City of Swords

by Alex Archer

  “Ghastly,” said the sausage-legged woman.

  Her friend giggled.

  The guide raised his voice to continue his memorized speech. “Wallace showed England that infantry could defeat cavalry. Though Scottish casualties weren’t recorded, the English claimed to lose one hundred cavalry and five thousand infantrymen. Unfortunately, Wallace didn’t get to keep his title of Guardian of Scotland for long. During the summer of 1298, King Edward brought his army north from Flanders. On the field of Falkirk, Wallace was defeated. He eluded capture, however, for a few years.”

  An elderly man raised his hand. “I watched Braveheart,” he said in a British accent. “Saw it twice. How close was it to—”

  “Not close,” the guide said. “But it was far from a terrible movie.”

  “They gutted Mel Gibson,” said a middle-aged woman in a short skirt, heels and tight sweater. She was someone who would have aroused Archard a few years ago. “Well, they made you think they were cutting him open and pulling his innards out.”

  “His character,” the sausage-legged woman corrected. “They gutted his character.”

  The guide eyed the assembly. “Ah, there are no wee babes here today, and so I will add this bit. Wallace was captured in August 1305, taken to London and tried for treason. Finding him guilty, they put a garland of oak on his head…pronouncing him king of outlaws. History recorded his response—‘I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was never his subject.’ Wallace called the absent John Balliol his king.”

  There was a wave of murmurs from the Scots in attendance. The woman with the sausage legs said, “And the real Wallace looked better than Mel Gibson.”

  “Wallace’s death was prolonged,” the guide continued. “They stripped him and dragged him through London behind a horse. Then he was hanged, strangled but not yet killed, taken down, castrated, gutted and his intestines burned while he still breathed. Quartered, his head was cut off and put on a pole on London Bridge.”

  The large-breasted redhead made a choking sound.

  “Then they beheaded Wallace’s brothers and put their heads on display, too,” the guide finished.

  Archard stepped inside the small gift shop. On the lowest level, the crowd began to break up. He selected a key chain with a replica of the Wallace Sword, and moved to the counter. One of the horse-faced women was there with a stack of postcards. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah hold up a rose-colored T-shirt with a picture of the Wallace statue on it. “Whatcha think?” she asked Ulrich. Archard didn’t hear if the German replied.

  “Can I help you?” The horse-faced woman had left, and the employee at the register was reaching for Archard’s key chain.

  “This…and a pack of gum,” he said. “Any flavor.”

  “Any?”

  “Which one do you like?”

  Her eyes twinkled. “The cinnamon. It has a bit of a bite to it. Tickles my tongue.”

  “A pack of cinnamon, then.” He paused. “No, make it two.”

  She grinned and rang up his sale. A few years ago he would have asked her out after her shift ended, and he had no doubt that she would have accepted.

  “Thank you,” he said, moving away and making room for the elderly man who was buying a postcard.

  Ulrich was studying the door frame of the gift shop, eyes drifting up to the security camera. The German had been taking note of all the cameras in the tower and how they were wired. Of course, the devices would be operated from some tucked-away office.

  Archard had noted a camera near the display of the Wallace Sword, one more in the stairwell and then one near the top, where the most elaborate statues were arrayed. If there were more, he trusted Ulrich had noticed them. However, he suspected there wasn’t a lot of security here, the statues being too big to easily haul away. The gift shop was likely a target because of the cash register and some of the pricier souvenirs. And the sword, of course. He considered that the Wallace Monument’s greatest treasure.

  Archard left the gift shop and headed outside, glad when Sarah and Ulrich followed a few minutes later. He didn’t want to linger at the monument too long, certainly didn’t want to do anything to stand out. He chastised himself for the cinnamon gum; the clerk would remember him for that. But that wouldn’t link him to the upcoming theft.

  They spent the rest of the day in town, playing tourists up from Paris and eating a lengthy dinner that the German paid for. They returned to the Wallace Monument shortly before midnight, seeing only one other car, no doubt belonging to the security guard. One car. Probably just one man. Archard suspected the watch would be doubled after tonight.

