The Charlemagne Pursuit

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STEPHANIE AND DAVIS FOLLOWED THE TOUR INTO BILTMORE'S grand entrance hall amid soaring walls and limestone arches. To her right, in a glass-roofed winter garden, a parade of white poinsettias encircled a marble-and-bronze fountain. The warm air smelled of fresh greenery and cinnamon.

A woman on the bus ride over had told them that the candlelight tour was billed as an old-fashioned festival of lights, decorations in a grand regal style, a Victorian picture postcard come to life. And true to the billing, a choir sung carols from some far-off room. With no coat check Stephanie left hers unbuttoned as they lingered at the back of the group, staying out of the way of Scofield, who seemed to relish his role as host.

"We have the house to ourselves," the professor said. "This is a tradition for the conference. Two hundred fifty rooms, thirty-four bedrooms, forty-three baths, sixty-five fireplaces, three kitchens, and an indoor swimming pool. Amazing I remember all that." He laughed at his own quip. "I'll escort you through and point out some of the interesting tidbits. We'll finish back here and then you're free to roam for another half hour or so before the buses return us to the inn." He paused. "Shall we?"

Scofield led the crowd into a long gallery, maybe ninety feet, lined with silk and wool tapestries that he explained were woven in Belgium around 1530.

They visited the gorgeous library with its twenty-three thousand books and Venetian ceiling, then the music room with a spectacular Durer print. Finally, they entered an imposing banquet hall with more Flemish tapestries, a pipe organ, and a massive oak dining table that seated-she counted-sixty-four. Candlelight, firelight, and twinkling tree lights provided all of the illumination.

"The largest room in the house," Scofield announced in the banquet hall. "Seventy-two feet long, forty-two feet wide, crowned seventy feet up by a barrel vault."

An enormous Douglas fir, which stretched halfway to the ceiling, was trimmed with toys, ornaments, dried flowers, gold beads, angels, velvet, and lace. Festive music from an organ filled the hall with yuletide cheer.

She noticed Davis retreating toward the dining table, so she drifted his way and whispered, "What is it?"

He pointed to the triple fireplace, flanked with armor, as if admiring it, and said to her, "There's a guy, short and thin, navy chinos, canvas shirt, barn coat with a corduroy collar. Behind us."

She knew not to turn and look, so she concentrated on the fireplace and its high-relief overmantel, which looked like something from a Greek temple.

"He's been watching Scofield."

"Everybody's been doing that."

"He hasn't spoken to a soul, and twice he's checked out the windows. I made eye contact once, just to see what would happen, and he turned away. He's too fidgety for me."

She pointed to more decorations that adorned the massive bronze chandeliers overhead. Pennants hung high around the room, replicas of flags, she heard Scofield say, from the American Revolution for the original thirteen colonies.

"You have no idea, right?" she asked.

"Call it a feeling. He's checking the windows again. Don't you come for the house tour? Not what's outside."

"You mind if I see for myself?" she asked.

"Be my guest."

Davis continued to gawk at the hall as she casually stepped across the hardwood floor toward the Christmas tree, where the thin man in chinos stood near a group. She noticed nothing threatening, only that he seemed to pay Scofield a lot of attention, though their host was engaged in a robust conversation with some of the others.

She watched as he retreated from the aromatic tree and casually walked toward a doorway, where he tossed something into a small trash can then left, entering the next room.

She lingered a moment and followed, peering around the doorway.

Chinos wandered through a masculine billiard room that resembled a nineteenth-century gentleman's club with rich oak paneling, ornamental plaster ceiling, and deep-hued Oriental carpets. He was examining framed prints on the wall-but not all that carefully, she noted.

She quickly gazed into the trash can and spotted something on top. She bent down, retrieved it, then retreated into the banquet hall.

She noticed what she held.

Matches, from a Ruth's Chris steakhouse.

In Charlotte, North Carolina.

MALONE, NO LONGER CAPABLE OF SLEEP, HIS MIND RACING, SLIPPED from beneath the heavy duvet and rose from the bed. He needed to walk downstairs and study the framed print one more time.

Christl awoke. "Where are you going?"

He retrieved his pants from the floor. "To see if I'm right."

"You've realized something?" She sat up and switched on the light beside the bed. "What is it?"

She seemed utterly comfortable naked, and he was utterly comfortable staring at her. He zipped his pants and slipped on his shirt, not worrying about shoes.

"Hold up," she said, rising and finding her clothes.

Downstairs was dimly lit by two lamps and the still-burning embers from the hearth. Nobody staffed the check-in desk, and he heard no sounds from the restaurant. He found the print on the wall and clicked on another lamp.

"That's from 1772. The church was obviously in better shape then. See anything?"

He watched as she studied the drawing.

"The windows were intact. Stained glass. Statues. The grilles around the altar seem Carolingian. Like in Aachen."

"That's not it."

He was enjoying this-finally being a step ahead of her. He admired her narrow waist, trim hips, and the close curls of her long blond hair. She hadn't tucked in her shirt so he caught the curve of her bare spine as she reached with one arm and traced the drawing's outline on the glass.

She turned toward him. "The floor."

Her pale brown eyes glowed.

"Tell me," he said.

"There's a design. It's hard to see, but it's there."

She was right. The print was an angled view, geared more for the towering heights of the walls and arches than the floor. But he'd noticed it earlier. Dark lines streaked through lighter slabs, a square enclosing another square, enclosing still another in a familiar pattern.

"It's a Nine Men's Morris board," he said. "We can't know for sure until we go look, but I think that's what that floor once depicted."

"That's going to be hard to determine," she said. "I crawled across it. It's barely there anymore."

"Part of your performance?"

"Mother's idea. Not mine."

"And we can't tell Mother no, can we?"

A smile frayed the edges of her thin lips. "No, we can't."

"But only those who appreciate the throne of Solomon and Roman frivolity shall find their way to heaven," he said.

"A Nine Men's Morris board on the throne in Aachen and one here."

"Einhard built this church," he said. "He also, years later, fashioned the pursuit using the chapel in Aachen and this place as reference points. Apparently, the throne was in the Aachen chapel by then. Your grandfather made the connection, so can we." He pointed. "Look in the lower right corner. On the floor, near the center of the nave, around which the Nine Men's Morris board would spread. What do you see?"

She studied the drawing. "There's something etched into the floor. Hard to tell. The lines are garbled. Look's like a tiny cross with letters. An R and an L, but the rest is meshed together."

He saw recognition dawn within her as she visualized entirely what may have once been there.

"It's part of Charlemagne's signature," she said.

"Hard to say for sure, but there's only one way to find out."