by Cathryn Hein
Around each shelf and down the length of the main aisle, thick rubber matting had been laid for comfort and protection. It felt spongy underfoot, like walking on a sprung floor, and Olivia had a childish urge to do cartwheels or multiple somersaults. Anything to release the enormous bubble of joy that had welled inside her. This was like nothing she had ever seen before, nothing she’d ever experienced. She was the first outsider to see this treasure, to touch it, to wallow in its magnificence.
If she wasn’t feeling so over-the-top wired, she’d be humbled.
She trailed a fingertip down the spine of a book, almost afraid to take it from the shelf. She cast Raimund a silent question. When he smiled and nodded, she carefully eased it from its slot. The binding was tooled animal skin, cracked and dull with age. A plain volume. Gently, she opened the cover and translated the French cover page. It was a first-edition history of the Albigensian crusade, a volume so rare she didn’t want to breathe near it, and yet here it was, sitting on an open shelf in an underground cellar in Provence. She blinked, and blinked again, reeling with the thought of the riches that must lie on the controlled-environment shelves.
‘The collection is vast,’ said Raimund. ‘Patrice would spend days down here, lost in his books and papers. I used to tease him that he would never find a wife because his mistress was too demanding.’
Olivia returned the book to the shelf. ‘I can imagine. I’d be exactly the same.’
She walked further along, scanning the shelves then stopping and picking out another book. This one was also bound in skin, but in contrast to the Albigensian book, the cover was beautifully tooled. She guessed sixteenth-century binding but it could have been earlier, and definitely Moroccan. The pattern was distinctly Islamic, although the majority of the once-generous gold embossing had flaked away.
She eased open the cover. It was a biography of Louis IX, Saint Louis as he later became, and one she’d never seen before. She turned a few pages, scanning the text, marvelling, then closed the book and reluctantly returned it to the shelf. There’d be time to read it in detail later. Assuming Raimund granted her that privilege.
But he had to. He had to let her study the collection. He could not be so cruel as to take this away, to leave her knowing of its existence but unable to examine it. Unable to lose herself in its glories until time ceased to exist.
She walked down the main aisle, counting the rows. Six sets of open shelves and five climate-controlled ones. A staggering amount to explore. Each open shelf contained five tiers, each two and a half metres long and more than a metre wide. The enclosed shelves were smaller—a metre and a half or so in length, with only three tiers—but each was wide and brimming with artefacts.
At the rear of the chamber, a study, lounge and kitchen area had been laid out, with the kitchen separated from the other spaces by a bank of filing cabinets.
Raimund placed the aluminium case containing La Tasse on a large timber table in the centre of the study zone, then stood watching in silence as Olivia explored the space around him.
Bracketed against the right-hand corner walls were a span of sloping boards. Along the base ran a wide timber lip designed to prevent reading material, pens and other miscellany tumbling to the floor. Abandoned haphazardly at various points were stools on casters, as though the occupants had only left moments ago.
Pinned to the walls were a series of maps—of Western Europe ranging from the days of the Carolingian Empire through to modernity. One depicted the southern coastline of modern-day France, with blue stickers marking several towns. Narbonne, Aix-en-Provence, Marseille, Nice, Avignon, Gailhan, Carpentras, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, Perpignan, Albi, Béziers, Vauvert and Rognes were all marked. Blancard property locations, Olivia guessed.
There were paintings, too, some of which, to Olivia’s shock, appeared to date from the thirteenth century. Leaning across the study boards, she inspected one up close. Although hundreds of years old and painted on wood, the work was breathtaking, the colours still vibrant even after all this time.
It showed, unmistakably, a scene from the Song of Roland. In full armour, propped against a boulder, Roland sat dying. Beside his left hand lay the oliphant he used to call Charlemagne back to his side, while still grasped in his right, glowing as though it were alive, was Durendal. Overhead, his wings beating in an impossible blue sky, hovered an angel, ready to call Roland to heaven.
Olivia swallowed. ‘Am I dreaming?’
‘No.’
‘This is incredible.’