  “Shall we?” He got out of the car and waited until Sarah and Ulrich retrieved backpacks from the trunk. They walked around to the far side of the monument, to the door used by staff. Sarah set to work on the lock, while Ulrich clipped the wires on the outside security camera and alarm.

  Slipping inside, Archard paused and let his eyes adjust to the dim lights of the corridor. He motioned to a door marked Office, and Ulrich went inside. Sarah stayed in the hall, head cocked, listening. Archard heard what she was paying attention to: footsteps. Going up, from the sound of it. Maybe the security man was on a regular patrol. It was a good distance to the top, so that would buy the German time.

  Ulrich knew security systems even better than Archard. At the art gallery in Atlanta, he’d constantly updated the monitors and added upgrades to the video feeds. He’d also learned how to disable them. Archard brushed past Sarah so he could watch Ulrich disable the system of the Wallace Monument. Everything Archard knew had come from questionable sites on the internet. Sarah’s burgeoning skills were mostly internet acquired, too.

  Next, they went to the sword room, and Ulrich disabled an independent security sensor affixed to the back of the Wallace Sword display. While Archard and Sarah stood watch, listening for the guard, the German produced a thin cutter he ran down a seam of the Plexiglas. Within a handful of minutes, he’d opened the case.

  The metal blade was more than four feet long, nearly two and a half inches wide at the thickest part and tapering to three-quarter of an inch before the tip. After holding it for a few moments, Archard decided it felt heavier than the six pounds the display plaque claimed. He passed it to Sarah, who held it in front of her with both hands. Blade and pommel together made it taller than she was, and she lowered it quickly. “Only six pounds, eh? I don’t think so.”

  “Shh.” Archard took it from her and held it out. “It’s where the weight is distributed,” he said softly, “that makes it difficult to hold for any amount of time. I’d say this was quite lethal on the battlefield.”

  Sarah retrieved a length of folded canvas from her pack and laid it out on the floor. He set the sword on it and wrapped it up.

  “I’ve made an error.” He smiled ruefully. “This won’t fit in the trunk of the Fiat.”

  “I’ll be cramped in the backseat, then.” Ulrich sighed.

  “No, I think it’s Sarah’s turn to be cramped.” Archard picked up the bundle. “Time to leave.”

  They were at the back door when they heard footfalls coming back down.

  And they were in their car and pulling away when the security guard saw the opened, empty case in the Wallace Sword room.

  Chapter 13

  The drizzle painted everything gray. Annja thought it suited her mood.

  Despite the weather, tourists were out, making the walk up the long flight of steps, although more than a few were grumbling about it. There was an elevator, but a sign indicated the power was out. At least the rain was gentle, not like the storm that had drenched Avignon—and her and Rembert—two days ago.

  She’d said goodbye to him last night. It was more than twenty-four hours after the flight he’d wanted to take back to New York. But he’d been treated at the hospital and then quizzed at length through a pair of interpreters at the police station. About the death of the Romany under the bridge. They made it clear that Rembert wasn’t a suspe
ct, but he was apparently the sole witness—even though someone on the barge had reported seeing two people running up the bank. Rembert hadn’t said too much about the incident.

  He had mentioned her, of course, and that they’d been lured to the river with the promise of an interview for a TV show they were working on. Then the Romanies had tried to mug them, figuring them to be rich Americans—Annja especially, because she was a television personality. Rembert said everything went fuzzy after that because of the beating he’d sustained.

  Annja had arrived later at the police station and backed up his story. She admitted to leaving the scene, but only to chase the other Romany, whom she said she lost sight of downtown. A few shopkeepers corroborated her report.

  There was no mention of a sword.

  The police were left mystified about who actually killed the Romany, though the officer in charge speculated that perhaps the partner who fled was responsible, not wanting to share the Americans’ money. Both Rembert and Annja swore the two Romanies had knives and bad tempers, which was the truth. Perhaps if the dead man hadn’t been Romany, if he hadn’t had a switchblade, the officials would have looked closer into the case. But the police weren’t heartbroken over this guy’s death. And so Annja and Rembert had been cut loose.

