City of Swords

by Alex Archer

  “Hé! Que faites-vous?” a pedestrian shouted at her as she nearly tipped him over.

  “Sorry,” Annja called over her shoulder.

  “Qu’est-ce que tu fous là, toi?” This from a young man not quite as polite as the first.

  She tromped through a puddle, sending a spray of water at a stooped woman with a large blue umbrella.

  “Appellez la police!” the offended woman hollered. “Appellez les flics! Elle m’a poussé, c’te vache!”

  Annja grimaced. She hadn’t pushed the woman. No doubt the police would be arriving soon, anyway, especially if Rembert had called. Lord, what would he tell the cops? Would he mention her sword?

  The buildings she thundered past were dirty from age and darkened by the storm. Everything seemed ancient compared to her neighborhood in Brooklyn. Signs on the sidewalk were a blur of colors; she was going too fast to read them.

  She lost sight of him when he rounded a corner. When she skidded around it after him, the Palais des Papes loomed into view, the place where she and Rembert had first met “Jacques.” There! She snarled when she spotted him dash through the entrance. It was a beautiful building, holy in its original intent, and she disliked the notion of the Romany punk hurtling through it.

  Petre, that was what the other man called him.

  “Petre!” she shouted. “Stop, Petre!” The sirens were growing louder. If Rembert hadn’t summoned the police, someone on the sidewalk had. “Stop, Petre! I only want to talk!”

  Annja raced through the entrance, barreling into a pair of women who were opening their umbrellas as they left. She knocked one woman flat. The other dropped her umbrella along with something she had purchased, and that broke with a resounding crack against the stone floor. Annja paused long enough to help the one up and spit out an apology. Then she was running again. She didn’t see her quarry, but there were signs to mark his passing—another visitor picking himself up, a man retrieving papers and other objects that had been scattered. Not to mention the trail of wet footprints.

  The slapping of her shoes on the stone floor echoed.

  “Where are you going?” an American tourist asked as she passed. All the other words shouted at her were in French. There were more people around now than when she and Rembert had been here minutes before. Perhaps a tour bus had dropped them off, or they had come in to escape the storm.

  The wet trail led into one of the wings. Annja spotted her quarry just ahead, where a hand-holding couple stood looking at something in an alcove.

  Petre grabbed the woman and flung her to the floor. Her companion hollered and bent to help her.

  Annja leaped over them like a racer jumping hurdles on the track. Then the Romany gypsy was out a side door, and she followed.

  The rain pounded her once more. Not an inch of her was dry, and now she was feeling chilled. The guy was back on the sidewalk, never pausing to look behind him, obviously knowing Annja was still on his tail. He pushed an old man waiting at a bus stop, then grabbed a woman getting off a bus and threw her behind him—obstacles to slow Annja down.

  He skidded around a bench and vaulted a large cement pot filled with flowers, landing like a cat before cutting across the street. And then he disappeared behind another bus.

  “No you don’t,” Annja growled. She wasn’t about to let him elude her. Not now. The bus pulled away from the curb just as she reached it. But a quick scan through the windows didn’t show any panic or jostling. The passengers looked calm. “So where?” She took in everything lightning-fast. “Where did you go, Petre?”

  She studied the entrances to the old buildings, the shops with awnings sagging low from the rain, the people huddled beneath them.

  Nothing.

  He hadn’t come this way.

  Wait. There was a gap between two buildings near where the bus had stopped, not wide enough to be an alley. Without thought, Annja plunged down it, the stone wall grazing her shoulder as she went.

  As she hurried past a boarded-up recess, Petre jumped out at her, shoving her against the opposite wall. He had a knife in his hand, but not enough space to use it effectively. Annja grabbed his wrist and pressed it against the stone, squeezing until he dropped the blade and wedging herself against him. He struggled, but she held him hard and brought her face to his ear.

  “Don’t move, don’t barely breathe. You know what I’m capable of.”

  He stank of sweat and the grime of the city and of fouling himself.