She straightened, pressed her fingertips against her eyes and rubbed them for a brief moment before dropping her hands and staring at the painting. Although she knew there was still much to explore, the picture held her mesmerised, and it was some minutes before she could drag herself away.
She crossed to the kitchenette and lounge area, more out of nosiness than real interest. Magazines were scattered across various surfaces, dog-eared and bent open, and she was curious to see the journals Patrice subscribed to.
She picked up a copy of Recherches de Théologie et Philosophie Médiévales off the coffee table and smiled. Beneath it lay a Sotheby’s catalogue. Academic journals and auction house catalogues. Not everyone’s choice to curl up with, but for her, and so it appeared, Patrice, essential reading.
She replaced the journal and surveyed the remaining lounge area. With the exception of a comfortable-looking blue sofa pushed up against the rear wall, every available surface was covered in books or magazines. Thinking a sit-down would allow her to settle and catch her breath, Olivia walked towards the sofa, but even that was occupied.
In one corner, as if someone had tossed it aside after waking from a nap, was bundled a garish yellow-and-red Provencale-style quilt. Sitting casually on top, like a misplaced piece of cutlery, was the tip of a lance.
‘Carolingian,’ said Raimund, picking it up. ‘Presented to Charlemagne by Pope Hadrian I.’ He smiled and held it out to Olivia. ‘Or so Patrice told me.’
She took it gingerly, afraid of dropping or breaking it, and slowly turned it over in her hands. The lance was made of several different materials but mainly iron. Across the tip, three rows of gold wire had been twisted and knotted, but whatever they had once held in place was now gone. If the lance was genuine—and Olivia had the creeping feeling it was—then it was likely the wire had once secured a nail from the cross of Jesus.
‘This isn’t the Holy Lance, is it?’ she asked half-jokingly.
‘The Lance of Longinus? I doubt it.’ Raimund took it from her hands and inspected it. ‘Patrice assures me it was Charlemagne’s, though.’
‘But what of the Holy Lance in Vienna? The provenance of that is so indisputable Napoleon tried to pinch it after the battle of Austerlitz. Even Hitler wanted it. Patton, for God’s sake, became obsessed with it.’
He walked to the nearest climate-controlled cabinet, slid open a door and laid the lance tip inside. ‘Perhaps Charlemagne had two. Perhaps it is a fake. I do not know, Olivia. This is your area of expertise, not mine.’
She flopped onto the sofa and sat staring into space. This was simply unbelievable.
Raimund crouched in front of her, inspecting her face with concern. ‘There’s a problem?’
She shook her head.
He smiled a little. ‘It’s a shock.’
She closed her eyes. ‘That’s an understatement.’
Olivia let out a sigh and opened her eyes. She gazed at Raimund, wishing she had words to express how she felt, to explain how honoured she was to be granted access to such a treasure. Instead of speaking, she caressed his cheek with her fingers, hoping that simple movement would say enough, and for a fleeting moment, she felt something pass between them. Something indefinable but full of meaning, an understanding. An infinitesimal breath of trust.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
He cupped his hand over hers and removed it from his cheek. Then, very slowly, he brought it to his lips and kissed the back of her hand with the
same light press of lips she thought she’d only dreamed of at the gîte. ‘You are very welcome.’
Then he stood and walked down the centre aisle towards the archway, his back straight and his shoulders squared as though he were on military parade and the kiss had never happened.
Olivia watched him, wondering if she had imagined that moment of intimacy, wondering if once again she had conjured up something that wasn’t there. But she hadn’t. What she had felt was real. She had felt it and so had he, and now he was walking away. For a second longer she observed him, then rose and followed.
He stopped at the arch. Olivia wanted to reach out and touch him, to absorb some of that tension that seemed to emanate from his body like rampant electricity.
‘I know Patrice would have been proud for you to see this, Olivia. You and he —’ He stared hard at the archway, as though seeking strength from the stone. ‘The archives are yours to explore. I know you will treat them with respect.’ He addressed her over his shoulder, under control once more. ‘I will leave you in peace.’
She stepped closer, ready to grab his hand again, to offer him the friendship and understanding she sensed he desperately needed. ‘Please, don’t go.’
