by Alex Archer
“Are you okay?”
“Battered, bruised, but yeah, I’m fine. He isn’t. He went over the side. It was a long way down, Garin. A long way...”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
Breathing.
Garin was thinking.
“We still need to find the sword,” Roux said. She hadn’t realized she was on speaker. There was no emotion in his voice, no triumph, no anger. Not even disappointment. “Assuming the sword wasn’t in the wreckage with him, we need to go to his house. He has two children, a son and daughter in their mid-twenties.”
“I’ll go first thing in the morning,” she said.
“Why wait?” Garin asked.
“Self-preservation. If the police see my car they’re going to put two and two together. Given the state of it, it’s obvious it’s been in a crash, believe me. I’d rather not explain how my nice new hire car has picked up those dents.”
“How bad are we talking?” he asked. “Like broken wing mirror and a few dents bad, or write-off bad?”
“Bad enough. He slammed into me half a dozen times, then I took him side-on and made a mess of the entire passenger’s side door panels.”
“So more than a few scratches, then. Good job.”
“I’m not the one who went off the side of the cliff and down a three-hundred-foot drop, so yeah, I’d say so.”
“Kill or be killed,” Garin concluded. She wished he’d found a different way of saying it, but he was right. That was the choice Owen Llewellyn had forced on her. And she hadn’t pushed him over the edge. Not really.
“Where are you at the moment?” Roux asked.
“Caerphilly.”
“Caer means castle, you know, in Welsh,” Garin put in helpfully.
“I know,” she replied, surprised at him knowing this snippet of information. “I’m looking at one right now. I am surprised, however, that you know.”
“I’m full of surprises. I’ll make a few calls about the car,” he said. “Don’t go wandering off.”
“Thanks,” she replied.
That was it; the call ended. No instructions. She could live with that. She slipped the phone into her pocket and clambered out of the battered door, the hinges complaining as she did. She took another glance at the car; the damage looked much worse each time she studied it. Even leaving the thing parked here, it was going to attract attention.
She crossed the road to the closed door of the sandwich bar. A young guy came wandering down the street with a burrito dripping salsa down his fingers. “Hey, excuse me, where did you get that? I’m starving.” He grinned and pointed around the corner to a food truck. “You’re a star.”
He wiped the juice from his chin and grinned. “No problem.”
She got to the truck just as the guy was getting ready to pack up. “What’s good?” she called through the window.
“At this time of night, love, it’s more a case of what’s left,” the driver-cum-chef said. He was a big burly bald man with a smile as wide as his apron strings.
“In which case, what’s left?”
“Nothing.” He grinned, but before she could express her disappoint he said, “But for you, I’ll work miracles.”
She settled on a three-cheese burrito slathered in hot sauce and a bit of company while she ate.
The thirteenth-century castle in Caerphilly was in remarkable condition; it appeared as if the years had barely touched it. It was easy to imagine it in all of its glory, just how imposing it must have been, and how obvious a symbol of English power it was, lording it from on high over the subdued Welsh. It struck her as ironic that those self-same English conquerors were the descendants of the French who had conquered them in turn no more than two hundred years earlier. They even retained the Gallic names of their homeland.
This castle had been built by Gilbert de Clare. Gilbert’s ancestors had arrived in the country from Normandy with William the Conqueror. This same Gilbert de Clare had led the massacre of Jews in Canterbury, but Annja knew that he wasn’t alone in having committed such atrocities at the time. Not that that excused butchering innocents for the sake of race, creed or color. But that was the age. His involvement in the Canterbury massacre had led to much of his lands and wealth being seized by the king, and being excommunicated by the pope. He had atoned for his sins by being instrumental in the wars against the Welsh, killing righteously to make up for previous sinful slaughter. When blue blood pumped through your veins, it didn’t matter what your crime; it was always possible to regain favor.
Some things never changed.
She was still thinking about the nature of power and greed when her phone rang.
“Okay, Annja, strings have been pulled. You still near the castle?” Garin asked.
“You know I am,” she replied.
“Yes, I do. I was merely being polite. I know how you can be about these things. Okay, stay close to your car,” he said. “A mechanic’s going to be with you in the next twenty minutes. He’ll take your car and sort it out. He assures me it’ll come back looking like new.”
“And how am I supposed to get back to the hotel?”
“It’s not that far to walk.” Garin laughed. “He’ll be bringing a car for you. Enjoy it. My treat.”
“Thanks so much,” she said sarcastically. No doubt some grease monkey would turn up with a battered old station wagon that would barely get her from A to B, with no guarantee of getting her back again.
She sat on the bench with a bottle of water from the food truck and waited. The burrito had tasted pretty good, and there was no getting away from the revivifying effects of the food. Though she could still feel her body metabolism slowing, such was the climb down from the adrenaline rush of the accident.
“Are you Annja?” a voice asked from behind her, catching her by surprise.
