The French Prize

by Cathryn Hein

  Olivia bit her lip, swamped with guilt. ‘How can you be sure he’s dead?’

  Raimund started the engine and revved it hard, his voice filled with loathing. ‘Gaston does not leave survivors.’

  They drove on, Olivia recognising the postcard-perfect hilltop villages of the Luberon. The rising sun coated weathered stone walls in honey and turned terracotta-tiled roofs a vibrant ochre. Soon the roads would be swarming with tourists, the villages filled with a multitude of European and American accents. Holidaymakers basking in the historic glory of southern France, while under their very noses, two ancient families plotted their dangerous vendettas and held a country’s heritage to ransom.

  She turned to face Raimund. ‘You don’t have anyone for the restoration, do you? You were going to do it yourself.’

  He kept his attention on the winding road. ‘Yes.’

  ‘With a fork?’

  ‘With whatever it takes to reveal La Chanson.’

  She closed her eyes, wishing this was a nightmare she could wake from, but when she opened them, he was still there. The world hadn’t changed. They were still in a pint-sized Clio somewhere between Bonnieux and Cadenet, and Raimund remained as handsome and impenetrable as ever.

  ‘I think I hate you,’ she said.

  His eyes flicked over her face. ‘That is your choice.’

  She returned her gaze to the side window, feeling like a prisoner trapped not by human guards but by history. The story of La Tasse and Durendal had held her in thrall since her grandmother first sat on the edge of her bed whispering tales of Charlemagne and his paladins. She’d curled under the blankets listening in wide-eyed fascination to the stories of their exploits, her young mind filled with romance, adventure and fantasies of exotic faraway places. But it had always been Roland she’d adored the most. The faithful hero who died holding back the enemy so his king could escape into France. The hero whose sword, legend told, had once belonged to Hector of Troy. Roland, the first and best Sir Galahad.

  ‘You won’t find it without me. You couldn’t find the cup, and you won’t find Durendal.’

  ‘I know.’

  She let out a disparaging snort. He might know he lacked the expertise, but she doubted a little thing like that would stop him trying.

  Raimund took his eyes off the road. ‘That is why I want you to help me.’

  She yanked at her seatbelt, pulling it outward to give her freedom to move. Shifting sideways in her seat, she faced him. One hand clenched angrily on the headrest, the other slapped against the Clio’s dashboard.

  ‘Help you? Why should I help you? You want to destroy the very thing I’ve searched all my life for.’

  ‘I know I have no right —’

  ‘You’re dead right about that!’ She turned to glare through the windscreen, blind to the passing scenery, taking deep breaths in an effort to control her temper. Her headache returned, pulsing through her forehead, alive like her anger.

  A brick wall of silence grew between them, but then Raimund, very quietly, began to speak.

  ‘Do you have any idea how many have sought Roland’s famous sword? How many have been seduced by the legend of its power? That it is somehow otherworldly? Popes have wanted it. Kings. Dictators. Sane men, mad men, but all have had one thing in common: hunger without conscience. Do you know the cost of this hunger, Olivia?’ He paused and waited for her to reply, but she kept her mouth shut. ‘I do. I understand it very well. Generation after generation of the descendants of Guy of Narbonne—my family—dead. Soon, none will remain.’

  Olivia pressed her fingers to her eyes. Her mouth felt sticky and dry again, and her stomach hurt. Since time immemorial, people had died in search of history’s treasures. That was the way of the world. Yes, the loss of life was terrible and tragic, but the blame for this was neither hers nor his. Destroying the sword wouldn’t cure man’s greed, no matter what Raimund believed.

  He took his hand off the wheel and touched his fingers to her temple. ‘You are ill?’

  She jerked away from the contact, not in the mood for any of his false solicitousness. ‘It’s not bloody Excalibur. There’s nothing fantastic about Durendal. No Merlin. No Lady of the Lake. No King Arthur. It’s just a sword that belonged to a famous warrior. A precious part of history. It’s not worth killing for.’

  His eyebrows lifted, doubt stretching his countenance. ‘You do not believe the legend?’