‘Do not worry, there has not been an earthquake in years and this room is heavily reinforced.’
‘I’m not worried about earthquakes.’
And she wasn’t. She was worried about him. For the last two months he’d been acting like a robot, showing no emotion, almost callous in his indifference. But in the space of twenty-four hours she’d watched him change. His grief was leaking to the surface like molten lava. Soon it would overflow. Instinctively, she knew that for a man like Raimund the loss of restraint would be devastating. He wouldn’t know how to handle it. He’d view any show of emotion as a sign of intolerable weakness and try to contain it, but that would only make things worse.
She swallowed and then thought to hell with it. The man needed to hear what she had to say even if he wouldn’t like it.
‘Raimund, I’m just an academic, but even I can see you need to face your loss. Patrice is gone, but in this place,’ she pointed to the shelves, to the artworks hanging on the walls, ‘in these books, in this room, he lives.’
His reaction was one she should have expected. His jaw went rigid and his eyes sparkled with fury. Then he unclipped the buckle of his watch and lobbed it at her. Unsuspecting, Olivia missed it. The watch bounced on the rubber matting at her feet.
‘I’ll return at one o’clock with some lunch,’ he said coldly. ‘If you become thirsty, the kitchenette refrigerator contains bottled water and soft drinks. I’m afraid there are no toilet facilities.’
‘Raimund, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to —’
She took a step forward, but he was already striding across the chamber towards the steps. Although she knew it was unwise, she kept talking.
‘I know what it’s like to lose someone you care about. I know how you feel.’
He swung around, advancing on her with scorn in his eyes, stopping three feet away with his finger pointed at her. His tone sent shafts of ice down Olivia’s spine.
‘You know nothing, Olivia. Nothing! I saw the photographs of my brother’s torture. Each one was dated. A week it lasted. A week! At the start he was brave and defiant because he believed I was coming for him. Then his eyes turned dull when he realised I was not. Patrice died thinking I had forsaken him. Believe me, Olivia. You have no idea how I feel.’
Without another word, he whirled around, strode across the chamber, took the steps two at a time and then disappeared.
Leaving Olivia with her heart as empty as the staircase.
CHAPTER
5
Olivia heard Raimund padding down the aisle but didn’t look up. Instead, she cast a surreptitious glance at the watch strapped to her wrist—the old-fashioned, pearly-faced Breitling Chronomat Raimund had thrown at her. The watch which had Alain Blancard engraved on the back in delicate, perfect script. His father’s watch.
It was one o’clock exactly, but then she’d expected nothing less than military precision. He was, after all, a soldier.
She kept her head down, her nose in the codex. The book’s spectacular illuminations swam before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of lapis lazuli, vermillion, gold leaf, lamp black and copper green. She’d been astonished to find it on the centre shelf of the middle climate-controlled cabinet. It wasn’t staggeringly old—not compared to some of the other codices and parchments she had found—but it was incredibly beautiful, and although there were other treasures, she had kept coming back to it, drawn like a hummingbird to its bright colours.
Time had passed quickly, as though it held no significance in that hushed underground environment. Everything Olivia touched reeked of age and importance, singing to her in a magical melodic whisper. Books, codices and manuscripts all clamoured for her attention. Then there were the dozens of swords, rows of cups and stacks of paintings, each with a story to tell. Even Patrice’s meticulous files had provided endless fascination.
Patrice, she discovered, had been a capable although uninspired scholar, but what the poor man had lacked in imagination, he made up for with fastidious record keeping. Every theory was noted, every development painstakingly recorded. It made her messy filing system at Oxford seem as if it had been maintained by a troupe of monkeys. Patrice, like his brother, was as anal as they came. Discipline appeared to be a family trait.
She had picked up on his mistakes immediately. His thinking, while solid, was inherently flawed. He had believed that when the Black Death marched its way through Provence, Antoine Blancard—feeling the first aches of the disease assault his body—had passed La Tasse to his only child. Antoine then ordered his son to ride to Avignon to his uncle, an assistant to a powerful cardinal in the court of Pope Clement VI—the third Avignon Pope since civil war had forced the court to flee Rome in 1309. The papal palace would be immune to the pestilence, he believed, and the cardinal would grant him sanctuary.