A sudden surge of panic had her hand reaching toward the otherwhere to draw Joan’s sword, but she managed to stop herself in time.
The long-haired gangly mechanic looked as if he was barely out of his teens. His overalls hung on his shoulders two sizes too big, making it look as if he were playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes.
“That’s right,” she said, shielding her eyes against the sun to get a good look at him.
“The boss says you’ve got car trouble,” he mumbled, unable to maintain eye contact. He shuffled from one foot to the other, uncomfortable and tongue-tied. Annja took pity on him.
“You could say that,” she replied. “Want to take a look at it?”
It was a stupid question. Obviously he wanted to take a look at it. He couldn’t do anything without looking at it. She screwed up the wrap from her burrito and replaced the cap on her empty water bottle, dropping them into the trash can beside the bench. She led him to the car. Seeing it, he took a deep breath and shook his head, speaking the silent language of all mechanics.
“Nasty,” he said. “What happened?”
“Parking lot,” she lied. “It was like that when I got back to it.”
“Not your lucky day.”
She agreed. Garin was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fool when it came to hiding any activity of dubious legality. He’d have picked his man carefully, his ability to keep his mouth shut as important as his handiness with a hammer and torque wrench.
“Can you fix it?”
“Of course.”
“How long will it take?”
“More difficult to say. Couple of days, maybe three. It won’t be any more than that, though. And trust me, you won’t even know that there’s been any damage by the time we’ve finished.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“It’s a hire car, right? Why don’t you just take it back, say you’re sorry and pay the excess? Got to be cheaper for you.”
“I’d rather not.”
The young man shrugged and held one hand out for the keys while he dangled another set from the forefinger and thumb of his other hand. “Better be careful where you park this one,” he said. “Wouldn’t want lightning to strike twice.”
“Where is it?” she asked, looking along the row in search of the anticipated hatchback.
“That one,” he said, pointing across the road to where a solitary car was parked alongside the curb, and then to the key fob he’d given her.
“A Porsche? Seriously?” He nodded. “You’re sure?”
“Yep. I guess someone likes you.”
As soon as the mechanic was gone in her battered hire car, she rang Garin to thank him.
“All sorted, then?”
“A canary-yellow Porsche?”
“Nice. I’m more of a red man. Probably best you don’t let the police look at it too closely,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
Annja had crossed the street and was all ready to open the driver’s door. “Why?” she asked, but as soon as she had, she regretted it. “No, on second thought, don’t tell me.” This was definitely going to be one of those cases where she didn’t really want to know the answer. Even if there was nothing wrong with it Garin might tell her there was, just to wind her up. She knew only too well she couldn’t trust everything he said; that was just part of his charm. And most of the time he was just doing it for his own amusement.
She ran her fingers along the roof of the car as if this was some great temptation placed before her.
She couldn’t resist for long.
Chapter 23
The market stalls were doing a steady trade when Garin and Roux reached Caernarfon. It was difficult to imagine the place ever being busy. Two people probably constituted a rush.
The north of the country had been untouched by the storms that had charged across the south. Instead, it was bathed in sunshine. A Volvo was parked outside the small terminal building. Good old reliable Swedish automotive technology. Safe and sound and good for a bit of punishment if needs must. Plenty of leg room, too. Like a few of the ladies he’d entertained down the years, she was built for comfort, not speed.
They’d not rushed, checking into a boutique hotel in the center of town for the night, then venturing out at first light to get a feel for the place.
The castle loomed over the cobbled square. Rows of stalls sold everything imaginable from fruit and vegetables to costume jewelry, fresh fish to leather purses, sweets to handmade wooden trinket boxes and battered paperbacks. All life was represented here in some way, shape or form. Some of the stalls were clearly intended to milk the tourist trade, others met the needs of the locals who didn’t want to live and die by the supermarkets and hypermarkets and out-of-town shopping centers. Garin figured that a market must have existed here for centuries, going back to days when farmers traveled far and wide to bring in their wool and other goods to trade. Just like they would have in so many other market towns all over Europe.
“We’ve got work to do,” Roux said as Garin handed over a few coins for a stick of chili-chocolate-covered licorice. “And I don’t know how you can eat that stuff before breakfast.”
“You want me to come in with you, or are you going to tell me now that we’re here this is something you have to do alone?”
Roux had remained secretive about the location of the mantle, beyond saying it was inside the castle. It bugged him, like they were returning to the bad old sad old days of distrust. Not that he expected the old man to trust him any more than he could trust the old man. That was the very nature of their coexistence these days; like father and son, they’d pretty much die for each other, but that was because of bonds that went beyond the average friendship.
“I will need you with me,” Roux said.
Need, not want. Garin knew the difference. Sometimes it wasn’t bad to be needed, but every now and then it’d be nice to be wanted.
He said nothing.
He followed Roux up to the castle, surprised when the old man came to a sudden halt. In front of the entrance stood two soldiers on guard with automatic weapons.