  Rembert vowed never to come back to France.

  Annja stopped at one of the stations of the cross, standing behind a middle-aged woman. She offered a brief prayer for Rembert and his family, hoping that everything would turn out well for his daughter and the baby. Rembert a grandfather? She smiled. A rather young grandfather.

  When she returned to New York, she’d have to look him up. Dear God, let him keep his mouth shut back home about the sword….

  Two hundred and sixteen. She wondered if there was some significance to the number of steps. They were so worn in places, some in desperate need of repair and a potential hazard to the people using them. But she hoped the town officials wouldn’t touch them; let them be, let the years and the constant tread of feet continue to wear them away.

  At the top she stood quietly and took in the ancient buildings. There were no historical monsters here to document for her producer, but the archaeologist in her would love to do an in-depth special about the oldest of the cloisters—and the monks who continued to live here. Too bad there was no tie-in for her program. It smelled fresh, in part because the drizzle washed everything clean, brightening the aged stone. The air was so clear this high up, with no trace of exhaust or other pollutants, just a hint of a campfire and something roasting. Wildflowers grew in patches of dirt between the slabs of rock.

  Annja hadn’t asked Rembert about the baby’s father, and he certainly hadn’t volunteered anything. His daughter wasn’t married. They’d set up a nursery in what had been Rembert’s office. The daughter—Jane?—was going to keep the baby. Even without it having a father, Annja envied the infant. She’d grown up in an orphanage in New Orleans, and though her childhood hadn’t been horrible, it had been horribly empty. Rembert’s grandchild would at least know one parent. Annja decided to find a baby gift in France before she left.

  Her producer hadn’t been happy about her decision to take a week’s vacation rather than return with Rembert. Doug had argued with her, but then backed off. He always backed off.

  A week, she’d told him. She would give herself that long to delve into this stolen-sword mystery.

  She passed the final station of the cross and stepped out onto a path of wet clay. Following it, Annja came to an arch too low for a car to pass under, though she saw depressions from repeated traffic by carts and bicycles. A small group of tourists were huddled under it. One of them held up against the drizzle a windbreaker that read Rocamadour Rocks. It displayed a picture of one of the abbeys poised on the edge of the cliff as if about to dive into the sea.

  Annja spotted a tall monk standing under an overhang a dozen yards away. He had his cowl pushed back, and she recognized his face from a picture she’d seen on the internet: Brother Maynard.

  Thrusting her hands in her pockets, she headed his way. She walked quietly, but he either saw or heard her, and turned. He had a long, handsome face and kind, sad eyes.

  “Miss Annja Creed? The television archaeologist? The one who inquired about our stolen sword?” His English was perfect. “I have watched some of your programs. Ancient Egyptians in Australia and teakwood coffins in caves in Thailand. Very interesting.”

  She nodded. “Yes, those segments would be mine.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed thick wires running along the tops of a few of the buildings, some coming down to lights above doorways. The modern convenience of electricity and phone cables looked incongruous up here. “But the Australian segment was quite some time ago.”

  “I rarely see anything first-run,” he said. “Please, come inside and dry off.”

  She followed him through a tunnel that opened into a room filled with polished walnut benches. Electric lights shaped like candles hung from the center on iron chandeliers, leaving everything appropriately dim. The place was a little deceptive. From the outside the building didn’t look so deep. Some of it must have been carved into the mountain itself.

  “So it was stolen from this room.” Annja looked around, trying to see where it might have been displayed.

  Brother Maynard gestured toward the archway they’d come through. “It was hanging there. We removed the cords, but Brother Viland intends to replace the sword with a replica.”

  “I thought it was a copy that hung there.”

  “Ah, yes, the mayor was on record saying that the sword we displayed was not really Roland’s, that it was a replica. I think he honestly believed that. But it was genuine. Unless it can be recovered, the one that will replace it will be whole.”