  “You’re going to talk to me now. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “The sword. Why do you want my sword?”

  His answer was halting. “Paid…to get it.”

  “Who paid you?”

  He shrugged. His eyes looked dead.

  “Who?”

  “A collector.”

  She dug her fingers into his arms with enough force to make him wince. “Let’s try this again, Petre, right? Who paid you to steal my sword?”

  “Dimitru knew a man. Did work for him in Paris. He paid Dimitru, and Dimitru asked me to help. In Paris and here. This collector—Dimitru said he was rich.”

  Annja let out an exasperated sigh. Dimitru was gone, and so, apparently, were the answers she wanted.

  “You didn’t know this man he did work for?”

  “I told you no. Never saw him. But Dimitru said he collects swords.”

  “And how did he know about mine?” Annja didn’t expect him to answer that.

  “Old swords, that’s all I know. Special swords. Dimitru was to get yours and then another. Swords of history.”

  It was a start, Annja thought. Maybe if she did a little digging, called some—

  A commotion back on the sidewalk brought her out of her thoughts. Through the haze of rain she saw flashing blue lights.

  “Through there!” she heard someone shout. “They went through there.”

  Annja squeezed by Petre, putting distance between herself and the police.

  Historical swords, the Romany youth had said.

  She suddenly recalled something Roux had told her days ago. “Be careful, Annja, that a historical monster does not come chasing you.”

  Chapter 11

  Dr. Lawton stood at the podium of the lecture hall. The room could hold three hundred, but he filled it only during his special evening lectures, and he hadn’t offered any this semester. Today he had one hundred students, impressive given what many of his colleagues considered a dry subject with no practical application for the real world. Fools, Dr. Lawton thought. He was practicing the applications beneath all their upturned noses.

  “What do you see?” he asked his students.

  He’d rigged a laptop to a projector, and an image of a man in armor shone larger than life against the wall.

  “A knight,” a girl in the front row volunteered.

  It was the typical answer he pulled from freshmen.

  “A Templar,” another suggested.

  “A suit of armor from a museum,” a rail-thin woman said. “It doesn’t look like there’s anybody inside it.”

  Dr. Lawton surveyed the room in silence. In the back row, a few students were texting. Their loss.

  “What do you see?” he repeated in his deep voice. “Can you look past the armor, the metal? Can you look past the centuries?”

  No answer. But he had their attention—most of them, anyway.

  “I see blood.” Dr. Lawton knew he was a striking man. Tall, always impeccably groomed, well dressed in clothes that were both fashionable and a little out of fashion. He stood out. He wore his hair long, as he believed a history professor should. His spectacles had a nearly invisible frame, so as not to obscure his face, which was all angles and planes. “I see a lot of blood.”

  He waited. Sometimes a student would pipe up, saying, “I don’t see any blood” or “Blood, my ass.” This time there was nothing. The ones in the back row had stopped texting.

  “I see the blood of a thousand warriors who dressed like this and who g
ave their last breath in defense of their beliefs. I see a thousand warriors striding to their deaths so the meek and innocent could live without fear. I see valor and love and sacred honor. I see sacrifice and respect, unyielding courage and unwavering faith.

  “This is the armor of a paladin,” he continued. “If a man dressed like this came into a village, peasants and gentry would drop to their knees in respect. Today’s soldier gets a pat on the back for his service in Afghanistan, a thank-you for his tours in Iraq and Iran, perhaps a slight edge over some chap competing for the same dead-end job. But today’s soldier is not held in the same regard as these men.” He gestured to the image. “These paladins were put on a pedestal by society, elevated because they were better than the men around them. They embodied patience and dignity, grace in the face of impossible odds.”

  He touched a key on the laptop to start the slideshow. More suits of armor, woodcut images from history texts, photographs from reenactments.

  “The paladin. Ms. Jensen, do you know his origin?”

  “You’re referring to the Knights Templars, right?” She tapped her finger on the edge of her iPad. “The Knights Templars are considered the very first order. God and duty, right?”