  She threw her hands in her lap and flopped back against the seat. ‘Oh for God’s sake, of course I don’t. Despite what my ignoramus colleagues may think, I’m not a complete fool.’

  He smiled, a genuine show of amusement, and then began to recite the Song of Roland. ‘Saint Peter’s tooth, the blood of Saint Basile.’

  Olivia cast him a ‘big deal’ look. He could quote from the Song. So what? Any half-decent undergraduate could do that.

  He continued on, reciting from the passage that listed the relics supposedly embedded in Durendal’s hilt.

  ‘Some of the Hairs of my Lord, Saint Denise. Some of the Robe, was worn by Saint Mary.’

  She crossed her arms and huffed. ‘You can bet every last one of them is a fake.’

  ‘You do not believe in the sword’s power?’

  ‘No.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Do you?’

  He laughed. An actual, proper laugh. ‘No, I do not. If I believed then I would know I could not destroy it. Durendal is indestructible, remember?’

  Olivia rolled her eyes and began to quote from the Song of Roland as Raimund had done.

  ‘Rollant his stroke on a dark stone repeats, And more of it breaks off than I can speak. The sword cries out, yet breaks not in the least, Back from the blow into the air it leaps. Destroy it can he not; which when he sees, Within himself he makes a plaint most sweet. “Ah! Durendal, most holy, fair indeed!” ’ She poked Raimund in the upper arm. ‘It’s not only you who can quote from the Song, Raimund.’

  His smile faded, the serious soldier’s mask back in place. ‘Why is it so important to you, Olivia? Why do you seek the sword?’

  She shrugged. ‘Fame and fortune.’

  ‘I think you are lying.’

  Olivia thought of her grandmother and felt the warmth of her memory strengthen her. ‘I’m sure even you can understand, given the circumstances, I don’t really care what you think.’

  They lapsed into silence. Outside the car, the baked and withered countryside swept by. Olivia stared at passing leafy vineyards, at gnarled old olive trees, the shallow-roofed farmhouses the French called mas, the infinite blue-and-white sky, and for the first time in years, longed for the vast uninhabited reaches of Australia. But home would have to wait. She had some French heritage to protect.

  In the centre of the sleepy village of Rognes, Raimund indicated and turned off the main road and up a side street.

  Alarmed, Olivia sat up. ‘Where are you going?’

  She’d assumed he was taking her to her hotel in Aix-en-Provence to collect her luggage before attempting to drive her to the airport, but it had suddenly occurred to her she’d been incredibly naive. Raimund could keep her captive, force her to help him and then leave her imprisoned while he searched for Durendal alone.

  He indicated again and steered the car up a steep and narrow cobbled lane. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

  He pulled up alongside a large arched timber door, turned off the engine and twisted in his seat so he could look at her. ‘I’m not a monster, Olivia. I’m not Gaston Poulin. I will not hurt you. I’m asking for your help. Whether you give it or not is your choice.’

  He touched her chin, and gently turned her face towards him. Olivia felt too numbed by his words to resist.

  ‘Please, come inside. Monsieur and Madame Rosec look forward to meeting you.’ He lowered his voice. It was almost seductive, almost suggestive, or would have been both but for its slight taint of calculation, as though he was aware of her attraction and was willing to exploit it. ‘The guest room has a very good s
hower, Christiane makes an excellent café and I know Edouard cannot begin the day without a pain au chocolat.’

  She scrutinised his face, hoping for some idea of what he was up to, and although his expression gave nothing away but an appeal for her agreement, his dark-brown eyes looked softer somehow, less obsessed. Her stomach flipped over, swamped by feelings that refused to lie down and die.

  This was not what she needed. It was better when she hated him, less risky, and a hell of a lot less complicated, but her heart, as always, had a mind of its own.

  Despising her fickle emotions, she nodded.

  And for the first time since she’d known him, Raimund smiled at her as though he meant it.

  Even though it was early morning, the sun stung Olivia’s skin the moment she stepped out of the car. She stood by the passenger door with her hand shading her eyes while Raimund retrieved the aluminium case from the Clio’s boot. For a second, she gazed sadly at it and then looked away towards the bottom of the street.