While the theory had some merit, it was one she had dismissed as possessing little credibility. The boy, only ten in 1348, was too young to be trusted with such a precious object, and the ride from the chateau to Avignon was long and dangerous. That Antoine sent the boy to the papal palace was indisputable—the records she had discovered proved the cardinal did indeed welcome him as the son of a generous patron and nephew of a valued aide—but he did not, in Olivia’s opinion, arrive with La Tasse. It was more likely the boy carried a note or a special code word that would tell his uncle where to find the family treasure. Whichever it was, it didn’t matter. From that point on, La Tasse was not seen by another Blancard. Until Raimund.
She turned her head slightly and observed him out of the corner of her eye. He was fossicking in the kitchen cupboard, his back to her. On the bench near the sink rested a cane basket, the neck of a wine bottle poking over the rim.
He pulled a tablecloth from the cupboard and flicked it open, the cloth billowing brightly as it floated to the table, then smoothed it out with care. Two serviettes followed, then plates, cutlery, a cork-topped cardboard canister of Camargue salt, a pepper shaker, a small bottle of olive oil, water tumblers and then wine glasses. Finally, he extracted a cloth-lined dish from the basket and set it in the middle. It was filled with ready-sliced baguette. Olivia’s stomach growled at the sight, but she ignored its protest, and with a hand on her complaining belly, returned to her study.
It was childish, she knew, but his earlier attack had left her rattled and wary. While her stab at solace was clumsy and ill-advised, she had only been attempting to offer companionship. Grief was no excuse for such poor treatment, especially from a man who desired her help.
‘I have brought some lunch,’ he said, standing at her side. ‘Christiane has made a tarte de chèvre and prepared a salad. Edouard insisted I bring wine. A rosé from the cooperative.’
She mumbled her thanks and, without looking at him, slid off the stool, carefully
closed the codex and then carried it to the cabinet from which it came. To her surprise, he followed.
As soon as the book was back in its place, he touched her shoulder. She glanced at him, and then looked away, her fingers fiddling with the watch strap.
‘Olivia, I must apologise for this morning.’
She handed the watch to him. ‘Here, you’ll want this back.’
‘Olivia —’
‘It’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.’ She flicked him another look and then wished she hadn’t. The genuine remorse in his expression made her feel even worse than when he’d stormed out.
She didn’t know how to act with him, what their relationship was anymore. Prior to yesterday, it had been straightforward. She was the expert consultant employed at great expense to help him find La Tasse. She could flirt, tease, backchat, argue, yell if she wanted. But now things were different. Now, she didn’t know if she wanted to clutch his face in her hands and kiss all that terrible pain away or bash him over the head and then run like hell.
He touched her cheek, the gesture tender, kind. ‘Please let me apologise.’
She looked up, taking in that noble countenance and wondered if there would ever be a time when she could say no to him. Given her pathetic infatuation, it would take a miracle. Although fulfilling his absurd promise to destroy Durendal and all her dreams would also suffice. But she wasn’t going to let that occur.
‘I’m very sorry for the way I spoke to you. It was rude of me. And callous. I promise you, it will not happen again.’
She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed her left shoulder, hating how small she felt for thinking uncharitable thoughts of a person who possessed such perfect dignity.
‘I’m sorry, too. I spoke out of turn. You’re right. I have no idea how you feel and I’m sorry for sticking my nose in.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for, Olivia. I appreciate your kindness.’ He smiled, turning her insides liquid, as though her heart and lungs had just melted into her stomach. ‘Come. Christiane will be angry if we let her tarte become cold, and Edouard will never forgive me if I serve his rosé at the wrong temperature.’ They sat at right angles to one another, Olivia sneaking peeks at the strange streak of white above Raimund’s right ear as she ate, too nervous to enquire about it. He might have apologised, but the memory of him turning on her still stung. The little white mystery could wait for when she felt more relaxed, or Raimund played his mind trick again and answered her question for her.
