Читать книгу City Of Swords - Alex Archer - Страница 11

Chapter 4

She drove a 2005 Peugeot 607, four-door, gunmetal-gray. It didn’t look like anything special. Because it was a manual, she was at the wheel rather than her passenger—who was in charge of this foray. The Peugeot handled a little stiffly. She preferred smaller, splashier sports cars, but they’d needed something as nearly invisible as possible. Her window was down, and she had the vent going full blast to cut the reek of smoke left from previous drivers. Her passenger didn’t seem bothered by the smell.

“Do you smoke?” she asked.

“Slower,” he warned. “Wouldn’t want to get in an accident.” He paused. “Or get a speeding ticket.”

“Of course, Archard.” She edged her foot off the gas. “But next time, we rent an automatic and you drive. I am tired of your constant directions.” He had been at her since they’d left Paris, suggesting when she should change lanes and which turnoffs to take. He’d picked the route. He was more familiar with this part of France, but that didn’t mean his constant corrections were any less annoying. Bad enough that she sometimes heard voices in her head. Voices that had told her to take this trip with Archard. She didn’t need him talking, too.

It was nearing noon when they reached Rocamadour. She’d wanted to stop well outside of the town and come in after dark, but Archard had insisted they arrive early. “Being ahead of schedule is always best,” he’d said. She enjoyed his accent, rich and typically French, but he rarely said anything she cared to listen to. “It allows for the unexpected and it lets us look around.”

She knew better than to argue. He was one of Lawton’s senior knights, and at the moment she was just a lackey. With luck, though, and a good performance today, that would change.

“Park in the lower city,” he instructed. “You—”

“I’ve been here before,” she interrupted. A lie, but what did a little one matter? Besides, the place had a population of well less than a thousand, so how hard could it be to find her way around? “Give me a minute and I’ll find a good spot.”

“When were you here?”

She ducked the question by pulling into a small lot and getting out. “Quaint.” Or worse than quaint, she thought. She loved Paris—so busy, lively, colorful, loud. This was anything but. Perched on a rocky plateau that overlooked the Alzou valley, the town was known for its incredible views and historical religious sites.

“So why way down here?” she asked. “We have to—”

“For a handful of hours, we are sightseers, Sarah. Enjoying the weather, taking a tour, stopping for lunch.”

She let him steer her to the second floor of the Envies de Terroir, where she was happy to discover a handsome waiter who spoke English. They took a table by the window, one a little large for just the two of them, but it was away from the other diners and they could talk without being overheard. Archard ordered the lunch special for them: ventrèche and tomato tartine, and glasses of wine.

“I’m surprised you’re drinking,” she said. “More, that you’re letting me drink.”

“We’ll walk it off long before tonight.” Later, he ordered a second glass, and she was quick to ask for a raspberry-and-almond tart from the cart the waiter was pushing.

“Since you’re buying,” she said, as she took a bite and savored the rich dessert. “Good food. Place is a little quiet, but it’ll do.” Everything was a little quiet here.

He finished his wine, paid the bill and led her out onto the street.

“More than a million tourists come here every year, Sarah. Some for the wine, most for the buildings. Pilgrims, too.”

“Were you one of them? A pilgrim?”

He nodded. “That was many years ago.”

“How many?” Archard wasn’t that old. In his late thirties, maybe forty tops, Sarah guessed, which put him at about twice her age.

“I was young,” he answered. “Let’s ride the elevator from the lower town, Basse Ville. We’ll take the stairs tonight.”

The architecture was amazing, and Sarah wished she really had been here before, so she could have taken time to properly explore. She had been enrolled as a European history major when she’d dropped out of the University of Provence Aix-Marseille a month ago, in her second semester. Her current career path was more interesting.

Archard remained silent while a few more tourists boarded the elevator and it started its ascent. A young woman in a low-cut shirt was pressed against him, but he showed no reaction. “When you were here before, Sarah, did you come for the Black Madonna? The centerpiece of Chapelle Notre-Dame?”

“Sure. A casual tourist, you know.” She had to stop lying in an effort to impress this man.

Sarah watched as the cluster of churches and chapels came into view, and then quickly stepped out of the elevator when it reached the top. She and Archard pretended to browse the souvenir shops before taking a walking tour of the Basilique St-Sauveur.

The hours ticked by and she found herself actually enjoying the day. Until the sun started to set and they took the last elevator ride back down to the lower town, and anxiety set in. Archard noticed.