  Perhaps she could run to the gendarmerie and tell them Raimund was about to destroy their heritage, although she doubted they’d believe her. No one ever had before. La Tasse du Chevalier Gris was a fairytale, and would forever remain so unless she kept her wits.

  Raimund spoke into an intercom and a loud clack sounded from the arched door. He pushed and then held it open for her. She stepped into a small, dark garage where a metallic blue Fiat Punto took up most of the space. To the left, an imposing steel grille covered yet another solid wooden panel. He closed the door to the street, leaving them in almost darkness. The lock once again clacked loudly into place.

  ‘I’m sorry. The security light is broken,’ he said, taking her arm and leading her towards the grille. ‘But Edouard or Christiane will be here any moment.’

  As soon as he spoke, locks tumbled and a light appeared behind the grille as the door behind it opened slightly. A crumple-faced man peered around the corner, and on seeing Raimund, broke into a broad grin. The door was hauled wide and the old man fumbled with a set large of keys, muttering as he sought the right one and fitted it into the lock. As soon as the grille was open, he kissed and hugged Raimund with unrestrained joy before locking his hazy eyes on Olivia. His smile became huge, creasing his face with a thousand crinkles and exposing recessed gums and appalling teeth.

  He bowed gallantly, his grin unfaltering. ‘Bonjour, madame.’

  Raimund stood aside to introduce her.

  Olivia stepped forward to take Edouard’s hand, but was instead grabbed by the shoulders and kissed on both cheeks, then bombarded with a series of questions in rapid-fire French. Edouard’s twangy Provencale accent was so thick, she struggled to translate, but she understood enough to work out that Edouard thought her Raimund’s new girlfriend, and that he was delighted.

  She chanced a peek at Raimund. In the semi-darkness, his eyes glowed, as though he found the idea amusing, but then he interrupted and explained to Edouard they were colleagues, not lovers. The old man gave him a sly look and whispered into his ear. Raimund shook his head and slapped him on the back before pointing behind him to a flight of stairs. Still cackling, Edouard shepherded them inside.

  At the first landing, Edouard pointed to a hallway and explained that this was his and Madame Rosec’s quarters, before proceeding up another flight. The narrow doorway opened into an open-plan kitchen, dining room and living space. A large sliding door led to a sunbaked terrace filled with plants.

  An elderly apron-wrapped woman, her face blooming with pleasure and her demeanour as spritely as her husband’s, welcomed them. On seeing Raimund, she spread her arms wide. Raimund grinned and bent to kiss and hug her. To Olivia’s surprise, when he let go, the woman’s face was wet with tears.

  Madame Rosec cupped her hand around his cheek. ‘Handsome, just like your brother,’ she said with an accent even thicker than her husband’s. She let him go and dabbed at her tears with the bottom of her apron before facing Olivia. The old lady regarded her with interest before sliding her eyes back to Raimund as Edouard had done. There was no mistaking the hope in them.

  Olivia stepped forward with her hand out and then spoke in careful French. ‘Bonjour, madame. I’m Doctor Olivia Walker. A professional acquaintance of Monsieur Blancard.’

  Christiane smiled and tapped her nose, and Olivia sighed. No matter what she said, it was obvious Monsieur and Madame were sure she and Raimund were lovers, or at least wanted to be. Less than a day ago they would have been right, at least on her part, but no longer. No matter what her hormones demanded.

  The old couple tried to steer both Olivia and Raimund to the table, extolling the virtues of the local boulangerie and Christiane’s exceptional coffee, but Raimund put them off, insisting they needed showers before anything else. The case still in his hand, he led Olivia by the elbow to yet another flight of stairs and up to the top-floor guest quarters.

  ‘This house is not as old as it first appears,’ he said as he directed her towards a large bedroom. ‘It was rebuilt after the 1909 earthquake using the same stone.’ He pointed to a modern ensuite bathroom and smiled. ‘Because of that, the facilities are better than you would normally find.’

