In the sacristy of the Cathedrale St-Julien in the city of Le Mans, there was a book. It had sat on its shelf for ages, ignored by most, until one day when a young canon took it down and read it. At first, it was an interesting curiosity, then a gripping read, and at last, the young canon sat up with a single lamp, reading the text through the night. In the morning, the first thing he did was compose a long letter to the Cardinal.
That letter was intercepted by spies, who relayed the news to their masters.
The Cardinal learned of the letter's capture from his own spies.
Before long, the letter and its contents were known to the most important people in Europe. Agents descended upon Le Mans, a quiet avalance of spies and assassins, trusted loyalists and ruthless mercenaries. But the young canon and the book, which he called the Angevin Codex, had disappeared.
Of the legion of spies, assassins, and pawns of the powers, three groups in particular surmised the young canon must have been ambushed by thieves.
Phillipe D'Auvergne, Baron du Montmartre, and two comrade soldier-bravos from the Regiment du Seine, Lebeau and de la Pouliniere, may not have enjoyed the prestige of the King's Musketeers, but they were still loyal subjects of his Majesty, bent on causing confusion to the Cardinal.
The wily English swordsman Sir William Giles was King Charles' best agent for the dangerous game in France. Escorted by the lovely Elizabeth and the veteran Barrymore, Sir Giles had no intention of returning to England empty-handed.
Even the Queen of the Calais Smugglers, Marie Magdalene de Calais had come with her bodyguard Leonardo and her servant Thibault. Where the eyes of so many important men turn, there too must be profit beyond dodging the custom-man.
Dusk falls on a crossroad somewhere between Le Mans and Paris…
With English efficiency (here defined as rolling a 3 for initiative where all others roll 2 or 1) and a muttered Carpe Diem, Sir Giles and Elizabeth advance, stumbling across the canon's empty satchel, and more intriguingly, a scrap of the codex itself.
Leonardo the smuggler-bodyguard leaps a low wall, intent on intercepting Sir Giles and buying his mistress time.
Barrymore raises his pistol and cracks off a shot at Leonardo, the ball missing by mere inches. Leonardo's sneer of contempt at the English is perhaps premature, as events will bear.
Montmartre's keen eyes catch sight of a promising clue, but it turns out to be only the binding and cover of the Angevin Codex, the valuable text torn away. His fellows advance into a copse of pines, careful to remain in supporting distance of each other.
Marie and Thibault sweep forward, seeing fluttering pages in the road ahead of them. Some of these they stuff into their vests, for later perusal.
Sir Giles has no time for rude Italians. Advancing upon Leonardo with the skill of a hundred London duels, he wields his rapier and main-gauche with aplomb, landing heavy blows on Leonardo's head, brushing aside the man's defenses as if they were kittenish swipes. Elizabeth follows her master, ready to lend assistance in the unlikely event her master needs such help. Barrymore bravely takes up a defensive position in cover behind a wall, and reloads his pistol.
But Leonardo is made of staunch stuff. Through red mists of pain, he retains his senses long enough to shove off the master swordsman, and crash back through the brush the way he came.
His mistress, Marie, is also faring poorly. Pursuing a fluttering page, she steps into a poacher's snare. And now Montmartre and his men are almost upon her…
Meanwhile, Montmartre and company have found the wounded canon, near death. The priest gestures to de la Pouliniere to come closer, and utters his dying words: "The thrones of England and France, united…"
There is no time to ponder this mystery. Montmartre, ever gallant, apologizes to the Queen of the Calais Smugglers as he charges her.
His heart pierced by his mistress' cries, Thibault charges to her defence, at Lebeau.
Steel rings upon steel, as gentlemanly fencing tests its merit against the rough trade of the street brawler! Bleeding like a martyr, Marie holds her own, while Thibault and Lebeau exchange hard handling. But the smugglers are outnumbered, and clever retrograde advancement and the arrival of de la Poulinere tip the balance.
Sir Giles leaves the pursuit of the wounded Leonardo to Elizabeth. Her conscience stinging only a little bit, she charges the reeling smuggler, who saves himself by a heroic effort. This is to say nothing of the fact that Leonardo is still upright, having suffered wounds that would have rendered a less hardy man unconscious or dead.
But night is now looming, and with a mighty heave, the smugglers extricate themselves and retreat, having come off the worst of the three bands.
Sir Giles salutes Baron Montmartre with a sardonic grin. Montmartre returns the gesture, emotionless. It is too late to pursue the matter further. The pages of the Angevin codex must be perused, their contents reported…
The Dukes of Anjou, of the house of Plantagenet, hath held kingships of France and England during the period of the Great Wars between these kingdoms. Though they do not claim these thrones by reason that the surviving line is of the cadet branch, we show here how the claim may be made of the house Plantagenet to two thrones.
Here is demonstrated the rightful succession of the male line such that any male relating to the Plantagenets through his mother's side may rightfully consider himself a Pretender to these two thrones…"Mon Dieu!" gasped Montmartre, examining the pages by the light of a torch. "England and France--one nation? I cannot bear the thought. But is there even such an heir as this? I confess that I do not know the disposition of that house well enough."
De la Poulinere stroked his chin. "The engraving on this page is most peculiar. I swear that I have seen it, or one its mirror, before. I do not recall where."
"It is a funerary relief!" said Lebeau. "I would swear it is! See here the angels and Lazarus, and the entwined laurel? And the graveyard of the Dukes of Anjou is not ten miles from here. Perhaps if we were to match this…"
The torch was doused. Three men threw themselves into their saddles and galloped away. The only light on the land was the thin crescent of the moon and the sparks of horseshoes hitting cobbles.
***
Many thanks to the players in that game, gentleman all. I give your their shining faces and TMP id.
From Left to Right: some random guy, Deathwing, Illumisar, and Sir Not Appearing in This Film.