“What the hell is going on?” Garin whispered urgently. “Guards with semiautomatics? This isn’t right, surely? It’s a bloody tourist attraction. Something’s wrong.”
“Wait here,” Roux said. “I’m going to play the confused old man, see if I can get them to talk.”
Garin did as he was told.
Roux approached the soldiers and glanced around, seeming slightly lost.
The nearest market stallholder wore a look of utter boredom, unsurprisingly, Garin thought, given that he was peddling a collection of what looked to be fake Persian rugs. Hardly the go-to place for the must-have accoutrement. Garin sauntered over to him, deciding to do a bit of sleuthing himself. After all, bored people liked to talk. It was hard-wired into their DNA.
“So, why the soldiers?” he asked, laying on the American accent extrathick. “Expecting trouble?”
“Expecting royalty, more like,” the market trader said. “Some special visit the day after tomorrow. The army boys are making sure there’s no trouble and that no one tries to sneak in with a bomb before the good prince get here. Back when I was a kid it was flour and eggs, now it’s bombs.” Which was obviously his standard “What is the world coming to?” speech. Garin nodded.
“Certainly looks like they’re taking it seriously.”
“You’re right, there. They’ve been here for days. My missus works inside. She reckons they’ve checked every inch of the place already.”
“We’re not going to get in today, are we?”
“Not a chance, mate. Sorry. They’re not letting anyone inside for the rest of this week.” He saw Roux coming back to him, his Gallic shrug saying all that needed to be said. “Well, hope you sell the prince a rug,” he offered with a grin. “Take it easy.” And he headed toward the old man.
“No luck, then?” Garin said.
“No one’s getting in or out for the next four days. Royal visit.”
“My friend here was just telling me all about it,” he said, inclining his head in the rug trader’s direction. Roux looked over Garin’s shoulder, but the man was deep in conversation with the neighboring stallholder.
“Doesn’t help us. We can’t afford to wait that long.”
“If we can’t get in, neither can the bad guys,” Garin said.
“But if they’ve already got the mantle they get an extra four-day start on us.”
“True. Always look on the dark side of life, eh? So what are you suggesting? That we storm the castle?” Garin was joking but he could see that Roux wasn’t smiling. “You’re not serious? Jeez, Roux, those two guys alone have got enough firepower to protect the castle from a small army.”
“Then we’ll have to bring a big army, won’t we?”
“You’re joking, right? Please tell me this is all a big funny. Ha, ha, Roux.”
“We have to get in there.”
“You can’t be serious. It’s a royal visit, future king of England. That place is going to be guarded day and night.”
“Maybe so. But that doesn’t change the fact we have to get access somehow. I need to think. Coffee?” Roux motioned to a small coffee shop with a few tables laid out in the sunshine.
“You scare me.”
“Good. That’s as it should be. Being scared might help you live another five hundred years.”
Garin didn’t have any quick put-down for that, so he said nothing, instead cursing the old man under his breath.
All but one of the tables was already occupied. Roux wove through the seated guests and claimed it. Garin joined him, flashing a killer smile at the waitress clearing away the debris left behind by the table’s previous occupant. Ga
rin never understood how people could be such pigs when they ate out. They would never have left the same kind of devastation behind at home, so why do it when they were out?
“Two coffees please, as strong as you’ve got,” Roux ordered.
Garin nodded. “Thick enough to stand your spoon up in.”
The girl smiled back and slipped inside the café with her loaded tray of dirty crockery.
Garin leaned in so the customers at neighboring tables couldn’t overhear them. “Okay, truth or dare time—are you serious about trying to get inside?”
“Deadly. I need to know the mantle is still hidden.”
“You hid this one yourself, too?”
“Of course I hid them—haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?”
“I hadn’t realized—” Garin started, but Roux waved a hand in front of his face, cutting him off.
“Call me a romantic, but I foolishly believed these treasures belonged here. They are the core of the country, dating back to the age of the Celts. I thought that removing them would have meant more than just taking something away, that it would diminish the land somehow. But I was young and idealistic back then. Things have changed. The world isn’t the same place. Most people have forgotten they exist or have consigned them to that meaningless place they call fairy tales. Once folks stop believing in the power of something, they don’t need it any longer.
“The remainder of the treasures ought to be safe, and even if they are discovered, they wouldn’t present the danger of the other three in and of themselves. The sword, the stone and the mantle, though, need to be made safe and secure. It is possible that we are already too late and that someone has possession of all three. That is an eventuality that doesn’t bear thinking about, my friend. I should have taken care of this some time ago, but I grew complacent, preoccupied with the search for fragments of Annja’s sword. I thought that the world had dismissed the treasures. It is my mistake. I will have to live with it if worse comes to worst.”
Roux paused and then changed tack, switching to Annja’s encounter with Owen Llewellyn, and how it had ended. “She didn’t even check to see if the sword was still in the car with him,” Roux said, clearly exasperated.