  Olivia looked at the bathroom and then down at her front, at her once beige shirt, now dirt-streaked and speckled with ugly brown spots. A shower would be bliss, but she would still have to change back into her filthy clothes.

  As if reading her mind, Raimund unhooked a large white robe from behind the bathroom door and handed it to her. ‘I’ll send Edouard into Aix to fetch your belongings from the hotel. Neither Christiane nor I will be offended if you wear this while you wait. The ensuite should have everything you need, but if you have other requirements, please let me know and I’ll send Christiane to the pharmacie for you.’

  He walked away, but at the guest-room door he stopped and turned around. It took a moment before he spoke, as though what he wanted to say required careful consideration.

  ‘I failed you, Olivia. I believed I could protect you from danger, but I did not. I’m very sorry.’

  Olivia didn’t know what to say. Each time she felt she had his measure, Raimund surprised her with actions or words she didn’t expect. She wanted to reassure him, to tell him it wasn’t his fault. To ease, if only a little, the anguish lying leaden across his heart. But just as a reply was forming in her head, he softly closed the door.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered to the room. ‘It’s okay.’

  No matter what Olivia said to the contrary, Christiane had marked her as Raimund’s girlfriend and that was that. Her grin rarely fell below the level of the Cheshire cat’s, while her eyes roved constantly between Raimund and Olivia, dancing with delight. The woman would have cuddled herself if she weren’t so busy plying them with food and coffee.

  The questions about family and babies were endless, and several times Olivia was shocked by the woman’s sheer audacity. The English, declared Christiane early in the conversation, are a very ugly race, although Olivia was of course une exception and très, très belle despite her lack of maquillage, wet hair and a certain antiseptic odeur.

  The news that Olivia was Australian was accepted with enormous relief. Far better to be Australian than English. At least Australians didn’t run around buying up half the countryside, ruining perfectly good houses with hideous renovations, torturing the locals with their execrable French, and installing their chubby, ill-mannered children in the local schools. Provence, Christiane firmly believed, was going to the dogs, and it was all thanks to the reprehensible Anglais.

  The onslaught was so intense, when Edouard returned with her clothes Olivia almost kissed him in relief, while her dash to escape the kitchen to the peace of the guest room was borderline rude.

  Raimund was waiting for her when she emerged, the aluminium case dangling from his fingers. In typical French fashion, he ran his eyes over her face and down her body, assessing her appearance.

  She struck a pose, showing off a fresh set of fi
eld clothes and her hiking boots. The muck of the previous day was gone, her cuts and abrasions disinfected and dressed, and she had on clothes that smelled of washing powder as opposed to blood and sweat. It made her feel gloriously clean and human again.

  She’d also taken the time to knot her hair into a tight French braid and smooth sunscreen over her skin. Wherever he took her, whatever he tried, she’d be ready. There’d be no slinky dress and flowing locks for Raimund Blancard. He’d have to put up with Lara Croft, albeit a less pneumatic version.

  ‘Up to standard?’ she asked.

  He didn’t answer, and although she wasn’t surprised, it still left her feeling a little deflated. Olivia knew she was an attractive woman, but that didn’t mean she didn’t desire reassurance. To hide her annoyance, she turned and retrieved her backpack off the bed and then slung it over her shoulder. If an opportunity to steal the cup arose, she wanted a secure way to carry it that left her hands free.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said, then headed down the hall to the stairs.

  Making a face at his back, Olivia obeyed.

  He led her through the kitchen and down the stairs to the middle landing, but to Olivia’s surprise, they descended no further. Instead, he took the passage past Edouard and Christiane’s room towards what she assumed was the rear of the house. Two rooms on, the passage ended with a locked door.

  As they paused in front of it, a snaking slither of anticipation began to creep up Olivia’s spine. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, barely able to keep still as her insides vibrated, strained with impatience.

  The archives. He wanted to show her the family archives. That’s why he’d brought her to Rognes. The thrill of it left her breathless.

  Without a word, Raimund took a key from his pocket, opened the door, waited for Olivia to pass through and then shut it behind her, before turning on the light and locking it again.