  Dr. Lawton touched another key and a stock image of a Templar Knight appeared. “No one coerced a man to join the Templars. Their devotion, righteousness and ideals came from within.” He noticed the slightly smug look on Ms. Jensen’s flawless face. “They had no expectation of reward, though they gained considerable wealth for their order.” He paused. “But they were not the first paladins. That honor is due men five hundred years earlier.”

  Ms. Jensen looked surprised. “But the textbook—”

  “You’re not reading from my textbook.”

  “Then who were the first paladins?” This from a hawk-nosed young man in the middle of the lecture hall. “If it wasn’t the Templars, then who—”

  Dr. Lawton was pleased he’d managed to stir their interests. “Surely you’re familiar with Charlemagne.”

  There were nods all around. A few tapped on their iPads and netbooks. Ms. Jensen leaned forward in her seat.

  “I mention him today only because we are covering paladins, and he birthed them.”

  He noted a few raised eyebrows. “The paladin traces his roots back beyond the establishment of knightly orders,” he stated calmly.

  “Isn’t that a contradiction?” the hawk-nosed man asked. “Didn’t the knights create paladins?”

  Lawton grimaced. “In the eighth century the Twelve Paladins of Charlemagne came into being. They were a dozen powerful soldiers put in charge of his armies. Those twelve protected him and pledged their lives to him.”

  “Roland,” one of the older students offered.

  “He was Charlemagne’s first paladin, yes. If you are curious—” Lawton searched his memory “—Mr. Tarrington, the Song of Roland is in the public domain. A poem of epic adventure and unmatched heroism.” He flipped through the next several slides. “I recommend reading it…though it is by no means required for this course.” He couldn’t help but smile when he saw students taking that down.

  “Roland was the first, but there were others. Can you name them?”

  A hand shot up toward the back. “Ogier the Dane.”

  “I commend you, Ms. Appleton.” He had no trouble remembering her name. She was one of his brightest students. He already had his twelve assembled, but if one of them fell, she was a replacement candidate. Worth grooming. “Yes, Ogier the Dane was one, as well. They carried special swords. Durendal for Roland, Sauvagine and Courtain for Ogier.”

  “They named their swords. Ha.”

  He couldn’t pick out where the affront had come from.

  “Like naming a pet dog or something.”

  That’s when he saw the speaker, wearing a retro Rolling Stones T-shirt. He suspected he’d have to fail him.

  “The three swords were forged by Munifican,” Dr. Lawton said. “Each taking three years to make, so fine and divine the blades were. And,” he added softly so none of the students could hear, “soon all three of Munifican’s prized swords will be mine.”

  Chapter 12

  It looked as if the earth were flipping a defiant finger at heaven, Archard thought as he studied the monument. The stone tower stretched upward, with the top made to resemble a king’s crown. But it looked like a middle finger gesturing skyward.

  He’d done his research. The monument was built in 1869, very near the spot of William Wallace’s victory at Stirling Bridge. It wasn’t a particularly pretty setting, but the stone structure loomed over the Scottish countryside.

  He nosed the rental Fiat into one of the few empty spots in the lot, turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  Sarah nodded. “Yep, let’s do this.”

  The man in the backseat didn’t reply, but got out, rotated his neck and reached down to touch his toes, working off the cramp from sitting in the small car. Ulrich was a tad over six feet tall and very lean. The German’s skin looked as if it had been stretched too tight over his frame, his wrists so bony they looked painful. Gaunt was the word Archard ascribed to the man. Pale, unhealthy. But Ulrich, in his late fifties, was fit enough for this particular task and actually was in deceptively good shape. Archard watched him walk to the trunk.

  “Well?” the German asked.

  Archard thumbed a button on the key chain and the trunk popped open. “We don’t need the…supplies…until tonight.”

  “I want to check on them, the ride and all. And I want my camera.” Ulrich’s accent was more American than German. He’d spent nearly twenty years in the United States, managing an art gallery in Atlanta, Georgia, and lecturing at the university there about ancient art and artifacts. A contemporary of Dr. Lawton’s who met the professor when they were working on their advanced degrees, he’d been a part of this group since his return to Europe in January. Archard liked him. He was a good conversationalist and his intellectual equal.

