Authors: Alex Archer
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 suspect, 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.
Annja surfed the internet while she ate, washing everything down with a large chilled bottle of Perrier. She started with the theft reports from the cloister here in town. Nothing new since she’d looked yesterday and nothing that Brother Maynard hadn’t revealed, except for attesting to the sword’s authenticity.
Durendal had been taken after her fight at the train station in Paris, but before the Romany pair had come after her and Rembert under the Avignon bridge. Were the incidents related? Was the same gang involved? Annja didn’t believe in coincidences. Avignon, Rocamadour and Paris…the targeted swords were the common factor. But Brother Maynard hadn’t remembered seeing any Romany tourists the day Roland’s sword was stolen.
On a whim, she checked eBay. There was an assortment of old swords listed for sale, but nothing matching Durendal’s description. Definitely old stuff, though, some of the swords pretty valuable. A few offered proof of authenticity. She was familiar with other internet sites that dealt with antiquities whose origins were murky. Some of the relics stolen from the Egyptian museum in Cairo in recent years were sold this way. A few of the items were recovered in bidding wars, but the thieves were never apprehended. Tonight nothing caught her eye. Durendal—or anything that looked like it—was not for sale online. The oldest authentic piece was a saber from the Civil War.
The hours melted away as Annja lost herself in historical tidbits in the various electronic nooks and crannies of the World Wide Web. One link led to another and another, tugging her along.
“Nothing. Nothing. Noth—”
Something. Here was a news report, an entry just posted, several minutes ago, about a theft of an old sword from the Wallace Memorial near Stirling, Scotland. It included a picture of the Wallace Sword, a massive claymore meant to be wielded two-handed, once owned by the Scottish martyr.
Durendal.
The Wallace Sword.
And the attempt on her sword.
“A collector,” the Romany youth had said when she’d pressed him up against the wall in Avignon.
No coincidence. The incidents were indeed all related. Someone was collecting historical weapons. Had there been more thefts?
It was midnight. She’d intended to turn in early so she could return to Paris first thing, to find leads there. Instead, she ordered another plate of giant prawns from room service and kept at it.
Durendal.
The Wallace Sword.
She posted questions on some of the chat sites frequented by archaeologists and treasure hunters. Had anyone heard of ancient weapons gone missing? Stolen? Sold?
She was about ready to give up when she got a nibble from a Ph.D. student in Sendai, Japan. The university there was back in session. He was an American studying for his doctorate in astronomy, but all things Japanese intrigued him, and he’d come across a recent report of a historical katana that had been sold for a ridiculously low price. He referred her to a story covered in the English edition of a local paper.
Annja emailed him her thanks and clicked open the link.
Honjo Masamune was the name of a sword sold to a French college professor visiting Tokyo last month. She clicked one link after the next, pulling up file after file, settling on one at a Japanese museum’s website that seemed to have the most complete account. She searched until she found an English translation. Masamune had been a celebrated swordsmith, considered Japan’s best weapons maker. He’d fashioned many blades, ones in collections throughout the world worth small fortunes. One sword in particular was famous—the Honjo Masamune, passed down throughout the shogunate period.
Records claim that Masamune had lived in the mid-1200s to early 1300s. He’d been trained by Masters Saburo Kunimune and Awataguchi Kunitsuna—names that meant nothing to Annja—and was known for making exceptional blades at a time when steel was usually riddled with imperfections. Some of his swords, called
tachi
in Japanese, were laced with a pearly substance that made them shimmer. They were noted for having gray shadows on the front of the blade and clear lines on the leading edge. Annja’s own sword had similar lines and shadows. The Masamune Prize was presented at Japanese sword-making competitions to this day.
The Honjo Masamune was considered his greatest creation, possibly the finest sword ever made in all of Japan. It was likely named for General Honjo Shigenaga, who’d acquired it during a battle. Annja dug deeper, finding the history fascinating. Shigenaga had been attacked with the blade, which split his helmet. Though injured, he survived and claimed the sword as a prize. After that, it passed from one hand to the next, sometimes sold, sometimes inherited. It was declared a national treasure in the 1930s. The last Japanese owner was a Tokugawa Iemasa, who gave it to the Mejiro police station in December 1945. A month later that sword and fourteen others were given to Coldy Bimore, a sergeant in the U.S. 7th Cavalry.
From there the sword was sold to various foreign collectors, first in the United States, then Europe, returning to Japan, where it was sold again, just a month ago. Its owner had lost practically everything in the 2011 tsunami. Japanese museum officials were horrified that it only went for a million dollars. It was worth far more, but the museums were in no position to outbid the collector.
