“What is it?” Faridani demanded as Marcus crossed the room. He traced the symbol that had been carved into the door, sealed years earlier, the long line with two lines across, one shorter than the other.
He slowly smiled.
Faridani let go of Valentine and crossed the room. He stared at the marks that had been cut into the door.
“Open it,” he ordered Marcus.
She stood beside Valentine, Alyia Malik holding a gun on them, and watched as they tried the latch.
The latch moved freely but the door remained sealed, nailed shut decades earlier. Faridani retrieved a shovel from the other side of the room. He hacked away at the door, wood splintering with each blow. Several more blows and the door gave way. Marcus pushed him aside and pulled the door open. He grabbed a flashlight and entered the room. Faridani followed, and Kris felt Alyia's hand on her shoulder, shoving her forward.
The room was approximately the size of the outer room, the air musty in that way of places that have been closed for years.
Wood boxes lined one wall, a warning in French painted on the sides—Explosives!
A canvas cloth was draped over more wood boxes against the other wall. But it was the large rolled canvas that lay against the far wall that had Marcus pushing past Faridani.
“Help me lift it,” he ordered.
Faridani crossed the room and seized the other end of the thick rolled canvas. Both struggled to lift it.
Kris exchanged a glance with Valentine. Was it possible they'd found the tapestry?
They carried the rolled canvas to the center of the room, then slowly unrolled it. One image after another gradually emerged in the glow of flashlights—a pastoral scene, then a hunting scene, typical of Medieval artwork, then another image of a young man and woman beneath an arch covered with greenery and flowers, intricate handwork with words stitched into the massive linen panel that had been rolled inside the canvas and hidden away for over seventy years.
The words were in Latin, and along the bottom of the panel and scattered throughout, another symbol—the thistle and trinity knot, the same as the pendant Vilette had given her.
It was everywhere throughout the panels, painstakingly stitched one at a time. Then another panel emerged—a knight astride a horse and a young woman with an outstretched hand.
Isabel Raveneau and James of Montfort.
The story Vilette claimed had been handed down through her family, the medallion, those images in a letter tucked away centuries later.
“It is the same as the photograph!” Marcus exclaimed with excitement. He was like a child at Christmas, unwrapping presents under the tree.
“You are certain?” Faridani asked. “There is no doubt?”
“The colors of the yarns, the fabric as it was in the fourteenth century. The images. And to find it here after all these years. Yes, yes! “Marcus excitedly exclaimed.
“Incredible!”
Marcus couldn't contain his excitement as he studied one image after the other. He reached out as if to touch it then pulled his hand back.
“No,” he said more to himself. “Too fragile. We must be very careful. After all these years, centuries, we don't want to risk any damage. My God, it is beautiful...”
He was like a kid, mesmerized by a video game, oblivious to anything or anyone else as he bent over the tapestry.
“Burn it,” Faridani replied.
Like Marcus she was certain she hadn't heard him right. When Marcus didn't respond but continued to stare at the tapestry, he said it again, much louder and with unmistakable authority.
“We will need to get help to remove it,” Marcus went on, lost in his own thoughts.
“No!” Faridani replied. He nodded at Alyia Malik.
“Burn it! It must be destroyed.”
Kris saw the stunned expression on Marcus's face, the brief smile as if it were some joke.
