Page 65 of Under Arthur’s Protection

I moved up to the pommel, which was close to the original. Gold didn’t age the way steel did, so it was reasonable for it to look similar. Except… Except for the inscription. The real thing was barely legible, but in the sketch, it was crystal clear, as it would have been when it was fresh. But the cross-and-circle symbol with the wavy lines underneath had been rendered exactly as it appeared today.

This sketch matched the sword as it existed in the twenty-first century. Not the eighteenth. The only difference was the inscription’s clarity.

I sat back in my chair.

This sketch wasn’t made in the 1760s, Gwen.

The nonexistent collector could theoretically be an error, whether due to poor record-keeping or to an obscure figure who’d genuinely fallen through the cracks. But the corrosion couldn’t be an error. Whoever made this sketch had copied it from the sword within the past two decades at the absolute most.

That wasn’t a mistake in the records. And given that the only difference was the inscription being clear? Someone had planted this document.

For me?

I looked up at Arthur. He was still at the windows, but his gaze flicked back at me, as though he was waiting for an opening.

The man from the corner table stood and walked toward me. His eyes widened as he approached the sword. In French, he said, “Excuse me, but is this a genuine⁠—”

Arthur was at his side before the man finished his sentence. “Sorry, this is a private research project,” he replied in French. His voice was friendly and his posture relaxed, but he might as well have said, Back the fuck up. “I’m sure you understand.”

The man’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, apologized, and returned to his table.

“I need to show you this,” I said before Arthur could stalk back to the windows and continue glowering at the grass outside. “You remember the sketch I told you about? The collector it names doesn’t⁠—”

His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, then held it up for me. “It’s Lance. We should take this.”

I gave a quick nod, expecting him to head for the corridor, but he answered right there.

He turned the sound down and held the phone so I was on the video call.

“Gwen! Perfect!” Lance switched to his rear camera, bringing a long table covered in green cloth into view. Heavy leather-bound volumes sat propped open on cushions, and more of the same filled the shelves rising to the ceiling at the end of the table. “I wanted to show you what I found and make sure it’s what you’re after.”

Arthur moved closer so we were both on the video.

Lance zeroed in on one of the open books, its pages thick and brown with age. He pointed at a section of dense Latin text near the bottom. “The translator found this. It’s a document from 1312, when the Templars’ assets were being inventoried. This entry references a church in Cornwall and lists inscriptions present on the tower stones. From the description of the location, I’m sure it’s St. Catherine’s Church.”

I scanned the elaborate letters, searching for what he wanted to show me.

“Porta Novae Avallonis.” Lance tapped the page, and a woman’s voice snapped at him in a language I didn’t recognize. He pulled his hand back, but kept talking, “Right there. The church inscription was on the tower wall in 1312.”

“That’s great, Lance.” I now had an older reference than what Fergus had given me, so his information was no longer relevant. But what else did it mean? “Get photographs of everything. The full page, close-ups of the text, and the catalog reference so I can cite it.”

“I’m on it.” Lance flipped to his front-facing camera, gave a quick salute, and hung up.

“You were saying?” Arthur pocketed his phone, taking a half-step so he was at the side of my table instead of next to me. “About the sketch?”

“Right.” I turned the folio to him. “The notes claim the inscription was added to the sword in 1761. But I had my friend at the National Archives search for the collector. The guy doesn’t exist.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And the sketch.” I pointed at the blade in the drawing. “This matches the sword exactly as it looks today. But corrosion changes over time. I think this document is a⁠—”

Arthur shifted his weight. With one small movement, his body was between me and the rest of the room. His hand came up low, a subtle gesture clearly telling me to stop.

I closed my mouth.

He leaned down and asked quietly, “Which archivist brought you this folio? The first one or the second?”

“The second. The man with the close-cropped light hair.”