  It was Saturday, the weather was good and tourists waited on the curving walkway to the monument. It was easier to go unnoticed in the middle of a crowd, which was why he’d picked this day. Archard led the way, pausing near two horse-faced women, probably related, who were reading a plaque. He waited until they were finished before stepping up. Sarah and Ulrich joined him. The German aimed his digital camera at the plaque, but no telltale green light came on. Ulrich was only pretending to take pictures and likely didn’t even have batteries in the camera. Archard hoped no one else noticed.

  At the gate the German paid cash for their admission.

  “First visit to the Wallace Memorial?” the girl behind the counter asked.

  Ulrich nodded, and they fell in line behind the horse-faced women.

  Archard heard her ask the next group the same question.

  More than half the assembly was female, a mix of ages and beauty. A large-breasted woman on the shy side of thirty looked his way and smiled. She had dyed red hair and too much mascara. Her companion was thickset and roughly the same age, trying to cram too many pounds into a pair of jeans. Her legs looked like English bangers.

  The reason for the visit was on the first level, and Archard went there straightaway, Sarah and Ulrich a few paces behind. The Wallace Sword was displayed point down in a thick Plexiglas case that was roped off.

  Archard leaned against the wall, admiring the ancient claymore. The cool stone was rough against his fingertips and had a scent to it that he found preferable to the perfume Sarah had used too liberally this morning.

  A guide entered and gestured to the sword. “The Wallace Sword was kept in Dumbarton Castle for many years before being removed to this monument. Wallace wielded it in the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297 and then a year later in the Battle of Falkirk.”

  “Was this the only sword he used?” a tall woman with wire-rimmed glasses asked.

  “The only one of note. What do you see when you look at it?” th
e guide asked the assembly.

  “I see blood,” Sarah said. “Blood and death, and Wallace responsible for it all. I see courage and sacrifice. I see men slogging across a battlefield, not knowing if the day will be their last.”

  “Uh, yes. Interesting,” the guide said. “According to English records, the governor of Dumbarton Castle was given the sword in 1305. More accounts of the sword are found two hundred years later. Then, King James of Scotland was said to have paid two dozen shillings to an armorer to give the sword a new scabbard, belt and pommel, necessary alterations, as the original scabbard and hilt were supposedly covered with the skin of the English commander Cressingham. There are no more records of the sword until the 1800s, when it was sent for repairs to the Tower of London. Toward the end of that century, it made its way here to the Wallace Monument.” The guide regarded the sword, beaming. “Now, if you will follow me, I’ll take you through the rest of the monument.”

  Archard, Sarah and Ulrich fell into the middle of the group, which started wending its way up a circular staircase. In the Hall of Heroes, there were busts of middle-aged and old men, noble and aristocratic. Archard’s interest in history hadn’t included Scotland, but he was nonetheless familiar with Robert the Bruce, Robbie Burns and, of course, William Wallace. Sarah was intently studying the visages, brow knitted. Archard knew better. She wasn’t interested in the displays, but was doing a good job of looking as if she was.

  “Though Wallace is a true national hero, there were men in his company of equally strong character.” The guide pointed out busts of several who’d lived during that time. “The men following Wallace beat back the armies of the Earl of Surrey and Hugh de Cressingham, treasurer to King Edward.”

  “The guy whose skin was on the scabbard,” a man at the edge of the crowd interjected.

  The guide cleared his throat. “Scottish forces were considered disorganized before Wallace whipped them into shape. The English hadn’t been prepared. Wallace directed his spearmen to advance on Stirling Bridge from the high ground. The English cavalry became cut off from the rest of their soldiers and were quickly slain. Hugh de Cressingham? They flayed him, and historians claim that Wallace indeed took a broad piece of Cressingham’s hide and used it as a baldric for his claymore. It wasn’t an unheard-of practice.”