“Are you certain you’re up for this, Sarah?”

“It’s what we came here for, right? And you can’t do it without me.” She thrust out her chin and exhaled, fluttering her curls against her forehead. “Yes, I’m up for this. I’ve been looking forward to this since Dr. Lawton lectured about it.”

“Dinner first.”

“But—”

“We need the night, and a good meal will help pass the time. Aren’t you hungry?”

Dinner was at the Beau Site Jehan de Valon, and she ordered for herself this time: an omelet with truffles, one of the most expensive items on the menu, and a salad. Archard opted for the duck-steak carpaccio with sliced cantaloupe. They both had a liberal amount of coffee.

“So you were a pilgrim....” She didn’t know much about Archard other than that he was divorced.

“I studied with the Benedictine monks here, and I had the good fortune to scrub the floor of the Chapelle Miraculeuse, where the tomb of Saint Amadour is located.”

“And he is—?” Sarah sucked in her bottom lip, angry with herself for letting slip her ignorance.

“No one to concern us tonight.”

She shrugged and looked out the window, watching four women carrying lit candles.

“So the Chapelle Mirac—”

“Is not where we are going.”

“I know. I took courses from Dr. Lawton first semester and—”

“That makes you an expert, eh?” Archard’s eyes twinkled in amusement.

“Dark enough yet?”

“Yes, but not late enough. Patience, Sarah. Patience is—”

“A virtue.”

They got candles out of the trunk of the rental car and joined a small procession climbing up the Grand Escalier, a weathered stone stairway to the chapels they’d toured earlier in the day. Sarah counted the steps: two hundred sixteen. No wonder they’d taken the elevator the first time, she thought. The climb wasn’t taxing to her, though. In fact she wished the people in front of them would walk faster. They paused at each of the fourteen stations of the cross until they reached the Cross of Jerusalem, at the top.

She thought Archard would be winded, given the years he had on her. But he surprised her, showing no sign of fatigue. The same could not be said for some of the tourists who’d ascended with them.

“When you came here on a pilgrimage—” she started to ask.

“I took the stairs on my knees, as is customary when seeking penance.”

“Tough on your pants, I’ll bet.” And penance for what?

His eyes narrowed. “This is a holy place. Your footsteps will fall on stones touched by Zacchaeus of Jericho, Saint Dominic, Saint Bernard—perhaps even Charlemagne, when he prepared to fight the Spanish Moors. Miracles happen here, healings, conversions. Do not mock this place.”

“Sorry.”

The buildings looked different in the dark, the Romanesque-Gothic style made eerie in the flickering light from the candles and the pale glow that spilled from a few windows.

Sarah and Archard mingled with the tourists, many of them praying softly, their voices lost in the strains of a chant coming from the nearest chapel. Archard prayed, too, though she couldn’t hear him. She just noticed his lips move and his thumbs rub against the base of his candle. She hadn’t been to church since she’d lived with her parents in Delaware, but she wasn’t irreligious. Deciding that it would be appropriate to copy the others—and that God might actually pay attention here—Sarah bowed her head and prayed that she wouldn’t screw up.

An hour later, she and Archard tossed their candles and hid in an alcove of the Basilique St-Sauveur, where they waited until the last tourist left. Sarah guessed that it was early morning, maybe two or three, judging by how tired she was. The buzz from the coffee had worn off a while ago, and now she had an urgent need to find a bush to squat behind.

“I’ll see to security,” Archard whispered. She had to strain to hear him. “In a few minutes I’ll meet you inside the Chapelle.”

She watched him leave, and then slipped outside to pay the rent on the coffee. There was no one milling around—a good thing. But she knew the place would be bustling in a handful of hours...especially if she and Archard succeeded.

Sarah returned to the alcove, counted to one hundred, then glided next door to the Chapelle Notre-Dame. Archard said there was security, and she had no doubt it was high-tech, though decidedly out of place in the old buildings. The Black Madonna, which she’d read about in a tourist pamphlet in one of the souvenir shops, was the focal point of this building. Hopefully, the bulk of the security efforts were tied to the Madonna. Sarah waited a second count of one hundred. Still no Archard.

