hearty swallow of his ale.
Roux tried to act relaxed and purposely pitched his voice low, so that only da Vinci would hear him. “Tell me about this piece from the sword?”
“Ah, you are one with
“No.” He had only found out about Ian just before the dive.
“Something not right with that guy.”
She focused again on René d’Anjou. He headed to Naples in 1438 and later returned to France amid further political turmoil and controversy.
D’Anjou had also been a painter and a poet. He set up court at Aix-en-Provence, although she guessed that René must have interacted with Leonardo on his own turf in Italy. D’Anjou had died in 1480. Leonardo had been born in 1452. Annja knew Leonardo had traveled with his father to Florence and had received an apprenticeship when he was fourteen. Possibly, René d’Anjou had met Leonardo between 1470 and 1480, which was around the time Leonardo’s father had been employed under d’Anjou.
And if Roux had said he’d met Leonardo at the end of the 1480s, that made sense to her and would fit the timeline of when d’Anjou had supposedly gifted Leonardo with the Lorraine cross.
“Amazing.”
Annja experienced the same adrenaline rush she felt when uncovering a valuable historical treasure. The thrill of the find, or knowing that with further research a discovery could be made, was something she never tired of.
And now, before her, was the idea of a significant connection of three incredible historical figures: René d’Anjou, Leonardo da Vinci, and Joan of Arc.
She was deeply involved, too, more so than on a usual archaeological dig, because she was inexplicably tied to Joan herself. And Roux had known all three?
Thinking of him, she dialed Roux’s number. She wanted to check when he planned to arrive. Voice mail. She didn’t leave a message, didn’t want to reveal her irritation. He’d get a real kick out of that.
Finishing off the panino, Annja then scanned through the local television news stations. Nothing of interest. The night had grown long while she’d been hunting for information. She’d save the check on Scout’s story for the morning.
Stripping off her clothes and pulling her long chestnut hair out from the tangled ponytail, she padded into the bathroom and made good use of the hot water for the next twenty minutes.
* * *
Milan, 1488
“Y OU SAID ...” Roux leaned forward across the table, knowing he could not possibly have heard the artist correctly. The tavern was noisy, and the hissing back-and-forth sweep of a sword blade across a whetstone nearby didn’t help matters. “Something about a sword piece?”
“Indeed. From Jeanne d’Arc’s sword. The one she wielded in the siege on Paris,” Leonardo explained. “Though it’s malformed. Melted, I believe. I was to understand they had burned her ashes twice to be sure nothing remained. The English army didn’t want to leave anything that could be sifted from the ashes and later passed on. Obviously they missed the sword.”
Roux rubbed his chin, thinking back to that moment when the flames had wrecked Joan’s life forever. And his. The sword had been held aside, along with the few items of clothing she’d worn while imprisoned. How the sword had made it out into the crowd, and then had been broken before all, was beyond him.
It felt surreal to place himself back at that heinous event. He’d never felt helpless before that moment and never had since. But the sense of anguish returned now, made him uncomfortable.
Leonardo was unaware of his distress. And he wished to keep it that way.
“If you guarded Jeanne— She was burned in 1431, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That was sixty-seven years ago. You must have been quite young. You’ve certainly aged well.”
“I’ve been living well,” Roux boasted, smiling.
“Ha!” Leonardo cried and took a hearty swallow of his ale.
Roux tried to act relaxed and purposely pitched his voice low, so that only da Vinci would hear him. “Tell me about this piece from the sword?”
“Ah, you are one with
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