The name of the buyer, a college professor, was Archard Gihon. The academic world wasn’t known for exorbitant salaries, so Annja figured he likely came from money, to be able to afford something like this. And he was French. She started searching for information about him and came up with frustratingly little. A professor of religious studies born in Nice, currently on sabbatical, married once and divorced. The only name listed for his ex-wife was Beatrice. He’d written a doctoral thesis on comparative religions in modern European society and published several related articles. Nothing here indicated he’d have the money to buy an expensive sword, let alone afford a lengthy trip to Japan. No mention of inheritance, no address listed. She was intending to return to Paris tomorrow—later today, she amended, when she saw that her laptop read 3:12 a.m.—and a visit to the university to discover more about Archard Gihon was in order.
She bookmarked a few sites, then set her laptop up to recharge. Crawling into bed, she fell asleep quickly…and slipped into a dream.
In it, Annja walked barefoot down a street paved with bricks. Her breath puffed out in little clouds. She saw goose bumps on her arms and frost on the roof of a house, but she wasn’t cold. The buildings were old, like the ones in Avignon, but not as large. The windows were shuttered, but soft light spilled out from cracks in some of them. She tipped her head back, seeing a great display of stars.
Annja continued walking. The place looked familiar, comfortable, and yet she couldn’t name it. Roux would know. He was here at her side. But she didn’t want to break the silence.
A signpost loomed into view, but she couldn’t read it. The stars provided enough light, but the letters were a jumble, shifting in and out of focus and rearranging themselves as she stared. Annja looked away and spied a face peering at her from the lone open window. It was a young woman, her hair pulled back severely. A plain woman, but the more Annja looked, the more she realized it was a singular face, beautiful in its simplicity and purity. Roux saw the woman, too, and nodded as if he knew her.
Who is she?
Annja asked. She felt she should know her. But the question was in her head; no sound came out to break the perfect silence.
Who is she? And who am I?
Her hands looked different to her. And she wore a silver ring on one finger and a twine bracelet on her wrist. There was a scar on the back of her right hand that she couldn’t recall.
In her dream there wasn’t a single car in sight. Only hitching posts and a water trough. The air was fresh, as it had been on the Avignon cliff outside the cloister where Roland’s sword had been stolen. She suddenly realized she had a sword, too. It materialized in her hands.
Joan of Arc’s sword.
Annja swallowed hard, her throat constricting and a rock forming in her stomach. She’d had dreams like this before—nightmares. This time she was Joan. Roux took the sword from her grasp, kissed her cheek and melted into the bricks. Men sprang up where blades of grass had poked through the cracks near her feet, some in armor, some looking determined and angry. There was pity on the faces of others.
Shutters were thrown open, and more faces appeared, all of them young and unlined, women with their hair pulled back tightly. All staring at her with unreadable expressions. All the same women. All Joan.
Annja didn’t need the men prodding her; she knew where she was going. It was falling into place now. Rouen, May 1431. She—Joan—had been tried for heresy, condemned and sentenced to die. Annja quickened her pace, leaving the men behind as she headed toward the center of town, toward the pillar. Time to end this nightmare. She climbed up and stood against the tall wooden post, accepting a cross made of twigs that someone thrust into her hands. Usually in the dreams she was bound there, but not this time.
Annja hadn’t felt the cold, but she felt the heat as flames started crackling all around her. The clean air was fouled by the burning wood and the stench from her flesh as it was charred. One of the soldiers raised his sword, and through the smoke she saw the blade transform into hers—Joan’s. Other hands were raised, swords appearing in them, too. One soldier held a great two-handed claymore…the Wallace Sword. Another sword had a broken tip…Durendal. It was a veritable city of swords, so many she couldn’t count them. One blade was a katana…the Honjo Masamune?
The closest sword was familiar, too, but the flames were growing wilder and it was hard to see the details. That sword was held by Geoffroy Therage, Joan’s executioner. “I greatly fear I will be damned,” she heard him say. Then Geoffroy took the familiar blade and thrust it through the flames at her, piercing her heart.
Annja awoke sweating profusely, the damp sheets tangled around her.
That was a variation of the dream she’d never had before.
Her laptop chirped to announce an incoming email. One of her contacts had sent her a notice about an historic sword going up for auction tomorrow. In Spain.
Annja was quick to book a flight out of France.