City Of Swords

“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.