“Great,” she breathed. So far she’d done nothing illegal; she could hightail it out of here and go back to her studio apartment on Avenue Georges V. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath and went through the arch. When she didn’t hear any alarms go off, she let her breath out. She pulled a tiny flashlight out of her pocket, cupped her hand over the top and aimed it around until she found what she was looking for. Then she switched if off, tiptoed to the wall and took off her shoes. She didn’t want the hard rubber soles marring the wall or squeaking. She tugged a pair of tight-fitting gloves out of her pocket and wiggled into them, though she wasn’t especially worried about leaving fingerprints. She’d never been in trouble before. Still, it was a precaution.

Where was Archard?

She felt along the wall and found the natural cracks in the stonework. Wedging her fingers in, she slowly and quietly pulled herself up. The muscles in her arms bunched and her chest tightened. Nerves. Sarah thought of the chant she’d listened to earlier. The sound had been soothing. Relax. She pulled herself higher, relying only on her handholds, her feet spread in a ballet dancer’s second position against the stone.

Relax.

Sarah felt a ledge and gripped it. The pain in her fingers helped her focus. A little higher and there was a second ledge, which she pulled herself onto, resting her knees. Finding a good handhold, she leaned backward, one arm outstretched, fingers searching...searching...finding a beam. She wrapped her arms and legs around it and inched out upside down. If she fell, she might break a leg or something. It probably wouldn’t kill her but would get her in a world of trouble, and Dr. Lawton would be furious.

Where in the hell was Archard?

Farther. A little farther. It was so dark in here. She was on the underside of an overhang, and the shadows were making this more than a little difficult. The flashlight wasn’t an option. It had been risky using it the first time. A dozen or so more inches and...there! Her eyes managed to distinguish the blackness just enough. She clamped her legs tight on the beam, stretched out and wrapped her fingers around the pommel. The sword was suspended from the ceiling just beyond the archway. Sarah cursed herself for not looking closer when they’d taken the tour this afternoon. Maybe she could have asked one of the monks what was holding it. She tugged without success.

“Dammit!” The whispered word bounced off the stone and came back at her.

She inched out farther, pulled harder, ground her teeth together and gave it one more yank.

She heard a loud snap.

A little too loud. Sarah wished she hadn’t drunk so much coffee. The voices in her head encouraged her. You can do this. You can do this now. The sword still wasn’t free, just loose from one of the cords. How many were holding it? Didn’t matter. She’d come too far to stop. She pulled again, as hard as she could, and was rewarded with a second snap and the sensation of falling. She managed to catch herself with her legs, but was dangling, her free arm flailing, the sword grasped in the other. Made of iron, the weapon was heavy. She squeezed the pommel tight so she wouldn’t drop it.

“C’mon. C’mon.” Sarah drew herself up, wrapping her free arm around the beam and wedging the sword against her chest. Getting back to the wall took what felt like an eternity, and then another long stretch of time passed before she reached the floor. She laid the sword down very slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound against the stone, then put her shoes back on and picked the blade up again.

She plastered herself against the wall, taking even, shallow breaths and listening. No footfalls. Nothing except her heart pounding thunderously. Her back against the blocks, she crept along the alcove, stopping every few steps to listen again.

Now to get out of here.

The sky was lighter outside than when she’d gone in the Chapelle. No, she decided, the inside of the building had just been dark in contrast. Only minutes had passed, not the hours it had felt like. Light from the scattering of streetlamps in the Basse Ville, the part of the town below the cliff, seeped up like the glow from a halo.

Sarah pulled in a sharp breath when she heard a footfall against gravel. A monk! No, not one of the monks. It was Archard. He came around the side of the Chapelle and headed toward her.

“Where the hell were—”

He set his finger to his lips and took the heavy sword from her. Then he nodded toward the stairs. “Hurry,” he whispered in her ear.

“Where were you?” she persisted in a murmur.

“A little more security than I expected.” He pulled her into a niche between the buildings and then grabbed her hand, tugging off her glove and touching her fingers to the tip of the stolen sword. It was broken, jagged. “So it is real. See? The genuine one. You did great. Now get the rest of it. I’ll meet you at the car.” He reached into a pocket and handed her a small GPS device. It blinked softly with her coordinates. From another pocket he produced a chisel. “And, Sarah, speed would be good.”

Getting “the rest of it” proved much easier said than done.

They motored out of the village at dawn, her bleeding fingers gripping the steering wheel of the Peugeot, her clothes torn, her knees badly scraped and every inch of her throbbing.