  Annja studied the archway, noticing the hooks the sword had hung from. She heard music coming from somewhere below. Soft conversations in French drifted in through the entrance. Someone laughed. The woman Annja had stopped behind at one of stations of the cross came in. Annja and the monk remained silent until after she left.

  “Whole? The sword you had was broken?”

  “Legend had it,” the monk explained, “that Roland was on the cliff, helping to hold off an army so that Charlemagne and his men could retreat. He’d intended to destroy the sword so it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands, but the blade proved indestructible. He hid it beneath his body, some say. Others say he threw it off the cliff.”

  “And you support the cliff version.”

  “High in the stone, there is a gash where part of the sword remained for centuries.”

  “Part?”

  The monk smoothed a fold in his robe. “Roland inadvertently broke his ‘indestructible’ sword when he threw it off the cliff. The tip lodged in the rock and the blade snapped. The sword that hung from our ceiling over there had a section missing.”

  “Don’t you have—” Annja grimaced “—security?” It was a shame that such a sacred place needed it.

  “Of course, but apparently it wasn’t adequate, and Brother Viland discovered that the system had been dismantled. It wasn’t an expensive system, and it was old. We had little fear of thieves.” He waved his hand to indicate the wooden benches and the iron lights. “What is there here that someone would want to steal?”

  “The sword.”

  The monk scowled. “I wish the thief had believed it was a replica. A shame and a sin…”

  Annja padded over to stand beneath the hooks. “They would have needed a ladder.”

  She didn’t hear the monk come up behind her. He touched her shoulder. “I don’t think so.” He stepped to the wall next to the archway and pointed to a spot in the stone that was shiny, as if it had been polished. “There and there and there.”

  “Someone climbed the wall.” Annja reached for one of the handholds the thief had used. She could have managed it, but it would have been difficult. “Impressive.”

  “A shame,” Brother Maynard repeated. “And a sin.
”

  “Very much a shame.”

  “It’s unfortunate we didn’t sell the sword last year.”

  Annja glanced at him in surprise. “Someone tried to buy it? Maybe that’s who stole it.”

  The monk shook his head. “It was an older gentleman, a doctor from the south. He offered a good price, and Brother Viland considered it. Perhaps we should have accepted.”

  “This doctor—”

  “I don’t recall his name, but he couldn’t have climbed the wall.”

  “A doctor.”

  The monk scratched at his chin. “He was polite and didn’t press us.”

  She walked out through the archway and again stood in the drizzle. The monk joined her. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Brother Maynard.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Annja Creed.”

  Chapter 14

  The power had come back on and the elevator was working, but Annja took the two hundred and sixteen steps back down, not minding the drizzle and enjoying the solitude, as no one else was using the stairway. She’d booked a room in the Grand Hôtel Beau Site, a Best Western in the lower part of town. On the way to it, in one homey, sandalwood-scented shop, she found a small crocheted throw with the image of the Black Madonna and the main station of the cross. It would make a lovely baby blanket, a memory of Rembert’s visit to France…. On second thought, she put the throw back on the shelf and decided a U.S. savings bond would be a more welcome gift. Rembert might not want to remember anything about France. She picked out a few postcards, and also bought a soft drink and chips, which she made quick work of devouring under an awning. Then she walked around the lower city until even the tourists who didn’t mind the weather disappeared for dinner.

  She settled into her room at the Beau Site, taking a hot bath to chase off the chill and snuggling into a voluminous robe the hotel provided. She moved her laptop from one corner to the next until she finally found a spot where the Wi-Fi worked well and she could get on the internet. She paused in her search about Roland and Durendal long enough to answer the door for room service: giant prawns, duck foie gras with strawberry chutney and chocolate mousse on a cookie covered with mint ice cream, as well as an iced parfait with almonds and caramelized apricots. The waiter rolled in a small table with service for two; she’d certainly ordered enough for two people. But Annja hadn’t eaten a full meal since breakfast and was famished. She had an unreal metabolism that resulted in high restaurant tabs. But she made enough with her Chasing History’s Monsters gig to more than cover her appetite.