“And what lies under Avignon?”
She wondered why Roux was curious. If he could somehow always tell where she was, why would he bother to pry?
“Just making conversation, Annja.”
Was he privy to her thoughts? No, she knew that was beyond him. She smiled wistfully. “The cynocephalus and Saint Christopher.”
In the haze from a streetlight, Annja saw Roux’s eyebrows arch. In the light he appeared old, as if in his seventies, though he was considerably older than that. His white hair caught the light and he’d trimmed his beard since she’d seen him last. His skin was like worn leather, but he didn’t look older than when she’d met him.
“Old man, you don’t know about Saint Christopher and the legend of the cynocephalus?”
His grin revealed white, even teeth. “Sorry, no.”
“Cynocephali are said to be dog-headed men who serve like the Benedictine monks. Centuries back they supposedly sent a delegation to the pope in Avignon. Some of the medieval legends paint Saint Christopher as one of the cynocephali.”
“Fascinating.”
She doubted Roux was fascinated by the trivia. “In any event, my producer found a posting on the internet that some dog-headed men were spotted by tourists in Avignon a few weeks ago.”
Roux tipped his head back. “Probably some costumed youths.”
“Or real dogs transformed by Photoshop.”
“Beautiful place, Avignon. The City of the Popes in the thirteen and fourteen hundreds.”
“During the Catholic schism,” Annja added. “I’ve been there before. And I don’t get tired of it. One of the few cities in France to have maintained its ramparts and Rocher des Doms.”
“And the bridge of Avignon.” Roux’s face took on a vacant look, as if he was lost in some long-ago memory. “On the left bank of the Rhône.” He paused. “And the place where Annja Creed will chase her next historical monster.”
He pivoted to stand in front of her, his pale blue eyes peering into her green ones.
“Be careful, Annja, that a historical monster does not come chasing you.”
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